Faramir Fiction Archive

Wine Warms the Blood (NC-17)

Written by Empy

15 April 2005 | 3311 words

Title: Wine Warms the Blood
Author: Empy [Email]
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the Tolkien estate. No infringement is intended and no money made.
Warning(s): consensual sibcest.
Summary:
Feedback: Yes, please.
A/N: Dedicated to the lovely Kirby Crow, as thanks for the beta and the excellent suggestions.

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Boromir gave a sigh of contentment as he sank down to sit on his bed, accepting the cup of mulled wine from Faramir with a grateful smile. Trust his younger brother to be cheerful enough for the both of them on Boromir’s return. He had stood waiting in the courtyard, his hair whipped by the wind as he strode to meet Boromir. Denethor had acknowledged his report with a surly nod, and then dismissed his older son for the evening, saying he wished to hear more the next morning.

The open window afforded a steady flow of cooler air from the courtyard, and occasionally there would be the muted crunch of gravel under boot heels as the sentry outside turned to recommence his round. The brief call of a bird had Faramir turn his head, and he leaned against the window frame, looking out at the dark sky.

“The birds do not sing anymore. They only call in warning,” he lamented. “I see them rarely.”

“They draw away in fear,” Boromir said. He had not intended for his voice to sound so tainted with regret, yet he knew what caused it.

Faramir drew away from him and – as he had done so ever since he matured – ducked out of Boromir’s good-natured embrace and flinched at the arm laid across his shoulders. His blue gaze would cloud with feeling when he looked at Boromir, and during the long audiences with their father his hands would restlessly trace the star engravings of his dagger hilt until Denethor sharply told him not to fidget.

When Boromir watched him spar with the swordmasters in the courtyard, Faramir’s movements would be sharp and precise, but straying the final fraction where they would have scored the skin of his opponent. As he turned to look at Boromir from under his tangled fringe, his gaze would be as sharp as the sword blade. There was rebuke and remonstration in the gaze, glazed with anger, but in a curious way it seemed more sorrowed than anything else. He tried hard not to think of what the reason was, believing he was reading far too much into it.

Kicking his heavy boots off, Boromir settled to lean back against the headboard of his bed. He contented himself with regarding Faramir, who was still standing by the high window, seeming lost in thought. Not even the wine could completely erase the worry that gnawed at him, and yet seeing Faramir freed up a stream of life in his spirit that surprised him, as it had many times before. He felt truly alive in his brother’s company, far more so than on the battlefield after a day’s fighting. It helped him forget for a moment the bitter cold and the smell of smoke that would drift from the East.

Faramir came out of his silent reverie with a little flinch, and he pushed the window closed. “It is good to have you back,” he said, settling to sit on the bed. There was a look of tenderness on his face and a note to his voice that Boromir did not recognize.

There was a glitter of something hopeful, something promising in Faramir’s dark-blue eyes.

He was leaning easily back against the footboard of the bed, one knee propped up. The collar of his shirt was open, baring a sliver of pale throat, and Boromir could glimpse a faint shadow of a bruise over the collarbone.

“I see you have not been idle,” he teased, nudging Faramir’s leg. “Who was it?”

Faramir looked down, shaking his head gently and tightening the grip on the cup he was holding. “It is not what you think, brother,” he said. “Sword practice, that is all.”

“Sword practice indeed?” Boromir laughed, setting his cup aside. Leaning over the bed, he shoved Faramir backward and to the side, moving to pin the younger man down. “That is a very convenient place for an accidental bruise,” he went on, tugging on the collar to bare more skin. To him, it did indeed look like an innocent mark, but he would not let pass an opportunity to tease Faramir.

He pressed his fingers to the bruise, feeling the delicate, silken skin under his fingers. A thrill meandered a slow path up his spine as he felt Faramir’s pulse thrumming under his hand and sensed the heat of his blood coursing through the veins. He let go before Faramir noticed his unease.

The things he does to me… the smallest detail is enough to drive me mad.

Faramir smiled, letting the cup he was still holding roll over the edge of the bed and fall to the floor. The pleasant expression lit his features, warmed by the wine. He shifted sinuously under Boromir, who repressed a gasp and pretended not to notice the alluring motion.

