Faramir Fiction Archive

Expecting Boromir (NC-17)

Written by Minx

10 January 2004 | 3386 words

Title: Expecting Boromir
Author: Minx
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir, Faramir/Denethor
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Summary: Faramir celebrates his coming of age in the quiet of his room, until he decides to take a stroll . . .
Feedback: I’d love to know how it sounds – greenrivervalley@gmail.com
Warnings: Rape, explicit slash, incest, incestuous thoughts

A/N: This would probably not be a good one to read if you’re searching for a sympathetic portrayal of Denethor. He’s a fascinating character, and one of my favourites, but I’m not always nice to him when I write.

Huge thanks to Iris for comments and suggestions and for the title

---

Faramir stopped at the large wooden door in front of him, unsure of how he had reached there at all. He had meant to go to the gardens, but he appeared to have lost his way and reached his brother’s rooms instead. This was what he got for quaffing down so much ale at dinner, instead of eating the meal he had been provided.

The ale had been a gift sent by his uncle in Dol Amroth. He had come of age today. It was meant for his celebration and therefore a large quantity had been sent and a sufficient helping set out for the evening meal. But he had been alone at supper that evening. And had ended up imbibing ale meant for two, perhaps more, leaving his meal barely touched, and contemplated the day that had gone by.

The day he had come of age.

Faramir being the younger son had never expected a coming of age celebration along the lines of that held for his brother. Boromir, five years ago. Boromir was heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, and accordingly the day had been a joyous one. Faramir could still remember how Boromir had entered the throne room in full regalia and been greeted by the lords and captains. And then he had taken his oath, and been presented a sword and a horn by his father, and assigned his lieutenancy. Their father had looked so happy and proud.

Faramir too had felt proud. He had looked at his brother, standing there, resplendent in Gondor’s colours, the insignia of the White Tree emblazoned proudly across them, a handsome and dashing figure, every inch the man that Faramir loved. When he had turned to smile at him, and then strode over and hugged him, Faramir had felt almost idiotically pleased to be acknowledged, and to be part of the celebration.

He had had no celebration. His father had called him in the morning, made him repeat his oath of fealty and brusquely informed him that a new set of weaponry and armour had been ordered for him at the armoury, and that he should be prepared in another two weeks to join the Ithilien Rangers. Then he had reprimanded him for arriving late, and subjected him to a lengthy lecture on what was expected of him in Ithilien, his very tone indicating that he thought Faramir incapable of achieving just that.

Then he had been dismissed, and the day had deteriorated from there. It rained all through, a steady annoying downpour that refused to let up until after sunset.

Boromir was to have arrived that morning but a messenger had ridden in with news that his brother’s company had been waylaid by Orcs while returning from Osgiliath and would therefore be delayed. He had assured them that Boromir was unhurt but Denethor and Faramir both were worried. Denethor had summarily dismissed him, ordering him to summarise the reports that the various commanders had brought in, a tiring and thankless job, for it involved a great degree of cross-checking and verification. The summary had been accepted without even a word before lunch.

After the meal, he had wandered through the citadel, wondering when Boromir might arrive, and his thoughts too had wandered.

Boromir had left to join his company five years ago and somewhere in the lonely days and nights that followed, when he had nothing to do but study and train and attempt unsuccessfully to ignore his father’s criticism or sometimes, even his hand, Faramir had come to realise that he loved his brother. And it was not just a brotherly love.

Now, five years later, he found himself resenting his brother for not being here in Minas Tirith today. Boromir had said he would come. He had assured him that nothing would keep him away. But then a renewed spate of Orc attacks in Ithilien had ensured that his dear brother now camped out somewhere across the river, fending off those fell creatures.

And Faramir sat alone in Minas Tirith.

