Faramir Fiction Archive

Challenges (R)

Written by Empy

20 December 2008 | 2278 words

Title: Challenges
Author: Empy
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: R
Disclaimer: all characters belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien. No infringement is intended and no profit is made. This is a labour of love.

Written for the 2008 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Phytha: Faramir/Aragorn/Boromir. NC17, incest, treesome. Aragorn and Boromir (who survived the ringquest) return to Gondor as lovers. Together they seduce a shy but very willing Faramir, who for years has had a secret crush on his big brother. You can make it kinky (quite a fan of foodplay, leather and gloves), a little angst is very welcome, but please make it HOT.
DO NOT INCLUDE: rape, character death, mpreg

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On the longest and coldest day of winter, while a snowstorm howled around the battlements of Minas Tirith, the King’s private chambers were awash with light and warmth.

Despite the pleasant surroundings, Faramir found he was still uneasy. Even though he had taken wine with his meal and even though the company was not in the least disagreeable, his mind was still unsettled. “I ask forgiveness that I seem so distracted, my King” he said, toying with his empty goblet. “It still seems strange to sit here in this company.” He looked across the table, meeting Boromir’s gaze and feeling anew the flutter of fear that had not left his mind. It seemed as though he would never quite grasp that his brother was still alive, that the grim tidings of his death had been false.

Aragorn nodded. “That is entirely understandable, Faramir, and you need ask no forgiveness. If anything, it is I who should ask forgiveness. You have been forced to stand more than you should have, forced to take on burdens that would surely have crushed lesser men.”

Faramir bit back on his reply, fearing the wine would make him speak carelessly. The notion that his brother was still alive was not something he thought he might be accustomed to for some time yet, and the added fact that Boromir was now the lover of the King did nothing to ease his troubled mind. There was obvious affection between the two, and shamefully enough, it sparked jealousy in him. It was shameful enough to be jealous, but doubly so the desire more the forbidden party.

It had not always been so, though it had been burning in his mind for years. At times, the flame had seemed less, a mere flicker restlessly eddying at the corners of his mind, and at other, more turbulent times, it had seemed a pyre.

He was jolted out of his reverie when Boromir grasped his hand across the table.

“Forgive me, little brother,” said Boromir. “Believe me, it was a sore trial for me not to be able to see you or to give word that I was alive. But let us not trouble our minds with that now. Let this night be one of light and laughter and merriment.”

As the candles burned lower and the wine flowed, the conversation seemed to take ever stranger turns.

“It is said that some men have palates so rustic they cannot tell the difference between wine and sterner drink if blindfolded,” said Boromir thoughtfully as he poured himself another gobletful of wine.

“Well, should we put this to the test?” smiled Aragorn. “Perhaps we should blindfold our scholar here and ask him to identify various flavours?”

With his sense of sight denied him, the flavours seemed to swell in his mouth, taking on an intensity he had not felt before. The sly little touches, too lingering to be helpful only, seemed to heighten the sensations, and he swallowed back a delighted moan as a particularly delicious sweet little trifle was fed him accompanied by a soft touch to his neck, ostensibly to move away a stray lock of hair.

The honeyed sweetmeats were easy enough to distinguish, and fair melted in his mouth. The tarter fruits were no more difficult, and even the wine seemed to present little obstacle.

“He is entirely too clever a taster,” chuckled Boromir. “Perhaps we should challenge him?”

“I only ask that you not feed me something not fit—” Faramir had time to say before being silenced. No morsel of sweet or salt, this, but a gentle kiss.

Now it seemed all the wine gave voice in his veins, a roar in his ears. His heart knew at once, without doubt, but how his mind resisted. Surely not. It could not be. It was not allowed.

“Here I see we have presented too sore a trial.”

His voice would not run at first, but he swallowed before trying again. “No trial at all, my King,” he said, his voice calm though it seemed a mass of feelings roiled inside him. “None. I know that mouth though I have not felt it in a like way.” He paused delicately. “How can I not, when it is so like mine?”

The silence that fell seemed feather-soft, and strangely lacked tension. It seemed, though a folly of a thought it surely was, to be an expectant silence.

“I took no offence, Boromir,” he said, settling his hands on the table, palms upward. “And since you were the initiator, I imagine you did neither.”

As soon as he had spoken, he felt the tender brush of calloused fingertips against his cheek. His lips were caught anew in a kiss, this one considerably more ardent. “Certainly not,” whispered Boromir into his ear. “Why should I take offence at kissing someone fair and beloved?”

I am dreaming, surely. This cannot be happening, he thought, his head spinning with giddy thoughts. I have taken too much wine undiluted, or else this is a feverish relapse of my illness.

“You have struck him silent,” said Aragorn.

Faramir gave a laugh. “Are you surprised by that?”

“No,” replied Aragorn. “I cannot say I am. Though I can wager that you are.”

Faramir shook his head, then lifted his hand to push the blindfold aside. “That would be an understatement,” he said, pausing for a moment before deciding to throw caution to the winds. “Yet it is not surprise caused by my own reaction, but rather by the fact that my feelings are reciprocated.” He looked up at Boromir, who now stood leaning against the table next to Faramir’s chair. The familiar gaze he met was bright with something he failed to recognize at first, but then realization slowly dawned on him. Oh, he knew that glitter-light. Lust. It burned away the last vestiges of doubt, and he allowed it.

Rising so fast he feared he might topple his chair, he flung his arms around Boromir and stole a bruising kiss, not caring for finesse. Boromir gave a murmur that seemed equal amounts surprise and encouragement, lacing his fingers into Faramir’s hair to keep him close.