Boromir grasped his chin, bending close.

“Tell me, who is your sweetheart?” he grinned. So long since he had last had reason to smile so easily. And so long since he had last been so happy.

“And if I do not?” Faramir said, answering the smile and trying to get out of the hold. “What if there was nothing to tell?” He cuffed Boromir playfully in the shoulder. “What is this curiosity? Why are you suddenly so interested?”

“I am interested because you are my brother,” Boromir replied, leaning back, shifting to straddle Faramir’s thighs. “Who would I tease if I did not have you?”

Faramir flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Your lover, your wife… if you were to take a wife. You have not. I find it hard to believe that military arms could hold so great a lure that you would forsake lover’s arms for them.”

Boromir laughed, but even he could hear that the mirth was not genuine. The wine was going to his head and it was making him careless.

Faramir was far too tempting, his face flushed with heat and wine, and he seemed familiar and a stranger at the same time. He had changed, Boromir thought, matured in Boromir’s absence. He had gone from youth to man, and Boromir realized to his shame that his own feelings had gone from brotherly love to desire in that time.

“I want no wife,” Boromir retorted, choosing his words carefully. “I do not wish to be tied down.” It felt as though every word might give away his feelings, as though his drink-sated tongue would conspire against him.

“I did not speak of marriage only. You seem so blind to all advances!” Faramir said, his voice nearing anger. “They may go on for years—” he stopped mid-sentence, turning his head away as if in shame, and Boromir looked at his brother curiously. The truncated statement rang ill to him.

You are foolish! It is your deluded and wine-clouded mind that draws its own conclusions.

The younger man shifted underneath him, seeming eager to get out of the embrace. Boromir complied, standing up and righting his rumpled clothing. Faramir remained supine, stretched out but tensed in discomfort, one of his hands knotted into a fist.

“You still have not told me how you got that bruise,” Boromir said, pouring himself more wine. He found his hands shook, and he wrapped his fingers tighter around the stem of the cup.

“You are nosier than the old wives,” Faramir retorted. He leaned over the edge of the bed to pick up his own cup and flashed Boromir a taut smile. Boromir felt as though he was drowning in the blue eyes, lured by Faramir’s beautiful mouth. The smile may not have been wholly genuine, but it was like enough to one that Boromir felt nearly undone by its intensity.

“Are you jealous?” Faramir went on.

Boromir found his reply catching in his throat. It was true. He was jealous, but this jealousy was so warped, he realized. This was his brother. Blood-kin. What he wanted more than anything else, and his desire was equalled only his shame.

“Well, are you?” Faramir said, and Boromir flinched at how close his brother suddenly stood. Faramir had his arm slung over Boromir’s shoulder, and he was leaning in close, side against side.

The position was suddenly uneasily intimate, and Boromir clenched his fists in nervous anticipation. The pause was too long, too charged, and words eluded him as he tried to find a glib remark with which to defuse the situation. Faramir’s skin was warm, heated by wine and high spirits, and the blue gaze swam with promise, with an invitation Boromir knew full well that he could not accept and which was not intended for him.

Faramir’s earlier barb about preferring swords over lovers woke anew in his mind.

I lie and tell him I love the sword more than the body of a lover, for the one I wish to have is the one that will always be denied me.

“Who do you love? Truly love?” Again and again the same question, and he knew to answer honestly would be folly. Faramir was smiling as he wrapped his arms around Boromir’s neck, creating an embrace that was too intimate to be one of brothers.

“You,” Boromir heard himself say. Cursed thoughts, cursed tongue loosened by the wine.

“As I love you, my brother,” Faramir said, his voice hushed.

In the silence that fell, Boromir felt acutely aware of every sensation: the weave of the carpet under his bare feet, of the scent of the burning wood, and of Faramir’s hands on his skin. He drew in a deep breath, intending to finally say something, perhaps rushed words of fear. Faramir moved suddenly, sliding his hand up to cup Boromir’s face, and within the space of a breath, leaned in to press a swift and hard kiss to Boromir’s mouth. There was heat and urgency in the kiss, tinged dark with fear and desperation.

