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To Learn You All Over Again (NC-17) Print

Written by Faramir_Boromir

16 September 2004 | 45422 words | Work in Progress

[ all pages ]

Title: What Are You Thinking?
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Part: 1/?? of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: Just ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Disclaimer: None of characters belong to me originally, all are JRRT’s. All homage to JRRT, but I’m sure he’d be spinning in his grave if he read this. Sorry.
Synopsis: Being totally and spontaneously honest is fine when one has no secrets to hide. For almost thirty years, Faramir and Boromir shared total honesty. But now, both have a secret.
Thanks to Elandae, beta extraordinaire.


What Are You Thinking?

The Future

With a ragged edge to his voice, Faramir said “I…I think…I think that…that you have entirely too many clothes on, brother.” When Faramir finished stumbling over those words, then blushed furiously, Boromir’s heart started to race. He wants me. He wants me. But then he paused, reconsidering what the blush meant. Is he embarrassed because he meant it? Or because he didn’t mean it? Faramir, still flushed, stirred beneath him.

‘Come now, Boromir, your turn,” Faramir prompted, “You know the rules.”

“I think…,” Boromir replied slowly, stalling for time, “that…you should take them off me.”

“I think…I will.”


The Past

Since childhood, they had played the Thinking Game. It began, really, with Faramir pestering Boromir. “What are you thinking?” was seven-year-old Faramir’s way to pry inside his brother’s expanding world. Boromir was changing so much, doing so many more interesting things, from Faramir’s perspective, and he just wanted to be included. He was used to them doing everything together. But now, Boromir had weapons practice, and Faramir could not go. He could not go to the practice grounds at all, and it seemed unfair to the boy. So when Boromir came back from his new lessons, ready to wrestle or go exploring, Faramir was waiting with the same question every time. “What are you thinking?”

And Boromir would tell him.

They turned it into a game at Boromir’s command. After two weeks of being asked the same question every day, even by a brother he loved dearly, Boromir said, “We need a rule. We should take turns. If I tell you what I’m thinking, then you have to tell me what you’re thinking. Okay?” Faramir nodded happily. It wasn’t a game about winning, it was a game about being together, and that was a game Faramir liked.

For two young boys, the questions led to lots of mischievous conspiracies. “I’m thinking…we could sneak down to the kitchen and get some more of the sweet cakes we had at supper.” “I’m thinking…we would need cider to go with the sweet cakes.” “I’m thinking we should use the back staircase.” “Right, let’s go.”

About three years later, when Boromir was nearly fifteen, the game got a little more complicated. He’d spent part of the morning standing behind his father’s chair, listening to various officers make reports in the Great Hall. Most of the information was ordinary, but one report contained dreadful news. Orcs had overrun a settlement in Ithilien, leaving none of the inhabitants alive. Soldiers who’d found the bodies began describing some of the more gruesome remains before Denethor silenced them.

When the session ended, Boromir started walking to his room, lost in thought. He didn’t see Faramir come out of the library and start walking with him, and he barely heard his brother ask the familiar question, so Faramir repeated it. “I said, what are you thinking? Boromir, tell me.”

“I…can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? Tell me, I want to know.” By this point, they’d reached the door to Boromir’s room, and Faramir trailed his brother inside, clearly curious.

“I mean, little brother, that what I was thinking about is something very bad that I heard during morning reports. I love you too much to tell you what I was thinking about, because it would just give you bad dreams.” Faramir dreamed vividly, and sometimes so terribly that he would awaken crying. Boromir had no intention of putting horrible ideas into his beloved brother’s mind. Enough children had been tortured already in that village, he was not going to let his brother’s sleep be murdered as well.

“Oh.” A pause, then “Boromir, we need another rule. We’ll call it the honesty rule. We both have to answer the question ‘what are you thinking?’ honestly. I don’t care if I get nightmares; I’d rather have bad dreams than not know what you’re thinking. How would you feel if I didn’t answer you, or I stopped telling you the truth, just because I thought it might hurt you, or you wouldn’t like hearing it?”

That made Boromir stop and consider. Although the game had sometimes been an irritation when his brother was much younger, after three years, Boromir found he had grown to enjoy it. As he aged, he realized that people lied to him quite often, just because he was the Steward’s son; it made Faramir’s honesty that much more important to him. And he realized he knew his brother much better because of all the times Faramir had answered that simple question. What would happen if Faramir stopped answering, or answered but didn’t tell the truth? He wouldn’t like that at all. And what would even be the point in asking the question, if one only heard the truth sometimes?

Slowly, Boromir nodded his head. “All right, we’ll have the honesty rule. We both have to say what we’re thinking about, honestly. Do you still want to know?”

“Yes. What were you thinking about in the hall?” And Boromir told him, honestly.

Faramir didn’t sleep well for the next month, but at least he stopped screaming after the first few nights.


In the years that followed, a few other rules got added to the Thinking Game. No stalling or hesitating. Nothing but the whole truth, no evasive answers. And the privacy rule: no one else can know—this is between you and me.

This last rule became more and more important as the two got older. As he neared his eighteenth year, Boromir started to question some of his father’s decisions. He was grateful that he could tell Faramir and know that his doubts would remain secret. The question ‘what are you thinking’ could start the two youths talking about politics or horses or anything, with their conversations lasting long into the night, drawing the two brothers even closer together.