The firelight seemed to heat his skin until it glowed with warmth, and the light of the candleflames wove a powerful spell. Here he was, entirely in the thrall of lust and pleasure. He thought he might stay in this weightless state forever, that he might be able to live his life content if it only consisted of this room, of Boromir’s body against his and the wine in his veins.

“Ah now,” murmured Aragorn with barely concealed amusement, startling Faramir and bringing him back to the present moment, “perhaps you should pause before you upend the table.” He gave a delighted little chuckle. “There is a perfectly good bed here, and it would be a shame to let it stand unused.”

Faramir felt his cheeks redden. There had been very little doubt in his mind as to where this would lead eventually, but he was still amazed at the boldness of both Aragorn and Boromir.

Boromir replied with a smile alone, his fingers curling under Aragorn’s jaw to draw him close and into a kiss.

Afterwards, Faramir wondered if he would have been able to walk from the table to the bedroom without being led, and found he did not know. All he could remember were the heated kisses and Aragorn’s murmured encouragement.

“You planned this,” he said breathlessly as Boromir pushed him down on the wide bed, not certain if he was accusing his brother or merely noting the fact. “You conspired against me.”

“Oh, not against you,” grinned Aragorn. “That would imply that you take no pleasure in this, and I think we can agree that your body clearly states that it is not so.”

Faramir closed his eyes. His arousal was evident and would not be denied, but, as he thought to himself, he was not the only one whose body had turned traitor. As he opened his eyes, he caught Aragorn and Boromir sharing a heated kiss, and the sight caused his blood to sing louder in his veins. He knew that in that moment, he would gladly forsake all thoughts of propriety, rank and law. This was a private moment, a boon to him, something given with love and gratefully received with the same, and in his eyes that might well be forgiven some slight transgression of rules.

“Do not be cross with me, little brother,” said Boromir at length, sounding breathless. “I admit we did plot somewhat, but it was not out of malice.” He gave a little laugh. “Surely that does not make this unfair?

“And this you say now, when you have ascertained that I am in no fit state to protest?” smiled Faramir, surprised at his own boldness.

“Are you intending to protest?” asked Boromir, kneeling on the edge of the bed momentarily before moving to straddle Faramir.

“No,” smiled Faramir, settling his hands on Boromir’s thighs. “Certainly not.”

Nimble fingers plucked at his clothes, and whenever he attempted to help, his hands were moved aside gently but firmly. “Relax,” murmured Aragorn, tracing a newly bared expanse of skin. “Let us do this.”

Let us. The simple phrase sent shivers down his spine. Us. He had taken lovers before, but never more than one at a time, and the mere thought of the constellations of flesh that were possible in this moment was enough to wring a gasp out of him.

Each sense seemed painfully heightened, not in the least that of touch. In fact, his entire body thrummed with a strange energy.

It seemed Aragorn read his mind, plucked out each wish, or else he had more experience in reading the reactions, thought Faramir ruefully. Each little sound and gesture was noted, the lack of words not presenting any sort of obstacle. Boromir was likewise skilled, coaxing forth shiver after shiver. Yet as they touched him, so did he need to touch. Faramir shifted, propping himself up enough to reach for his brother, intending to tug him ever closer in a bid to feel his warmth against his own. Instead, he found himself pulled gently forward until settled astride Boromir’s lap, an almost childish position were it not for the hardness pressing insistently against his thigh.

He felt rather than saw Aragorn move, and gave a shiver as he felt Aragorn’s breath against the back of his neck. He was caught, he realized, trapped between his brother and his King, but this was a snare he did not wish to escape from. He had been foolish to be so jealous of Aragorn, he realized, for the bond he had found so troubling now served to bring him more pleasure, as the two now slowly and methodically set out to drive him out of his mind.

“Enough,” he gasped. “Slow down, else I will lose what little sense I have left.”

“I take that as a compliment,” said Boromir, his smile wide and satisfied. “I should wager that we both do,” he added, looking at Aragorn. “Are there further demands on your part?”

“Yes,” said Faramir. “Take me.”

“Are you certain?” asked Boromir softly.

“Yes,” he said, his voice steadier than he had thought it would be. “Else I would not have asked it.”

It was delirium for him, a slow melting sensation. He fought the impulse to close his eyes, for if he did that he would surely jolt himself out of the dream.

“This is no dream,” whispered Aragorn, his breath hot on Faramir’s skin.

“You are awake, Faramir.” The sound of Boromir’s voice seemed a caress in itself, running over his skin and coiling around his nerves.

His nerves seemed afire, pleasure and pain mixing until he was no longer sure which was which. Each move brought another swelling wave of pleasure, each kiss left him breathless.

When it seemed his nerves could take no more of the constant onslaught of sensation, he found himself tipped over the edge simply by the soft brush of Boromir’s lips against his. He gave a last choked gasp, squeezing his eyes shut, then allowed himself to come undone.

When he opened his eyes anew, he found himself in the middle of a pleasantly warm tangle of limbs and bedding.

“What is that wrinkle between your brows?” asked Aragorn, drawing a gentle finger over Faramir’s forehead. “I hope it is not one born of regret.”

Faramir gave a soft laugh. “No. No regrets.” He shifted, seeking a more comfortable position and feeling a pleasant lassitude creep into his limbs. “I was merely dreading that this was naught but a dream and that I would wake to find myself alone.”

“Lay aside those fears, little brother. Sleep now, sleep and dream truly,” noted Boromir, curling his fingers around Faramir’s hip and giving a content sigh. “I promise you will not wake alone.”

-END-

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