When news came that Boromir would not be able to make it until early the next morning, he decided to call it a day, and made for the dining room, for a meal with his father, thinking that even his silent, uncommunicative company would be better than none on a day that was meant for rejoicing, only to be informed he would be eating alone. Denethor was in the Tower, and would sup alone. Faramir had dismissed the servants and grabbing the ale made for his own chambers, where he had drunk more than he should have. Unwilling to sleep in the musty confines of his rooms, he had decided to take a walk to clear his head.

And so he found himself in front of his brother’s chambers somehow, wearing nothing more than his nightshirt and slippers, shivering a little for the hallways were draughty.

He felt drowsy and rather light-headed, a little voice at the back of his head telling him he could expect no less given the amount he had drunk today. He pushed the door open and shuffled into the room, ignoring the loud creaking sound the wood made. Had he been even a little more sober, he would have been quieter. His father’s study and rooms were in the adjoining hallway, and the Steward often stayed awake late into the night. He would hardly be pleased to find his younger son wandering through the citadel in a somewhat inebriated state.

Boromir’s room had been tidied for is arrival, fresh sheets spread over the bed, their pristine whiteness gleaming in the moonlight as the clouds outside parted for a brief second.

He walked over to the window, and stood there awhile, his eyes drifting towards the Tower of Ecthelion for a fraction of a second before the moon vanished behind thick clouds. He could make out the light right at the top, and deduced his father was still awake there.

He looked back at the bed, then at the room, at the assortment of items that spoke so clearly of his brother. Pieces of his old armour, the sword he had used as a child, a helmet that no longer fit him, a few books on military strategy, and other odds and ends. He wandered through the room, picking up each item, holding them in his hands, caressing them, wondering if he could smell his brother in them, or even perhaps get the feel of him from them.

He could never resent Boromir for long. Not for not being there today, not for being the one on whom all their father’s attention and devotion seemed to be centred, not for being elder, stronger, and taller. He loved him too much for that.

He loved him, he had realised that so very long ago.

And now he stood in his room, seeking some feel of him, for he found he craved just his touch this day. It would be all the celebration he desired were his brother to grab him in his arms and give him what he wanted.

He thought he’d lie there a while. Boromir might return early in the morning. Or perhaps he could sleep there.

Letting the ale think for him, he sank onto the bed and lay over the sheets. The cushions smelt of Boromir, he decided excitedly, that soft musky odour he always had. He slipped his hands under his nightshirt, letting the garment ride up, and felt his body in the dark, touching himself everywhere, feeling his sharp bony contours, and wondered if his somewhat gawky appearance might seem unappealing.

He moved his hand down, and began stroking himself, his eyes half-closed murmuring Boromir’s name all along.

He must have fallen asleep, or perhaps merely drifted away for he never realised that he was with someone else until he realised someone was leaning over him. He was still murmuring his brother’s name.

*Boromir has come,* his mind responded to the garbled sounds drifting in and out of his inattentive ears.

“Boromir,” he murmured aloud, “I was waiting for you.”

He felt the damp sheets under him, the stickiness in his hand, and made to turn around, his vaguely confused mind trying to urge him to think of an explanation for his presence.

The next moments were unclear. He thought he heard his brother’s voice suggesting he arise, and he heard himself responding otherwise, begging to be allowed to lie there, and to have Boromir with him, all the while, his face lying in the pillows for he was still tired out.

“Come, lie with me tonight, brother,” he murmured.

The weight descending on him assured him his words had been heeded.

He was hushed gently and quietly, and then he felt the touch of skin on his bare skin as his nightshirt was pushed further up. He barely had time to realise what was happening before he felt strong, callused hands touch him. They removed his hand from his groin, and stroked him lightly, before flying all over the rest of his body.

He could barely believe it!

*It is a dream,* he told himself, *It is a dream.*

It was what he had always dreamt of, each lonely night.

“Boromir,” he murmured as he felt the hands roam over his bare skin, touching his bony contours with feather-light touches. He tried to move his head, but found a hand descend onto the back of his neck, rubbing it gently, and at the same time effectively pinning him in place. He kept his arms limply stretched out on either side content to just feel this nearness he had always craved.