With the privacy rule in place, that one simple question let the boys talk to each other about everything, even sex. Faramir’s body started changing in adolescence and when he had his first dream of a sexual encounter, he woke up in bed wet with sweat and something else. When Boromir asked the thinking question after breakfast, Faramir told him all that happened. When Faramir asked Boromir in return what he was thinking, Boromir told him about the first time he had had the same experience. This opened the door to a long discussion about how their voices sometimes sounded funny, and hair was growing in some pretty unexpected places.

When Boromir began his military service outside the city walls a few years later, the brothers’ game changed again. Now the constant give and take of questions and answers they’d grown used to was interrupted, silent for months at a time. When Boromir returned after his first long absence from Minas Tirith, Faramir met him at the gates, threw his arms around his best friend, and before saying anything else asked the familiar question: “what are you thinking?”

“No word of welcome, that’s what I’m thinking, little brother. I’ve been gone three months, and this is the greeting I get?” Boromir answered in mock indignation.

“Now it’s my turn. Ask me,” Faramir demanded, even as he stopped pounding his brother on the back.

“Alright, alright. What are you thinking?”

“That this is the happiest day I’ve had in three months, because my brother is with me again,” he said, grinning warmly. Boromir’s face broke into a big grin, too.

For the next twenty years, at each brother’s homecoming, it became their private ritual to ask the question first, instead of using an ordinary greeting. It let them express the joy that both were home, safe, and together again.


Who knows when and why the heart turns from friendship to love? For some people, the change is too subtle to recognize themselves, while others who know them well see it plainly.

Boromir had watched his brother grow from boy to man, so he realized something was bothering Faramir when his brother came back from his post in Ithilien one autumn and was…cranky. Restless. More moody than ever. When Faramir asked him what he was thinking, Boromir said a little gravely, “I think you are behaving strangely these days. Well, more strangely than you usually do,” attempting to make light of his serious comment. But Boromir’s words struck home: Faramir knew he was not himself. But he could not put his finger on the reason for the changes in his behavior.

Lying in bed that night, Faramir went over the problem one more time. He’d lost his appetite. He was irritable, and he was never irritable. And he couldn’t seem to sit still, he kept pacing, even in his room. What’s the matter with me? I’m acting as bizarrely as a man does when he’s chasing a woman!

That’s when all the pieces began to fall into place. He was acting like he was in love. But not with a woman—he’d never been attracted to women, although at thirty-five, he found he had his share of female admirers. It had been several years since he’d found himself attracted to another man, but he’d not acted on his desires. Well, if he was in love, who was the most attractive man he knew? And in a flash, he knew exactly which man he wanted: Boromir. Those green eyes, and his hands…oh Eru, not Boromir.

Faramir’s mind flew back to the day Boromir would not tell him about the tortured children in the soldiers’ reports. How he had forced Boromir to agree to the honesty rule by threatening not to tell him the truth, always. And now he knew exactly how Boromir felt that day: Faramir feared he would say something that might hurt his brother. Sever their bond. And he wanted to stay silent.

He knew he would have to choose: to break faith with the game they’d played since childhood, and lie if he had to, or be honest and tell Boromir what he was thinking the next time he got asked.

That night, Faramir did not go to sleep at all.


Faramir could recall the few times he’d been truly afraid in his life. The time he’d seen his brother, pale and unconscious, lying wounded at the Houses of Healing, sure that Boromir would die. During that ambush in Ithilien, when the man next to him had died from an ax stroke that would have killed Faramir too if he had not dodged in time.

But those were fears in the past. This was a fear about today. Faramir rose to go to breakfast, and knew what his choice was. He would tell his brother the truth, if it was what he was thinking about, the next time his brother asked the question. He had to. If he did not, it would make a mockery of the long years they had shared each others’ thoughts, and each time Boromir continued to ask him and he did not speak the truth, he would feel like a hypocrite.

Faramir realized however that he need not cower, waiting for the question to come. He could go on the attack, and maybe prevent Boromir from discovering his secret, if he were just clever enough. As a captain of Gondor, Faramir knew something about tactics. First, Boromir need not ask “what are you thinking” if Faramir told him without waiting to be asked. Boromir might not probe at the wrong moment, if Faramir volunteered his thoughts more often—volunteered all but one particular piece of information, that is. Likewise, Boromir might keep prying if he thought Faramir was still acting strangely. Faramir made a silent vow to behave as normally as possible around his brother.

And if those strategies do not work, what then? he pondered, certain that they would not work forever. Two more existed: avoid Boromir, or get him drunk. Boromir rarely asked “what are you thinking” when he was in his cups. Avoiding him would be easy, once they were sent out on patrol again, but in the meantime, Faramir began thinking about ways he could conceal himself in Minas Tirith without turning into a hermit.


Boromir had not seen his brother most of the day. Faramir seemed to be his old self at breakfast, and had even surprised him by offering the comment that he felt much more at ease that morning. Boromir was glad, though their conversation ended a few minutes later when Faramir left, headed for the library.

Boromir spent much of the morning closeted with his father, and had been looking forward to seeing Faramir at the noon meal, but his brother never appeared. By mid-afternoon, when Boromir finished a practice session with the weaponsmaster, he decided to ask Faramir if he wanted to go down to the second level of the City to see some new buildings being constructed there.

