Disclaimer: These boys belong to J.R.R Tolkien, et al, no matter how I might wish otherwise.
Close Your Eyes
“Close your eyes, brother,” he whispered, blue eyes intense and yearning, and because Boromir could deny him nothing when he looked at him like that, he did as Faramir asked.
The kiss that Faramir pressed to his lips the instant his eyes were closed was not only expected but longed for, and he raised a hand to thread through his brother’s tousled hair and wrap around the back of his neck. He opened his mouth beneath Faramir’s, wanting him to do the same, to let his questing tongue dip inside to tease.
Then, as quick as it had begun, it was over, and the feel of Faramir pulling away after so brief a touch was almost more than he could stand. With a breathless sound of protest, he tried to pull his brother back, opened his eyes to see what had broken him away.
Those blue eyes glittered inches from him. “No, keep them closed,” Faramir murmured, and passed a hand in front of his eyes, urging his lids down once more.
Doubtfully, Boromir did so, letting his hand fall away, back to his side, and was rewarded with a light kiss. He hummed in his throat as Faramir moved, lips moist and nibbling against his face until they were at his ear. The feel of his brother’s stubbled cheek scraping against his sent a shiver through him, and the teeth gently worrying at his earlobe made him gasp softly.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he heard, warm breath swirling in his ear, “and just feel . . .”
It was difficult to do as he asked, so very hard to not be able to drink in the sight of Faramir’s face in the firelight, the way his hair shone. But he complied, and smiled when he felt his brother’s hands guiding him the few steps to his bed, until the backs of his knees bumped against the frame.
“Sit,” he was ordered, and carefully lowered himself to perch on the edge of the bed. Immediately, he felt his knees pulled apart, felt Faramir move between them, the heat radiating from his brother in waves. There were hands at the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the laces. He pulled his legs close again, trapping Faramir between them, and reached out blindly until his hands met plush cloth. Ah, yes, Faramir was wearing a tunic of velvet, plain but for a bit of trim at the throat and wrists.
Boromir leaned forward, not caring that he dislodged the hands that were trying to undo his shirt, and rested his head against the solid stomach before him. Of their own accord, his hands curled around Faramir’s sides, to stroke the soft fabric, feeling the nap catch on his rough fingers. He inhaled deeply; the scent that filled his nose was familiar and beloved, and he relaxed with a sigh, rubbing his cheek against the pile of the cloth.
Faramir’s hands came to rest on his head, combing through his dark gold locks, caressing the nape of his neck. For a few moments, it seemed he was content to do so, then he laid his hands on Boromir’s shoulders and pushed him gently away.
Almost, he opened his eyes to look up at Faramir, to see his face and discern what he wanted . . . but he recalled the soft exhortation in his ear, and did not.
Fingers, warm, gentle, lifted his chin, and then there was a tickle against his face as Faramir bent to kiss him, the aroma of the soap his brother used in his hair surrounding him. This time, his lips were firmer, more demanding, and when Boromir opened his mouth, Faramir followed his lead, allowing his tongue in to taste.
And oh, his mouth was always so sweet . . . Boromir groaned softly, working his tongue into Faramir’s mouth as far as it would go, trying to get as much of that honeyed flavor as he could. His hands skimmed up his brother’s body, over his shoulders, into his hair, to hold him in place, their mouths locked together.
But again Faramir pulled back, though not far; hair still brushed the side of his face, and breaths were hot in his ear.
Boromir thought surely he would speak then, but there were no words.
Instead, Faramir’s fingers found the lacing of his shirt once more, and he caught his breath at the heat that washed through him each time those fingers rubbed his skin. His eyelids fluttered, and he wanted to see Faramir, but the simple touch kept him from opening his eyes.
Only when he’d undone the shirt did Faramir speak. “You’re always so impatient,” and his voice sounded fond to Boromir, teasing.