Boromir was taller and heavier, but he’d never before realised how much more so. The days of fighting must have made him bulkier, from the days when he used to straddle Faramir so during their impromptu wrestling bouts that he could never win.

He felt the hands run over the marks left over from the last beating his father had given him, a mere two weeks ago, for being late for a state dinner after his language lessons. He felt each long stripe left by the leather belt being fingered, and stiffened. It did not hurt but the memory of that and other such experiences did. The humiliation of being treated like one who constantly needed correcting threatened to overwhelm him, but thankfully the fingers moved away.

They descended to his buttocks, following its rounded contours. He felt himself squeezed lightly and whimpered. The squeeze tightened, and he almost yelped, but the hand on his neck pressed his head down muffling the sounds. He felt the cold metal of a ring on his suddenly over-sensitive skin. The hand continued pinching and squeezing his bare ass so hard he was sure he would bruise but then suddenly a kiss landed between his shoulder blades, to be followed by more, interspersed with little licks.

Faramir was not sure what to feel. The pinches hurt and almost made him feel like a serving maid in the taverns in the lower circles, but at the same time that very notion seemed very erotic to him. And the touch of the soft, wet lips on his skin was sending him into raptures.

This was his brother, he thought to himself. The one man who could send his heart spiralling even in his dreams.

This was Boromir who had chosen to do this to him. Who chose to touch him so, to mark him, to make love to him.

The hand suddenly stopped pinching and slid between the soft mounds of his buttocks, the fingers running slowly down, before stopping at his entrance. They danced lightly over the puckered ring of muscles, and Faramir felt a jolt run through him. He nearly screamed.

This was no dream, he knew. It was real. Boromir was here with him.

“Take me,” he begged loudly through the pillows, “Please, Boromir, take me now. Make me yours. Yours to command at will.”

He was hushed, a strange non-committal sound. He heard the sound of spitting, and felt the excitement course through him. He had read about how men made love to each other, and now he would experience it himself, and he would get it from the one man he loved more than anyone else. His legs were spread apart by the hands on him, stretched wide, and he automatically pushed his hips up suggestively.

A wet finger slipped into his untried opening, slowly but surely squeezing past the tight ring of muscle. The touch was swift and brisk. He resisted instinctively but then forced himself to relax to welcome the intrusion. It hurt. He had been expecting the pain, and had tried to mentally prepare himself for it, but it still hurt. But the thought that it was Boromir above him sustained him enough. He could tolerate this, he thought to himself, as the long digit pushed further in, edging its way through the narrow channel. He lay passive, unsure of what was required from him, trying to get used to the feeling of this most intimate gesture. Then the finger withdrew, and he whined. His backside stung as never before but the feeling of emptiness hurt even more. But almost immediately, more fingers slid in, their twisting movement widening the channel. He forced himself to relax as they dug in deeper and deeper, his excitement increasing with each push, the pleasure he felt beginning to override the pain.

He screamed with joy when the fingers had found what they sought. A mere brush over the little gland inside of him and he had felt a feeling as he had never felt before. He found himself breathing heavily, as his scream died down to a garbled delirious outpouring.

“Gods, Boromir, do it again. That was wonderful. Take me now. Now,” he found himself mumbling loudly. He tried to turn around but he was still pinned in place.

He was still shivering from excitement when he felt his hips being raised higher and the wet head of a pulsing erection near his entrance. As if in a dream, he felt it push into him, straining his stretched muscles so much, he almost cried, but whether from pain or pleasure he could not tell. He could hear the grunts over him, he could feel the heavy weight of a body over him, the stinging sensation shooting through his entire backside, but he ignored it all, and pushed himself in tandem with the bulging shaft riding through him.

“Harder!” he urged, “Take me hard. Make me yours. Mark me as yours!”