He could not seem to find Faramir. He went first to their bedrooms, then to the kitchens, and finally to the library. He couldn’t see Faramir in the book-lined room, but he did find some papers piled on his desk there, along with two books. Boromir picked up the first, a manual of defensive military tactics. Boromir remembered it well: the writer focused on evading the enemy, concealment, and deception.

Odd choice, brother. I thought you disliked this sort of thing. Then Boromir picked up the other volume, one he didn’t recognize. Intrigued, he leaned against the edge of the desk and started reading. A page or two was enough to learn the book’s theme: love poetry.

Another odd choice. You usually have books of lore and Elven stories piled here, he thought, as he kept reading the small volume. The poetry was tender, if a little maudlin. None of the pairs seemed happy, Boromir realized, putting the book down and walking out of the room.

As he went down to the practice grounds, hoping he might find Faramir taking target practice, Boromir had a sudden flash of insight. Was Faramir reading love poetry because he was in love?

It might explain things, quite a few things, actually. The lost appetite…the distracted behavior…the pacing. Brother, I believe I know what’s happened to you, even if you say you don’t. Who is it, that has you tied up in knots this way?

As Boromir strode across the courtyard, he found himself thinking about Faramir’s moustache and beard. Your witless lover, brother mine, will probably make you shave them off; you would do it if your lover asked. Boromir thought about the short curls around his brother’s mouth, and let out a long breath. They were one of the most attractive things about Faramir’s face, really, after his soft blue eyes.

That pulled him up short. When had he first thought of Faramir as attractive? Then he realized that standing stock still in the middle of the courtyard might look odd—he needed to keep moving.

Boromir discovered, suddenly, that he didn’t want to find Faramir after all. He turned around and headed back to his room, up the stairs taking the steps two at a time, arriving at his bedroom in almost record time. Once he got the door shut behind him, he even locked it—something he never did in daylight.

He’d reached his refuge, and now he could think on the question again without interruption. When had he first thought of Faramir as attractive?

Throwing himself down on his bed, Boromir discovered, to his horror, that his mind had been keeping memories of an attractive Faramir for a very long time. Faramir wet, in the river, laughing. Faramir walking beside him on a sunlit day in the public gardens, quiet, thinking. Faramir, fallen asleep in the chair near Boromir’s fire, with his head gently thrown back. His neck exposed. His face pink, warmed by the fire. Looking for all the world like a lover asleep in my bed after…Right. Just picture Faramir kissing his mystery lover, that should get rid of all this nonsense.

But that didn’t get rid of anything. All it provided was proof. When Boromir tried to imagine his brother with a woman, with anyone at all, he began to feel angry. Jealously angry. Possessive. It made Boromir want to hit something.

Desire. Where did this come from? Jealousy. He’s family. Passion. No. I will not think that way.

But he could not stop thinking, now. His mind raced: he actually desired his little brother, wanted to pull him into bed this minute and…. His mind flooded with all the things he wanted to do to Faramir. Undress him. Touch that neck. Kiss those lips…What things might those lips do to him?

Boromir’s eyes snapped open at that idea, then he realized his breeches suddenly felt too small. There was a fairly obvious bulge stretching the leather, and Boromir’s face reddened with shame. He’d found his brother so beautiful that he was aroused. Incredibly aroused. Boromir realized he had two choices: leave his room, stupidly attracting attention to himself in his current condition, or stay in his room and cope with this new…reality.

Think, Boromir, think. How do you stop these feelings?

Maybe I can’t stop them. How will I manage them until they go away?

First things first. Hide the evidence of what you’re feeling.

There was an obvious way to rid himself of his arousal. A grim smile crossed his face when he realized that the door was already locked. He’d locked it, after all.

After unlacing his breeches, Boromir wrapped his fingers around the tender engorged flesh, and began thinking about Faramir’s lovely mouth again. I may feel guilty about this later, but at least I’ll enjoy it now was the last clear thought that crossed his mind as he shut his eyes and started moving his hand.


Having missed lunch deliberately, Faramir knew he ought to go to dinner. To vary his tactics, as the manual suggested, he considered trying to get Boromir so drunk that he wouldn’t start asking questions Faramir didn’t want to answer. It had seemed like a good idea this morning, but Faramir recognized that Boromir had a much higher capacity for mead that he did—there was a risk that if he tried to get Boromir drunk, he would be the one who ended up drunk instead.

Well, it’s either get him drunk or take dinner in my room, so drunk it must be.

Faramir was a little surprised when his brother showed up looking as if he had already indulged in some drinking. It was out of character. Boromir never drank before supper, and rarely drank to excess here in the Steward’s house—he saved his imbibing for the taverns of the fourth level. Boromir landed a little unsteadily on the bench beside him, and after a brief “hello Faramir” immediately began eating the food that was waiting for him. Smelling of drink, no conversation at all—it was very unlike Boromir to act that way.

Faramir started to ask Boromir ‘what are you thinking’ to find out what was making him behave like this, then bit his tongue. If he asked Boromir the question, Boromir would be able to ask him the same, and that would never do. Faramir pulled the jug of mead to a spot between them, and poured a mug for them both.

“Thanks, brother. I’ve decided that this evening should be dedicated to making a better acquaintance with the liquor in the cellar, since father’s eating up in the tower room. No disapproving glances.” And Boromir then started proposing a series of toasts that Faramir had to drink, so as not to give offense or draw too much attention to himself.

This is going better than planned, Faramir thought. Apparently Boromir wanted to get drunk. Faramir began proposing a few toasts himself, just to get in the spirit of things.