Then he completely belied his words by yanking the shirt roughly over his head. Boromir stifled a gasp at the suddenness of it, then groaned as his brother’s hands—decidedly ungentle now—pressed him backward to the bed. They caressed his throat, over his collarbone, stroked down his chest, and he arched up into the touch, eager for it, for the fire his brother lit within him. The creak and sag of the bed, the sudden warmth above his pelvis, the slight pressure of flesh and fabric against his sides all told him that Faramir knelt over him.
“Yes, brother,” he whispered, reaching out, running his fingers lightly up Faramir’s body, to trace his features. “I am impatient . . . so do not let me wait . . .” His manhood stirred in his trousers, straining upward to Faramir’s warmth.
He heard Faramir chuckle softly, felt the brush of velvet against his chest, and then their mouths were together again, tongues twining. His brother’s hair tangled around his fingers once more; there were few times he felt so . . . complete, so whole, as when Faramir kissed him. He always longed to have their kisses last forever.
And this time, Faramir didn’t stop kissing him as much as widen his assault. Panting, he lifted his mouth from Boromir’s, then began to bestow kisses across his face and neck, heedless of the way Boromir’s beard must prickle his lips. His hands swept along Boromir’s arms, skating over the solid muscles, then across his shoulders, spreading heat with every touch. He worked his mouth along the line of his jaw, and the sensation of teeth against his earlobe again made Boromir quiver, his hands tightening ever so slightly where they held Faramir’s shoulder, his arm, digging into the cloth of his tunic.
“Do you not think that you are still . . . overdressed?” he managed as Faramir nipped down his neck, teeth just scraping his skin, only enough contact to heighten his arousal. He moaned quietly, then Faramir applied himself to tasting his collarbone, and the rasp of his stubbled chin drew forth another shiver.
“You think so?” Faramir replied, his breath ghosting warmly over damp skin. He straightened up, and Boromir’s hands slid down his arms. There was increased tension in the thighs along his sides, and he could sense the body just above his pelvis. Unable to stop himself, he grasped Faramir’s legs, feeling the muscles bunch and shift as his brother moved over him.
In his darkness, he could hear the deep ruffle of cloth and smiled, knowing his brother had stripped off the tunic. He stretched out his arms and rested his hands on the smooth flesh of Faramir’s waist. Then his fingers clenched, gripping him tightly, and he ground his hips up against his brother’s body, gasping at the pleasure. Rarely had he been so ready so quickly, had what he felt been so intense.
Faramir groaned quietly and Boromir felt his hands encircle his wrists, though he was not trying to dislodge them. “So very impatient,” he heard, though this time his brother’s voice was breathless, less indulgent.
“And still you delay, little brother . . .” He slackened his hold, though his body cried out for him to quench himself against Faramir.
Suddenly, he was holding nothing; Faramir slipped from him, and his sides felt cold now that the heat of his brother’s legs had disappeared. The bed protested and he knew that Faramir had stood, abandoning him. He whined, a sound of dismay that quickly changed to passion when hands descended on the laces of his trousers. Teasingly, they stroked his member through the cloth, and he thrust up into that touch, wanting more and unable to keep silent.
Then he could feel his breeches peeling over his hips, and curved himself further, bracing his feet against the floor, to aid in their removal. Down his legs, and Boromir fervently blessed that he’d removed his boots earlier, that he was only wearing soft-soled house shoes that he could easily kick off.
“Onto the bed with you, brother,” Faramir ordered, and the husky tone sent desire right down through him to his groin. “And I will end your waiting . . .”
Boromir wished he dared open his eyes, even just to peer up through his lashes; he longed so to see Faramir outlined by the fire, to see his form burnished gold and red by its light, to drown in the depths his eyes, surely now darkened with desire. His brother was never more beautiful, and surely, he could sneak such a glance as he wormed his way fully onto the bed . . .
But Boromir of Gondor was nothing if not honorable, and he felt bound by a promise, even if he had not spoken words. He had agreed by his actions to keep his eyes closed while his brother had his way with him, and to think of the disappointment in Faramir’s eyes if he should break his bond, even in so small a way, would undo him completely.