Boromir had no intention of fleeing, but could well understand the fear that surely thrummed through Faramir’s veins as well. This was the most forbidden of loves.

This second kiss was wholly different, soft and warm and long, born of desire and blessed lack of worry. They were both drunk, Boromir knew that, yet not drunk enough to be completely without sense to judge. He took gentle hold of Faramir’s neck, lacing his fingers through his hair.

Faramir’s shirt provided no obstacle, and the fabric tore with a satisfyingly soft sound. Faramir gasped, a sharp intake of breath that bordered on a moan, and for a moment Boromir was afraid he might have gone too far, been too harsh.

As Boromir slowly traced his hand up Faramir’s chest, ticking off an old white scar, Faramir’s hips bucked forward, in wordless acknowledgement of desire, and Boromir straightened up again, sliding one hand down along Faramir’s front. As he raked his fingertips over Faramir’s chest and proceeded further down, Faramir’s breathing increased until he was panting, the flat stomach rising and falling with each shallow breath. Exasperated, Boromir tugged the lacings of Faramir’s breeches loose, sending the soft fabric puddling around his ankles. A slow, languid heat was travelling through Boromir, settling in his groin, and he pulled Faramir close for another kiss.

He could hear his pulse beat in his ears, a heavy rush of blood that whispered of lust and coveting.

Boromir nuzzled close, pressing a kiss to a spot just under Faramir’s ear, delighting in the slight sigh that escaped the younger man. Taking Faramir’s chin gently in his hand, Boromir turned the younger man’s head so he could kiss him on the mouth, nibbling slowly on the full lower lip. Faramir’s eyes drifted shut, and he slid his hands down along Boromir’s side, finally grasping his hips and pulling him close.

He stroked firmly, watching with delight as Faramir gave a soft moan and bucked against his hold. The younger man had closed his eyes and was leaning his head back, the pale skin of his bared chest tinged golden by the firelight. Boromir leaned in, pressing a light kiss to the hollow of Faramir’s throat while tracing a slow circle around an erect nipple. Every sound was a concession, a step towards permission, it seemed. Permission to go further than he had ever dared. To bond in flesh with one that was kin in blood.

Faramir bent his head back, the line of his neck a pale arc in the gathering gloom. His breathing was shallow and erratic, a stutter of breath as he twisted in Boromir’s grip, trying valiantly and in vain to keep still under the questing touches. Boromir gripped him harder, nearly pressing bruises into the taut skin, listening to the roar of blood.

The deep blue carpet under Boromir’s knees was soft, a delicious echo of Faramir’s skin under his hands. “Are you sure you wish to do this?” he asked, nuzzling his cheek against Faramir’s stomach, feeling the long muscles contract. “I will take nothing from you that you do not willingly give me.”

“What is there to take when you already have all?” Faramir countered. He was not looking at Boromir, but instead kept his head bent back. To Boromir, it was as though he was kneeling down to something larger than life, to the one that he worshipped and had always worshipped. Every sharp angle and curve under his hands was familiar and yet alien, a scape of skin to explore in secret only, never else.

The younger man swayed slightly where he stood and finally looked down at Boromir. Touch and caress as Boromir mapped the curves and hollows, finally grasping Faramir’s narrow hips. Faramir’s chest was heaving, his cheeks blushed, and Boromir did not think he had ever seen him look so beautiful.

Driven by lust, and perhaps even by greed, he leaned forward, taking all of Faramir’s cock deep into his mouth, delighting in the high, sharp gasp that issued from the younger man. Faramir’s head fell back again, his golden curls reddening in the light of the fire, echoing the blush on his cheeks.

The first taste on Boromir’s tongue was salt, but in a curious way sweeter than honey. Laving his tongue around the head, he wrapped his fingers around the base of Faramir’s cock, stroking in slow, leisurely time. Looking up, he could just catch Faramir’s gaze, and the hunger he saw in the dark blue gaze sent a shiver through him. Quickening his pace, he took Faramir in as deep as he could manage, the tip of his nose touching the hairs on Faramir’s groin.