An hour or two later, when Faramir began slurring his words and wobbling a bit in his seat, Boromir quietly congratulated himself—his plan to get Faramir drunk at dinner had worked to perfection. Faramir wouldn’t be able to ask him questions about his behavior if he were face down in his own bed at the end of the evening from too much liquor. That is not helping. Stop thinking about him face down in bed. His pretense, of being drunk when he came down to dinner, made it easier for Faramir to drink with him—he knew Faramir deliberately drank less because his tolerance for mead was lower than Boromir’s. But if Faramir thought Boromir had already been drinking, he would be less mindful of how much liquor he had, and that was precisely the outcome Boromir wanted.

Having emptied the three jugs on the table, Boromir turned to Faramir and said, “I think we should go to bed early tonight. We’ve both had a lot to drink, right?”

Faramir seemed to have a hard time framing a reply. As if his mind were…slow, and everything was a little out of focus. He nodded, “Yea…Early night. I worked hard ‘saffernoon.” The slurred words sounded a little odd coming from Faramir, who was leaning heavily on the table before him.

“Where were you? I couldn’t find you when I went looking.”

“Down the second, helping…helping the…men…new buildings. Re…Remember ‘t was happ’ning t’day?” Faramir’s words were a bit muddled, but Boromir understood. Faramir had gone to help the builders, the very place Boromir intended the two brothers to visit: no wonder he hadn’t been able to find Faramir anywhere in the Steward’s house.

“Time to go up to our rooms. Come, brother, I’ll help you, and you can tell me all about it.” Boromir felt a twinge of guilt about getting Faramir in this state—he would surely wake with a sore head tomorrow—but if he could just keep Faramir occupied for a few more minutes…Faramir began a rambling account of two men and a block of stone, but it didn’t make much sense.

Faramir’s legs seemed so unsteady that Boromir had to put an arm around his waist, practically carrying him along to Faramir’s bedroom This will not make it easier for me to sleep tonight. And Faramir was a lot heavier than he looked, he thought. Next time, I get him drunk in his own room—not so far to carry him.

Finally, Boromir maneuvered his brother into the room, where Faramir readily collapsed, sprawled on his stomach crosswise on the bed. The light thrown from the banked fire was barely enough to see by.

”Thas betterrr.” Then Faramir shifted, rearranging himself, clumsily. He will wake up tomorrow sore in every joint from how he is now, dangling arms and legs off each side, Boromir thought.

Always he had taken care of Faramir, and he did not intend to stop now. Boromir went to work, taking off his brother’s boots and shirt, putting them on the chair next to the bed. He pulled Faramir’s legs around from the side, and laid them straight out in the bed. Next he grasped Faramir’s shoulders and rearranged the younger man until he was more or less lying in the bed the correct way, though still face down.

Boromir stopped, and looked at the firmly muscled back and realized that Faramir must have helped the builders before. He could not help staring at his brother’s body, and thought he must have memorized each inch of skin he saw. His eyes raked up and down Faramir’s back, the curved shape of his buttocks, and Boromir found himself thinking deliciously erotic thoughts.

That won’t do. Stop looking he reprimanded himself. Boromir turned away, found the jug of water and poured a glassful to put on the stand next to the bed, if Faramir wanted it in the night. With that, he intended to leave, and had taken a few steps toward the door when he heard his brother mumbling something behind him.

“Shoulders…rub….mmmh…please…”

Should have known it would not be that simple Boromir thought. His muscles are sore and he wants me to massage the aches away. Faramir had once told Boromir that he liked his backrubs better than anyone else’s because Boromir had such strong wrists and hands. All those hours wielding a sword had their advantages, he supposed. But with the new-found knowledge of his attraction to Faramir, this might not be such a good idea. Still, if Faramir was pretty drunk and close to sleep….

Boromir returned to the bedside and considered. Earlier today, I thought of this very thing when I could not leave my room. You in bed, asking me to join you. Eru, what have I done to deserve such torment? Shaking his head, Boromir pulled his boots off. Placing his left hand and knee next to Faramir’s waist, he rolled his weight forward and sideways, up and over Faramir, straddling his brother’s waist. His brother shifted slightly beneath him.

Now he could look down the spine, see the arms resting awkwardly on either side. Gods, Faramir really was perfectly formed. With his rear resting gently on top of Faramir’s, Boromir leaned forward and began to press his fingers into Faramir’s left shoulder blade. Up, out, down, repeating the pattern, slowly moving his hands across the skin, then up to the top of Faramir’s shoulder where it joined his neck.

“Mmmh…than…thans, Bo’mir.”

Boromir moved to massage Faramir’s left arm, kneading the muscles and pushing the tired flesh around in his warm hands. This doesn’t hurt him, it helps. It only hurts me Boromir reasoned. And he seems to be sleeping now. Faramir’s features had relaxed and the tenseness in his body had begun easing a little, under Boromir’s strong fingers.

Moving up the arm and into the center of Faramir’s back, his fingers pressed firmly, moving the muscles so that any remaining tension disappeared. For a while, he was able to concentrate on soothing the muscles beneath his hands. But once he returned to rubbing the knobby ridge of his brother’s spine, his mind started to wander, seeing Faramir, eager, even begging him for more than this.