So he kept his eyes tightly closed, and swung himself around on the soft blanket until he was lying properly on the bed, his head against the pillows, the covers mussed beneath him. He waited, breathing a bit raggedly, aching for Faramir to touch him again . . .
But for a long moment, there was nothing, no contact, no heated hands sliding over his needful flesh, and Boromir held his breath, trying to stifle the whimpers that threatened in his throat. Another few rapid heartbeats and he could not stop himself from raising a hand, beckoning his brother to return, and managed to call his name questioningly. “Faramir?”
“Beautiful,” and the sound of his brother’s voice was liquid fire trickling over him, “so very beautiful.” The bed protested once more, and Faramir was over him, and Boromir nearly sobbed in relief, reaching out to reassure himself of his presence. He found his brother’s lean torso, and drew him down, arching up to bury his face against him, nuzzling and then nibbling at his neck, licking his sharp collarbone and savoring the sweetness of his skin. Faramir hummed in pleasure; he felt the vibration against his lips as much as heard it.
Fingers ridged from pulling bowstrings caressed his cheek, then followed the line of his own throat, down to flick against one nipple. Boromir shuddered, another hot flash of desire coiling in his belly, his head lolling back, and Faramir took his unintended invitation, lips descending upon his, hot and demanding. He moaned and let Faramir bear him back down to the bed, digging his fingers into his brother’s back.
Flesh slid against flesh along his legs, and he realized that Faramir was naked upon him. Hands spread wide, Boromir skimmed down his brother’s back, squeezed his buttocks, then circled one around to his front, searching for . . .
He jerked, moaning, as one of Faramir’s hands closed around his manhood, and the feel of the callused fingers brushing over the sensitive crown was exquisite torture.
“You want this, brother?” Faramir whispered against his lips, and moved slightly.
Then their members stroked each other, briefest and most intimate of touches. A shudder wracked him, and his fingers trembled as he wrapped them around Faramir’s sex. “Yes,” he breathed, feeling it hard, quivering with each beat of his brother’s heart, “oh, yes . . .” He tightened his grip slightly, sliding along his length, and took great delight in Faramir’s unsteady breath against him.
Then Faramir worked him in long, slow strokes, his grasp sometimes strong, sometimes feather light, and the variation in pressure drove Boromir out of his mind, as he strove against that wicked hand. Groans and wordless gasps were all that fell from his lips, and the pleasure started to crest within him.
Faramir withdrew, sliding from Boromir’s loosening hand, removing his own from Boromir’s body, and Boromir nearly cried out at the loss. Before he could reach out for his brother, though, he felt a nudge to the inside of his thigh, urging him to spread his legs, and he did so eagerly.
And oh, the heat that settled between them, his brother blistering his flesh. Faramir’s breath sounded as harsh to his ears as did his own, and that knowledge sang through him, that his brother was as aroused as he. A hand lay warm upon the inside of his leg, and slowly drifted upward, working under his rear and encouraging him totilt his hips.
“Or perhaps you want this?” Faramir asked, mouth against the tender flesh of his thigh, and though he expected it—yearned for it—the brush of a finger against the opening to his body still made him whimper, made his muscles tremble with weakness.
The salve that coated his brother’s finger was warm, and it slipped into him easily once he relaxed. He gasped, grinding down on Faramir’s hand even as that single finger spread slickness inside him. He clenched his hands in the bedcovers, clamoring breathlessly for more.
More he received, two fingers, moving, wriggling, stretching, filling, and he tossed his head against the pillows. The digits stroked deep inside him, and he imagined Faramir watching him, mouth open slightly, skin gleaming in the firelight, and he groaned his brother’s name.
Faramir pulled his fingers away, and the emptiness they left behind was almost painful. But Boromir bit his lip, trying to swallow his pleas, feeling his brother move, positioning them both just so . . .