Giving another whimper, Faramir fisted his hands in Boromir’s hair, bucking forward. The long muscles of his thighs were trembling with the effort to keep standing upright, and his breath was catching, hitching unevenly. His eyes were closed and his slack lips mouthed a silent plea to whichever Vala might be listening. The chamber was silent around them, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and Faramir’s ragged breathing. Boromir set a slow pace, laving the length of Faramir’s cock, pausing to suck gently at the head, catching the pearly drop with the tip of his tongue.

Sensing Faramir was close, Boromir swallowed around the shaft in his mouth, and the simple movement sent Faramir over the edge. Biting his own fist to muffle the sharp cry, Faramir climaxed, his entire body tensing into a tight bow. Greedily drinking down the seed, Boromir suckled lightly until Faramir was entirely spent, then rose to steady the younger man who seemed boneless with languor.

Faramir opened his mouth, intending to speak, but Boromir hastily silenced him by pressing his fingers to Faramir’s mouth.

“Say nothing,” Boromir urged. Lifting Faramir’s hand, he frowned at the red teeth-marks seared into the knuckles. Noticing the scrutiny, Faramir gave a smile, then leaned forward to capture Boromir’s mouth in a deep kiss. He freed his hand from Boromir’s grasp and slid it down along his side, finally stopping at the curve of the hip, as though asking wordless permission. Boromir bucked his hips forward as Faramir unlaced his breeches, and he closed his eyes as he felt Faramir’s long fingers wrap around his cock. The touch was deft and firm, bringing him to the edge far too soon. Grabbing at Faramir’s wrist, he stilled the motion.

“Not so fast,” he panted, “I cannot—”

Faramir let go, yet before Boromir had a chance to draw breath, Faramir knelt in front of him.

“Let me do this to you,” he said, chancing one last look up at Boromir. His fingers made fast work of the remaining lacings on Boromir’s breeches, and Boromir gave an involuntary shiver at the feel of the material sliding down his thighs.

Faramir rocked back on his heels slightly, pushing Boromir back so that he leaned against the footboard of the bed. Cleverly replaying the scene, he took Boromir deeply into his mouth, adding the slightest touch of teeth.

Where in Eru’s name has he learned that?

It felt as though he was weightless, his breath hitching wildly in his throat. Time had slowed to a mere confused blur in his mind.

Faramir’s mouth was clever, wicked, and he could not hold back. It seemed he could not even tell if he was standing upright or not.

A thousand thoughts snarled into themselves in his mind, but dispersed like mist at the next touch of Faramir’s hands.

His blood was singing in his ears, winding into the rapid beat of his heart. He was falling, far too fast. Faramir slid his hands up Boromir’s thighs, then grabbed his brother’s hands, lacing their fingers together. His nails bit into the back of Boromir’s hand, and the sliver of pain was enough to tip him over the edge. A clipped shout sprang from his lips before he could stop himself, and next he bit his lip to stay silent.

His knees threatened to buckle, and he grasped Faramir’s shoulder tightly, surely bruising the pale skin. The room seemed to have contracted, dwindling into the space immediately around the two of them, and he was drowning in the waves of sheer sensation. Heat and chill wrapped around him as he twisted, his eyes so tightly shut he saw jagged tracks of white.

Finally slumping back against the ornate footboard of the bed, he stood silent for a long while, trying to even out his breathing. Faramir was still kneeling in front of him, his head tilted back so he could look at Boromir.

Twining his fingers into Faramir’s hair, Boromir pulled back, urging the younger man to stand. Greedily kissing him, Boromir revelled in the thrill of tasting himself on Faramir’s lips and in the sense of debauchery. The younger man was pliant in his arms, but soon enough he took control, pushing Boromir back against the bed.

Faramir’s hair clung to his forehead, a sweat-dampened curl pasted along his temple. As one of the candles sputtered out, adding to the falling dusk, Faramir gave a slight smile, leaning his head on Boromir’s shoulder.

“The hour is late,” he said simply. “You need to rest if you are to face Father in the morning.”

Boromir tipped Faramir’s face up, giving a short laugh. “You have such strange priorities, brother sweet. I would hold you for every hour of the night, and you usher me to sleep already.”

“Would you sleep if I was to share your bed?”

“No,” Boromir said. “And neither would you.”

[END]

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