The images became so vivid that he found himself taking shorter breaths, and the heat began to gather, swirling and growing at the base of his abdomen. Not again. No, not again he thought, as he found himself gradually stiffening. His hands paused near the nape of Faramir’s nape, and he went still, trying to will the erection away with his mind. Although he couldn’t do it, he resumed working on the bunched muscles in Faramir’s right shoulder, hoping that things would go back to normal in a moment if he just kept his mind on rubbing Faramir’s muscles and nothing else.


Lying face down in the bed, Faramir thought that the evening certainly couldn’t get much stranger. He’d wanted to get Boromir drunk, and Boromir had obligingly helped himself to more ale than Faramir had ever seen his brother drink before. But it also meant that he had to drink a lot himself, so he did. And somewhere in the haziness of the second hour of drinking, Boromir said something that frightened him—it was so clear, so lucid a statement, that Faramir knew with utter clarity his brother wasn’t drunk at all. For whatever reason, his brother was only pretending to be drunk, and was in fact perfectly sober.

Which meant he might ask his brother what he was thinking at any moment, and that scared Faramir: it was precisely what he was trying to prevent.

Faramir’s muddled brain scrambled for a solution, and he remembered a tactic suggested in the manual he’d been reading: think like your enemy. If Boromir could fake being drunk, so could he. Faramir stopped swallowing the mead when he pretended to drink, and started to exaggerate his movements, leaning too far forward when he put his mug back on the table, almost knocking the jug over. After a little more time passed, he began slurring his speech, and he stopped keeping his eyes wide open. When Boromir announced that they’d had enough and should go back to their rooms, Faramir almost grinned that his ruse was working.

Stumbling in the hallway was a masterstroke. Boromir had to put his arm around his brother to hold him up, and Faramir thought his face might flame red from the excitement of feeling his brother’s hand clutching his waist and pulling his weight over to lean against his shoulder. Maybe I could pretend to take up drinking, so he’d have to put me to bed like this every night he thought, just a little wickedly.

While Boromir maneuvered him into the room, Faramir thought about all the drunken soldiers he’d seen in the barracks. They never went to bed like anyone else; they ended up tangled in a mess of their own clothes, or lying in their bed facing the wrong direction. He decided to imitate them, and fell heavily across the bed, legs dangling off one side and arms off the other. There now. He’ll leave me and go off to bed, thinking I’m hopelessly drunk.

But he hadn’t reckoned with Boromir’s need to take care of him. When Boromir started to undress him, pulling off his boots, and then his shirt, Faramir had to stop himself from saying something. When his brother began moving his legs and arms so that he would lie in the bed properly, Faramir wondered for a moment what Boromir would do next. With his head facing away from the door, he couldn’t see what was going on behind him.

He heard rather than saw Boromir pouring the water, and then the soft footsteps walking away, and suddenly he felt bereft. Boromir couldn’t go, not now. Where before, all Faramir wanted was for his brother to go away, now, irrationally, he couldn’t stand the thought of Boromir leaving. What could he do to get Boromir to stay with him?

An idea: he could ask to have his shoulders rubbed down. This wouldn’t seem too odd, since he’d been moving building materials half the day, and really, he was sore from all the work. He mumbled the request, but it worked. It worked!

Boromir moved onto the bed with him, and began massaging his tired muscles. He imagined Boromir looking intently at his back, his shoulders, and felt his hands move the skin and muscles around so masterfully. He could feel Boromir pressing down on his buttocks with all his weight—and that did it. He sensed blood rushing to his groin, and a sharp tingling, the beginning of arousal. He bit down on his lip, to keep from groaning at the sensation.

I shouldn’t feel like this. He’s my brother. It’s not right. But that didn’t stop his body from responding, his mind from flipping through dark images. Boromir was so….so good at this. Faramir strained to keep his breathing even, to relax his muscles, to maintain the appearance of a man asleep so that Boromir would keep pressing, rubbing, massaging.

Then he felt Boromir’s hands stop, and his weight shift ever so slightly, and he wondered what was wrong. He couldn’t ask, or Boromir might use that as an excuse to go. But then Boromir started to work again, leaning forward to soothe the knotted muscles in his right shoulder.

There was something different this time, though. Faramir felt something brushing the small of his back, where before there had been no sensation at all. Every time his brother leaned forward to push on the muscles of his shoulder, he could feel this new…thing…graze the skin just above the waist of his breeches. A moment’s thought, then he knew: his brother was…hard.

Faramir’s eyes flew open, and his body overrode any command to stay relaxed—his entire body tensed at feeling Boromir’s erection. And now…now he knows I’m awake.


When Boromir saw his brother’s eyes open suddenly, all he could think was He knows. He must know. He could feel it when I bent over him. What now?

Through strands of hair that partly obscured his vision, Faramir looked over his shoulder at Boromir, questioning.

Green eyes met blue, locked for a moment, uncertain, nervous. And Boromir found that he couldn’t stand the tension. He had to know.

“What are you thinking?” he blurted out.

And Faramir, having decided that morning to tell his brother the truth, answered him, though he stumbled on a few of the words.

A ragged edge to his voice, Faramir said “I…I think…I think that…that you have entirely too many clothes on, brother.” When he blushed, Boromir thought it one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. His heart started pounding at double speed, even as he thought He wants me. He wants me. But then he paused, thought again what that blush meant. Is he embarrassed because he meant it? Or because he didn’t mean it? Faramir, still flushed, stirred beneath him.