And then, the sweet pain-pleasure of being taken, of feeling Faramir’s controlled entry into him, and he latched on to his brother’s arms, gripping so tightly that he knew he must leave bruises, though Faramir made not a sound in protest.
Sweat splattered onto his chest, and in his mind’s eye, he saw Faramir’s face pinched in concentration above him, golden red hair curling damply around his face, as he moved slowly, the careful advance and retreat that opened his body. He’d seen it many times.
He knew, too, what Faramir would do when he was fully sheathed; knew he would lean forward, press their faces together so their breaths mingled without kissing him, stroke his cheek with trembling fingers before straightening and beginning his thrusts . . .
And he did, but before he could pull away, Boromir wrapped his strong arms around him, brought their mouths together briefly, a searing kiss. “Now, Faramir,” he panted against his brother’s chin, his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, “now . . .”
There was a moment’s hesitation, the thudding of his heart loud in his ears, and then Faramir moved within him, firm stomach brushing against his member, and he moaned into his brother’s shoulder.
His grip slackened, and Faramir rose up over him, and their rhythm quickened. Boromir could hear his brother’s sounds of exertion, soft groans of pleasure, and his own swelled within him. And when he imagined Faramir, it was at the pinnacle of his pleasure, spread beneath him for his delight, as he often was, blue eyes glazed, body shuddering as wave after wave swept over him . . .
Calling his brother’s name, too heedless to be quiet, Boromir climaxed, his passage clenching around Faramir’s sex, his seed coating his stomach.
A heartbeat later, dimly he felt as Faramir trembled over him, groaning through clenched teeth as he spent.
Then, slowly, he collapsed onto Boromir, arms giving way as his strength deserted him.
For many long moments, they lay twined together, each breathing heavily in the other’s ear.
Boromir was quite content to bear his brother’s weight, and embraced him once more, combing his fingers through Faramir’s hair.
“Why like this, Faramir?” he asked when he had recovered his breath. “To have me keep my eyes closed . . .” They were still closed, he realized, and opened them to slant a look at his brother.
Faramir lay still atop him, head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, hands just touching him, and Boromir could not stop his own from wandering down his brother’s sweat-damp back.
There was a long silence between them, so long that Boromir thought that perhaps Faramir had already fallen asleep. But then he lifted his head and smiled down at him, bracing himself on one elbow, and brushed away the long strands of hair that Boromir had gotten caught in his beard.
“You asked me earlier why I always want to watch you,” Faramir murmured, his fingers now simply smoothing the lay of his beard, stroking his cheek. “Everything feels . . . different when I can’t see you, more powerful, and sometimes . . . sometimes it is so strong I fear it will destroy me. If I close my eyes . . .” He trailed off, and his eyes became distant, drifting to stare blankly at the pillow beneath his brother’s head.
Boromir watched him for a moment, growing concerned as the silence lengthened once more. “Faramir?” He deliberately ran his hands up his brother’s back as he spoke, to reassure him.
With a start, Faramir came out of his thoughts and looked down at him again in bemusement.
“If you close your eyes?” Boromir asked leadingly.
And he was surprised by the sadness in his brother’s lopsided smile. “If I close my eyes, I think I’m dreaming.”
When he would have buried his face in Boromir’s shoulder again, Boromir stopped him, coaxed him up once more and looked into his eyes. “This is not a dream,” he said softly, thumb gliding over his brother’s flushed cheek.
Faramir swallowed. “I know,” he whispered tightly. “But often it seems that way, and I could not stand for this to not be real . . .”
“I know.” He smiled as Faramir’s brows contracted in a puzzled frown, and pulled him down, until their noses were almost touching. “I understand, now,” he rumbled, then grinned. “Why do you think I noticed you always had your eyes open?”
Understanding dawned in Faramir’s face, and he leaned down even as Boromir pushed himself up into the kiss.
April 10, 2005
© randi (K. Shepard), 2005