Faramir Fiction Archive

Dark Touches (NC-17)

04 November 2005 | 1030 words

Title: Dark Touches
Author: Liz
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Warning: Incest, non-con
Disclaimer: Characters from Tolkien, no money being made.
Beta: Skonichek possibly, but I forget
Timeline: Pre ring war
Summary: Faramir wishes his brother’s touch was not so dark

It was the softest of touches that started it, with Boromir taking the initiative. A brush of lips against the back of his neck as they rode together from Osgiliath, the touch of fingertips over a hip when they hugged. Faramir knows that this is when it truly began, but at the time he had not known anything but the comfort of another’s touch. Now, lying on the bed with his hands tied he wondered how he could have been so foolish. Boromir is leaning over him, telling him how wonderful he is and how much he loves his brother. He tries to ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach, that this is wrong and will only come to grief.

Insistent, that is the definition of his brother and every part of his body is insistent as well. Tongue, hands and cock as Boromir touches every part of his body. He is blindfolded and all he can do is feel, let himself drift under the warm pieces of flesh that make contact with his flushed and needy body. It was long ago, the beginning of this meeting of bodies. He wishes he could blame it entirely on Boromir, but he knows deep down his heart that he could have refused. Or at the very lease tried to fight him off.

The touches in the beginning were very soft, as not only his hands and lips brushed against Faramir’s form. He could feel his brother’s eyes on him, slowly sliding down his back as he watched him bathe. Memories swim up of cold water dripping down his back into the crease of his buttocks, and the feeling of Boromir’s gaze following the drops of water trailing down his naked body. Shivering, he ignores the thoughts of cold water and turns to the feeling of warm sweat, which is now being rubbed against him as his brother is moving against him. The past no longer mattes, as they will never return to being just brothers. Boromir will never let him go.

It was firm touches that continued it, as Faramir began pushing him away. Perhaps then he had held an inkling of what his brother wanted, what he had thought of doing. Shrugging off an arm around his shoulder, or removing Boromir’s hand from his leg at dinner. Detaching himself, distancing himself. Making himself safe from touches that were no longer the same, were too close and smothering. That day in the stable with the smell of hay in the air, where Boromir grabbed him around the waist and kissed him. Faramir had pushed hard against him, had kicked him hard. A solid push into a pile of straw was all it took to have both of them wrestling for dominance. No, Faramir reflected, as his brother bit down hard on his neck; for compliance.

Eventually it was the elder who won for he had the endurance that the younger did not. Holding him down, stripping him of cloth and leather; ignoring yells and pleas. It was the first hard thrust that broke him, broke down all of his defenses and silenced Faramir’s voice. He had laid there, as he lay here now silent and unmoving. Trying to avoid the feelings of pleasure that soaked into his body like the heat from Boromir’s skin. It had taken a short while, though feeling to him immensely long. Afterwards came the soft touches, the caresses and hugs. Apologies flowing from lips swollen with stolen kisses. Promises that were later broken like he was. The straw was stained with blood, he remembers that but not how he had gotten to his bed later. Not why it was he woke in the night to find Boromir sleeping next to him with his arms holding him down.

Faramir is fairly certain that it was that time, the time when he awoke in darkness with missing memories that he realized that what had happened in the stables never truly occurred. It had been in his mind, for how else could he explain it? He had told Boromir about it and was assured that it was his imagination, a fantasy that would never be acted upon. It was true, that there was no blood on the straw the next day when he went to look but the bruises on his shoulders confused him. Purples and blues that were born from actions that never happened.

Boromir is almost finished now, he can feel the change in rhythm. The hard thrusts make his head snap back into the pillows, but he won’t say anything not wanting to bring attention to himself. Once he had cried out, and had awakened to find that it had been a dream. He can no longer tell whether he dreams their encounters or if they are real. Some nights he thinks it is a dream, a strange dark dream filled with pleasure and aching pain. Then he wakes with bruises and is frightened. Other times he is certain that what Boromir is doing is real, but awakes to find himself alone. The uncertainty of what is real and unreal is the worst of this, not the pain or the deceiving lies of love but those hurt very much as well.

He is done, for Faramir can feel the hot wetness on his thighs. His blindfold is the first to come off and is followed shortly by the bindings on his hands. He is pulled into an embrace, where Boromir rubs his back and whispers loving words into his ear. He can never forgive himself, for Faramir knows that some of the wetness belongs to him and not his brother. Shuddering, he begins to cry silent tear onto his brother’s shoulder. He loves his brother as Boromir is the only buffer between him and their father, but there are times when he wishes that the touches he gives him were only those between brothers.

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