When his sweet spot was hit once again, he lost all coherent thought for a few brief seconds, so great was the exhilaration bursting through him.

“Boromir!” he cried out.

He felt the cock withdraw from inside him, and was about to protest when suddenly it was thrust back into him, hitting him yet again and again and again. He too found himself rocking in tandem, the excitement lacing the grunts above him telling him his partner was deriving as much pleasure out of this as he was.

“Boromir,” he murmured over and over.

They began to rock faster, and then he felt his muscles clench around the huge erection inside of him. He felt the sticky wetness shoot out inside of him, a burst of warm liquid that began to pool within his tight channel before trickling out and dripping down his inner thighs. The sensation sent his unattended erection near release. To his utmost relief, a hand snaked around his waist and squeezed him. It was all he needed, before he spurted the creamy liquid out onto Boromir’s bed, coating the sheets with it.

Boromir!” he screamed yet again.

He could barely think. He barely realised that his head was no longer held down, that the weight had lifted of him, or that his partner had pulled out of him quite quickly, almost painfully so. He just lay there panting heavily, ignoring the stickiness all over his lower body; his mind fogged from what he felt must be his happiest moment to date. He even felt more sober than he had earlier.

He felt the weight lift of him and then he felt himself being turned around, his leaden muscles protesting just a bit as he was rolled over a little forcefully. He sighed. Outside the clouds parted yet again letting a single shaft of moonlight through.

“Oh Boromir, I love you so much,” he murmured, before opening his half- closed eyes, and gazing into his father’s face looming over him, as moonlight filtered into Boromir’s room.

Faramir stared. He simply stared. He lay there on his back now, covered in marks and bruises, on Boromir’s bed, his nightshirt drawn up to his armpits, the sheets in disarray around him, his own release pooling under him, his father’s naked body straddling him, his wrists held down by strong hands pinning him in place.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came. His mind seemed to be working incredibly slowly. Denethor was smiling at him, he realised, the sneering, curling smile, especially reserved for him. The one that signalled an upcoming thrashing. His gaze travelled across the older man’s body, taking in the dripping member now hanging limp, the wet mouth, the strong hands. And then his eyes drew back to the shaft that he realised had been the one inside him.

Slowly, very slowly, that thought ingrained itself.

It had been Denethor all along.

Denethor, not Boromir.

“That was good, Faramir,” Denethor spoke finally, his voice low and soft, almost pleased, “Quite good. You are fairly talented, even if it be only as a slut.”

He stared back. His heart was beating furiously, he was terrified. But Denethor did not seem angry. He seemed, almost oddly, pleased. He felt one wrist being released and watched as Denethor raised his hand and brought it towards his face. He lay, unable to move, not even so much as flinch. Denethor gently stroked his face, from hairline to mouth - a slow, tender caress.

“You looked so enticing lying here playing alone, it seemed a shame not to give you a company. Now . . . ,” his father murmured, almost lovingly, “Now . . . let us do it again. And this time, it is I you shall call out for, do you hear? I. Not Boromir. Call for me. Beg me to take you, to ravish you, to make you mine completely. And this time I shall watch your scared little face as you do tremble under me.”

Faramir still could not move. He felt his legs being parted yet he could not move.

It was Denethor, not Boromir.

Hands flew all over him. Hands that had often come in contact with his body before, with painful repercussions. A mouth hovered over him, the same mouth that could cut him to pieces. The lips glistened; the tongue flicked over them, pearly white teeth glistened.

*A dream,* his mind screamed desperately, *This is a dream.*

But when Denethor, pushing into him, slapped him and demanded he beg for him, he knew it was no dream.

When the pain came bereft of pleasure, he knew with certainty, it was no dream for all the dreams he had ever had had been shattered.

He screamed, he thought. But he could not remember what he screamed.

When dawn appeared over the horizon, Denethor rose off him, saying no more than ordering him to ready Boromir’s room for his arrival.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/expecting-boromir. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!