‘Come now, Boromir, your turn,” Faramir prompted, “You know the rules.”

“I think…,” Boromir replied slowly, stalling for time, “that…you should take them off me.” There. It was in the open now, a declaration that he agreed with Faramir’s desire. Now I find out if he means it or not. What if I’m wrong?

Faramir rolled underneath him, from face down to face up, placing his hands on Boromir’s thighs to keep him in place, astride Faramir’s waist. Once he finished turning over so he could face his brother, Boromir had his answer: he could feel the swollen firmness in his brother’s breeches, matching his own.

“I think…I will.” Faramir reached up and pulled on Boromir’s shirt, tugging it over his head and tossing it on the floor. His hands moved quickly to the laces of Boromir’s breeches, then stilled for a moment.

“Unless…you don’t…want me to.”

“Oh Faramir…what I want…” Boromir’s voice cracked, then he put his hands on top of Faramir’s, guiding them to undo the laces, then drawing them up to rest on his chest. I want…I want everything. With you.

At this response, Faramir’s face lit up, but Boromir was shaking his head, as moisture began pooling, welling up to turn his eyes sad. For a moment, Faramir was confused, and when he saw a small tear roll down Boromir’s cheek, his confusion quickly gave way to concern. He pulled Boromir down into his arms and pressed him hard against his chest. The simple gesture, to hug his brother close, caused Boromir to shudder briefly, before raising his head so his green eyes could look into Faramir’s worried blue ones.

“Well, brother, that settles it. You are a braver man than I will ever be.”

“That’s nonsense. Why would you say such a thing, Boromir?”

“Because I would not have told the truth. If you had asked me the question first, I would have lied rather than risk your scorn or the loss of your love. I would never have voiced my true feelings. But you dared to. For that, you’re braver.”

Faramir cocked his head to one side, as if considering this, a small smile curving on his lips. “Well if I’m braver, am I entitled to a reward?” Faramir gently teased.

“What sort of reward did you have in mind?” By now, Boromir was smiling, almost in disbelief, and he moved one of his hands to rest on Faramir’s chest. He wants me. He wants me kept running through his mind.

“I will decide on that later—but we are both agreed I deserve one, yes?” Boromir nodded, even as he sat up again, raising himself so that Faramir could continue undressing him, while he moved to unlace Faramir’s breeches himself. Now that he knew he was safe, that Faramir still loved him, he felt as if he could do anything.

Busy hands sent clothes flying from the bed, as the two men started scrambling to see who could undress the other one faster. It was if they had returned to their childhood, running a race to see who would win. But as more and more flesh was exposed, the race slowed, and stopped, each brother looking intently as though seeing the other for the first time.

“You’re beautiful. My beautiful brother.” “Handsome, surely.” “That too, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

They sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, just staring. Then Faramir pushed himself back onto the bed, and stretched out his legs, while reaching out to touch Boromir’s thigh, inviting him closer with his eyes. Boromir moved, shifting until the two were lying side by side, eyes and hands searching features of the other. Faramir grazed his hand along Boromir’s arm, skimming the surface. Such a small gesture, but it forced Boromir to clench his eyes shut. He opened them again when Faramir began to run his hand gently down Boromir’s chest in the same manner. At the touch, Boromir thought his heart might stop.

Letting out an uneven breath, Boromir raised a hand to brush his brother’s face, touch his hair. He slid his fingers behind Faramir’s head, and started rubbing his hand slowly up and down the nape of his brother’s neck, urging his head nearer, drawing his mouth nearer. Hand and neck grew warm, as both men inched closer, nose to nose, then mouth on mouth.

Tender hands grew strong, demanding: Boromir tangled his fingers in Faramir’s hair, holding his head so that he could not pull back, could not withdraw from the kiss. Hardly necessary—he could sense his brother’s hunger as Faramir kissed him back, strong, passion-filled. So like my dream this afternoon, brother, so like my dream. Faramir pressed his tongue against Boromir’s mouth, demanded entrance, then groaned when Boromir’s lips parted. Both tongues met, a brief touching of tips, then questing beyond.

Shyly at first, then growing in confidence, both men’s tongues moved past teeth, sensing unfamiliar surfaces, searching out the innermost parts of each mouth. Emboldened, the tongues matched and fought a sensual duel for domination. Faramir flicked the tip of his tongue along the roof of Boromir’s mouth, making his brother moan. Boromir countered by nibbling on Faramir’s upper lip, drawing lip and hairs into his own mouth, sucking on the flesh at first, before giving his lip gentle, and not so gentle nips.

The sensation was making him melt with desire, but Faramir roused his self-control, pulled back, breaking the contact. He waited until Boromir opened his eyes as well, then whispered softly. “No marks, love, where others can see.”

“No marks,” Boromir repeated, then closed his eyes again and sought Faramir’s mouth once more. Those yielding lips, aaahh, Boromir thought he could never taste them enough. With Faramir’s mouth secured once more, he withdrew his hand from Faramir’s neck and began sliding it down his shoulder, then arm, then waist. Slowly he drew his fingers along the ridge of a firm hipbone, moving his hand around to Faramir’s lower back, where he began to trace a slow looping pattern in the hollow above his brother’s rear. That brought an agonized groan from the back of Faramir’s throat, which Boromir could feel with his tongue as well as sense with his body.

