In Bitter Darkness
by
Keelywolfe
Though the hour was late and his room was dark, he could not sleep. Instead, he
stared into the blackness and waited in silence. With expectation, there could
be no sleep.
Exhaustion would haunt him the next day, he knew, and there would be little
sleep while he traveled with the guard. But sleep would not come, not yet, and
still he waited with anticipation thickening in his gut.
There. The faintest creak of his door opening, soft steps leading towards his
bed. The shift of blankets as someone slid beneath them. Night-cooled skin
against his own, warming slowly, pressed against his back and there was nothing
between them but the hushed darkness.
Words in his throat begged to be spoken, pleading for an end to these games. He
wanted to beg, that if this was what his brother wanted then must he take it
like this, in darkness and silence?
He said nothing, his lips parted in silent protest as his brother pressed gentle
kisses along the tender skin beneath his chin, one hand warm on his hip, keeping
him still for his brother's touches. He shivered, shamed at his own response
even as it encouraged the hand creeping between his legs, circling the softness
resting there and coaxing it to readiness. He had never been able to resist
this, shame and dishonor mere shadows against need and his breath quickened, his
moans no longer silent but stifled into his own palm.
Hard flesh nudged against him, finding him ready as he had always been since
that first time, and he had a flash of memory, of pain and blood, fumbling
awkwardness and silent tears that were not his own. There was still pain, hot
and stretching as his brother slid within and he bit down on the fleshy pad of
his palm, tasting the salt of his own skin.
Harsh pants stirred the hair against his ear, hot blurts of breath as his
brother eased his way inside, and yes, it hurt, there would be a deep pain
within for days that he would feel with every shifting step of his horse. It
soaked his inner nerves with flames yet even that could not mask the heat of his
bitter desire, nestled in his brother's hand.
There was no mockery of love between them; he could feel it in every shameful
touch, the slow, careful slide of his brother's hips as he rocked gently within.
Far closer to bliss than anything had ever been in the dismal shadow that was
his life, that would always be his life, no matter what he did. Closer than it
had any right to be and he smothered his cries with his own hands, spreading
himself beneath his brother, offering his body to the growing fierceness of his
fucking.
Son of Gondor, he thought in dim, bitter amusement, on your knees beneath your
own brother, wanton as any whore, what have you become? They would both be
banished were they ever caught, if not killed outright. He wondered at his own
sanity that there were times he wished for it to be so, if only to see his
father's face twisted in disgust and hatred and he would have triumphed,
he could prove that he would not be controlled, could not be owned.
That his brother would suffer with him dismissed any such thoughts as lunacy,
and his brother was pounding within him now, pain disguised thinly by the
growing pressure and his own need to move, to push back against each deep thrust
and sudden violence surged between them, his brother pinning him against the bed
with hard hands.
He struggled against the possession, reveling in his own inability to free
himself and he was close to the edge, writhing between the sheets and the sweaty
slickness of his brother's body, the hard snap of his hips as he took what he
wanted without apology or excuse.
"Faramir," he gasped, hardly a sound passing his lips yet a hand was quickly
there, stifling any other words that might tumble free and he tasted blood as he
bit down, fumbling with his free hand to grip the headboard.
He would have howled his pleasure if he could, instead muffling it into the cup
of Faramir's hand, tumbling, strangled words of pleading, for more, for this,
for anything, anything his brother could give him.
Hot spurts filled him, burning against raw skin and even that he savored with
weary contentment. His brother's weight forced him to take shallow breaths,
laying there amidst the ruined sheets as he waited for what he knew would come.
Soft and wet against his shoulder, barely stifled sobs that he could not soothe,
and finally Boromir could move, turning to take his brother in his arms as he
murmured time and again that it was all right, that he forgave him, that he
loved him. And he did, whispering nothing but soft truths into the darkness.
Better him than someone else who wouldn't care, who would use it against Faramir.
Better this way than never at all.
-finis
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