Faramir shifted his hips away from the questing hand, bringing his lower body closer to Boromir’s. When their hardened flesh gently brushed together, the hair on the back of Boromir’s neck stood on end, the contact causing him to shiver with pleasure. He forgot his own strength for a moment, and crushed their bodies together in a vice-like embrace. “Unnnhhhh,” Faramir growled in protest against his mouth, enough to get Boromir to relax his grip just a bit, though he kept his arm around Faramir’s waist and did not let him pull back.

He needn’t have worried—Faramir had no intention of moving his hips away from Boromir’s. Instead, he started to rub himself slowly against Boromir’s arousal, grinding himself into Boromir, impatient with need. Now it was Boromir who groaned into Faramir’s mouth, as pinpricks of light began to dance behind his eyelids. I will relive this moment a thousand times in my mind he thought, as the haze of desire made him less and less coherent. That he should hunger for me as I burn for him.

Faramir’s hand pushed against Boromir’s shoulder, pressing him onto his back, while his mouth left Boromir’s and moved down to his neck. Rolling on top of his brother, he reunited their erections, and made a gentle circling motion with his hips to send the message that he was not done tormenting Boromir just yet.

With his mouth he began to nuzzle the soft skin along Boromir’s neck, trailing warm breath everywhere his lips went. When he moved his head a little, his beard brushed the sensitized skin, light as a feather, and he heard Boromir moan softly. Like that, do you? How much, I wonder? Faramir experimented, alternating kisses with grazing the tip of his beard over Boromir’s neck and shoulder, and his brother twisted beneath him with pleasure. I will not forget that, brother mine he mused as he rearranged himself so that he could lick and nuzzle the other side of Boromir’s throat in exactly the same way.

Eyes shut, enjoying all the imaginative things that Faramir was doing to him, Boromir slowly glided his palms up and down his brother’s back. Gently, he slid one hand up to trace the path of his spine, remembering how it had looked when he first gazed down at the beginning of the back rub, now so long ago. He moved his fingers over Faramir’s ribs, feeling along the length of each one, skating the tips of his fingers back and forth. His other hand he slid down until it rested on Faramir’s rear, which he could feel tensing and relaxing as Faramir continued to writhe sinuously against him. How good it felt, to sense his brother’s thrusting from both in front and behind, against his hand and against his flesh.

Faramir wrapped his arms around his brother, pining his arms to his sides, then rolled onto his back and pulled his brother over on top of him. Boromir’s eyes opened in surprise, as he found himself looking down into Faramir’s laughing ones. “I couldn’t wait any longer to see what it feels like,” Faramir said. Puzzled, Boromir asked, “What what feels like?”

“What it feels like to have all of your weight on top of me, doing this.” And Faramir grinned while he wriggled his hips a little, giving Boromir a hint of what he wanted him to do.

“You always were a little impatient about getting your own way, as I recall,” Boromir said with a hint of irony. And he moved one hand up to brush the hair back from Faramir’s face, so that they could see each other clearly, before he started to press his hips…

Aaaa, Boromirrr

and weight

That’s so good…

into Faramir’s groin. Boromir continued to stroke Faramir’s hair, while Faramir’s eyes closed when the sweet sensations began to carry him away. Boromir just kept looking down at his brother’s face, warm with sweat, slowly rolling from side to side, thinking My beautiful brother over and over again. My Faramir. He felt his brother straining upwards against him, struggling to press their two bodies even closer together, if that were possible. I guess I’ve wanted this for a long time and never knew. Strange.

Faramir felt the blood rushing toward his abdomen, the tensing at the base of his manhood, all the signs that he was getting so close. He squirmed, pressing upwards into his brother, shifting his hips back and forth beneath him, feeling Boromir hold him down. The restraint, the very weight of his brother above him was delicious, so right. One more grind of Boromir’s hips against his, and suddenly Faramir couldn’t contain himself any longer: his seed spurted into the space between their two bodies, trapped and mingled with sweat caught there as well.

Boromir stopped brushing the hair away from Faramir’s face, and just touched the side of his face, quietly stroked the jawline through his beard. So beautiful, especially now, relaxed, happy. After a few moments, Boromir rolled off to one side, creating a space between the two, then moved his hand down to his stomach, and wiped a few fingers through the liquid there. As Faramir rolled his head towards him, and opened his eyes slightly, he could see Boromir bring the fingers to his mouth, licking each one, slowly, eyes on Faramir.

“I was wondering how you taste, Faramir.”
“And?”
“A little salty, but it may taste better like this.” And then Boromir shifted down the bed so that he could run his tongue over Faramir’s stomach, cleaning the skin a little bit at a time.

When he finished, he said,“Yes, much better. I prefer that flavoring.”
“Wha…what flavoring?”
“The flavor of you, wanton and willing,” Boromir teased.
Faramir rolled his eyes, feigning disgust. “That’s fine talk coming from you, brother. You got aroused just giving me a back rub! What did I do? I was just lying there…and you…you took advantage of me,” he replied playfully, punching his brother in the arm.
Boromir let out a mock sigh and shook his head. “That’s unfair. If I’m so debauched, little one, then how come I’m still in this state and you’re the one lying there wearing a smile?”

Faramir’s grin, if anything, got bigger on hearing these words. “What should I do to relieve your distress, Boromir?” Then growing more serious, his voice going lower, he said, “I would do anything to help end your misery.”
“Anything?”
“Of course, brother. Would you like me to…?” and Faramir placed his hand around Boromir’s erect flesh. He squeezed gently before stroking a bit, causing the older man to roll on to his back, his breathing suddenly shallow and his eyes growing distant, dreamy, closing. “Wanton,” he heard Boromir mutter.
“Or perhaps you would prefer something a little more…engaging?” And with that, Faramir moved down to his brother’s waist, so that he could run his tongue up the underside of Boromir’s member. That elicited a groan. Then Faramir shifted back up the bed, so he could look into his brother’s face, and he waited for Boromir to open his eyes. “Well, brother, I need to know: what are you thinking?”

Boromir wasn’t sure he wanted to answer, but the honesty rule compelled him. He had something else in mind. “I’d like you to…roll on your stomach, so that I can…” leaving the thought unfinished. He wondered what Faramir would think of him now, and then realized, he had every right to ask.

“What are you thinking, Faramir?”
A smile appeared on his brother’s face, as Faramir said, “That you must be a mind reader.”

The younger man took a pillow, placed it next to him on the bed, and rolled on top of it such that his rear was slightly up in the air. Then he looked over at Boromir, who was still slightly dazed at Faramir’s ready acceptance of his suggestion. I imagined you eager, little brother, but I never imagined you this eager. The “what are you waiting for?” look that Faramir threw at him only confused him more, but he began glancing around the room, hunting for something he could use as lubrication. While he took the glass of water off the stand and used it to moisten his thick shaft, he said, “Brother, I’m beginning to think I don’t know you at all. If you had told me yesterday that we’d be…doing this…I would have denied it.”

Faramir looked at Boromir with love and said, “So would I. I would have called you a liar without hesitation.” As he said this, Boromir moved so that he knelt behind him, between his legs. Faramir could feel his brother slip a moist finger into the opening at the cleft in his rear. He tensed briefly, then breathed out, and relaxed for a moment, as a second wet finger joined the first, and then a third. Faramir closed his eyes, and leaned back into the fingers that began to stroke him gently, dampening his entrance, and said in a voice roughened with emotion, “I thought I knew you better than any man in Gondor, but it seems…nnhh…I was still missing some…vital information.”

Boromir nodded in agreement, though he knew Faramir wouldn’t see him do it. Using his other hand, he brushed some more water on to his hardened flesh, and around his brother’s rear while he said, “The same is true for me. I’ve known you better than anyone else, but I’m beginning to think that I will have to learn you all over again.”

Then he withdrew his fingers, and wasting no time, slid himself part way into the wet entrance they’d just vacated. The intrusion made Faramir groan, and say in a uneven voice, “Boromir, I think…you are making…nnnhh…an excellent beginning.” Boromir pushed in a bit more, pulled back, then thrust farther in until he was fully surrounded. Only then did he place his hands on Faramir’s hips, and setting the pace, he began to press forward while pulling Faramir back against him. The tightness of Faramir’s opening felt so amazing that Boromir found he could barely control himself, as he pushed, then thrust, faster. Harder…a little sooner this time…deeper…punishing. Again. Again. His mind narrowed to this one sensation, the only part of his body that mattered. His eyes half-closed, the blood thundering in his ears, he was not even hearing Faramir beneath him anymore. His only thoughts were There. Right there. Quicker. Now. Now. And he sensed the familiar oncoming rush, the sign it would end in a second or two. Too soon, too soon, he thought, as he plunged one last time into Faramir’s tight spaces and felt his own swollen shaft jerk, shudder. Even as he came back to himself, only now heard Faramir whimpering with pleasure, he sensed the fluids surge out of him, inside his brother, the final pressure causing Faramir to groan again. As he let go of his brother’s hips, Boromir fell forward, collapsing almost on top of Faramir, so that he wouldn’t have to break this most intimate contact. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s shaking form, trying to comfort him, keep him safe.

“Faramir?” he whispered, concern in his voice, as he felt Faramir tremble once more.
“What, love?” came the somewhat broken reply from beneath him.
Have I hurt him? Please, no. I didn’t mean to. Faramir, forgive me. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted you too much.

Boromir had to know.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, waiting, fearing the worst, that his brother now despised him for inflicting pain in what should have been an act of love.

As if from afar, he heard Faramir say, in a voice choked with emotion, “I’m thinking, that it isn’t possible for me to love you more than at this moment.” A shudder, as he drew breath. “Boromir, please…please, don’t ever leave me.” And Boromir felt his brother shiver again, as the last wave of pleasure passed through his body.

A pause, then Faramir asked, “What are you thinking Boromir?”

“I’m thinking…that if I left you, little brother, I’d die. I’ll never go, unless by your leave…I need you too much.” And Boromir tightened his embrace, holding Faramir more firmly against his chest, as silent tears rose up in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes, buried his face in Faramir’s hair, and swore again, softly this time, “I’ll never go.”

END

*For those of you wondering, no, water would probably not be enough lubrication in this situation…leaving a strong possibility of physical damage. To be discussed in the next installment.

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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: eve , Anastassiya , carelesswhisper , Keri , Elisha

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I like the way you describe Faramir as a integral nature, the power in spirit and acting according to his convictions. Not weak but compassionate and pitiful, not dreamy but thoughtful.
I’ve read all your stories and they are simply amazing. I saw you posted them a very long ago and would like to read new… Thank you very much!

— Anastasiya    27 August 2009, 13:41    #

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