Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/292210.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Lord_of_the_Rings_-_J._R._R._Tolkien, The_Lord_of_the_Rings_-_All_Media
      Types
  Relationship:
      Boromir/Faramir
  Character:
      Boromir, Faramir
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Sibling_Incest, French_Kissing, Touching, Love, Brothers
  Series:
      Part 3 of Five_Years_the_Elder
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-12-12 Words: 852
****** Burn ******
by Persephone
Summary
     At 17, Faramir is finally ready to demand some things of Boromir.
     Inspired by: The_Embrace, by E.W.
Notes
     Warning: In this story, Faramir is 17.
Boromir held his brother by the waist, wanting to say many things. But there
were too many places to start.
Faramir stood unmoving, his head deeply bowed, his dark hair falling forward
over his shoulder. At seventeen he was nearly as tall as Boromir, his muscles
carved beautifully into his nearly perfect body.
Boromir’s hands pressed slowly into his body. Faramir stood with a stillness
that seemed impossible to Boromir, his serious mind coursing with secrets he
could not begin to deduce.
Faramir waited for him to speak, his gentle breathing into the warm space
between them making his chest rise and fall. And except for that sound, there
was silence.
Boromir didn’t breathe at all. He could not, for between his hands stood what
mattered most to him in this world, and he was daunted.
He closed his eyes and breathed in measured breaths against Faramir’s cheek. He
worked to find his words.
Faramir still waited, his body resting trustingly in Boromir’s large hands, his
arms hanging down his sides, a warm statue in marble. Very slowly, he brushed
his nose back and forth against his brother’s warm skin, and in the dark
silence behind his closed eyelids Boromir listened to what Faramir was asking
of him.
Four years ago he had opened his eyes to the need inside him, and he had taken
Faramir again and again to quench it.
But it was a need like none other, for it gave rather than took, and so in
every moment of those four years Faramir had owned him.
In owning him his brother had saved him from self-accusation, from a
humiliation that could have consumed him, from torment that would have driven
him from their white city.
In owning him his brother had tamed his urgency to love without heed, as if in
rushing their act he would lessen the agony.
And so it was that while still a child Faramir had had the strength of mind to
properly consummate their love when Boromir had been brought to his knees by
it.
For four years Faramir had worked hard to get them to this point. And now they
stood at the end of one thing, the start of another.
They would move forward, but Faramir was going to wait for Boromir to take them
wherever they were headed. Because the living heart that Boromir held between
his hands was no longer that of a child, was no longer living in complete
assurance of itself.
Now it asked to rely on the love of an older brother, on the strength of a man.
The Steward’s second son, Minas Tirith’s second warrior, Gondor’s second lord.
His first love.
Which mattered the most was not a difficult question for him to answer. But it
was difficult to prove.
Yet from this day forward, proof was in fact what was required of him.
“It is very hard for me to say this,” he said hoarsely.
“Because we are brothers?”
Boromir shook his head slowly, his black hair brushing against Faramir’s. That
was long in the past.
“Because…it burns.”
Faramir swayed toward him, almost imperceptibly. He was silent for moments
before he whispered, “Then let it burn.”
Boromir’s fingers tightened, his hot breaths still fanning against Faramir’s
cheek. And like that they stayed, caring nothing for the minutes that passed,
for time melted for them.
His eyes closed, this time he listened to the words coursing through his own
heart.
Faramir waited.
Finally, Boromir began to speak.
“I am yours, Faramir,” he said.
“And I am yours, Boromir,” Faramir whispered back.
“Though I have waited too long to tell you that, yet now is the right time for
me to tell you that this is not a fate you are by any means bound to.”
He strained to listen to Faramir’s breathing. It was unchanged. He continued
quietly, “You can still say no. You can find a man who is not your brother.”
“A man who is not you?”
Boromir was silent as the question sank into his mind. When he said the words,
they were mere words. But when Faramir posed the question, it became something
on which his very purpose for living depended.
“Faramir,” he breathed, ready at last. “Ours will not be an easy path. But I
promise you, you will never walk it alone.”
Boromir pressed his lips against Faramir’s skin, warm and smooth. Slowly their
naked bodies came together. And for a time all he could do was stroke his lips
back and forth against Faramir’s cheek because his eyes stung and he was
letting himself burn.
Then he opened his mouth over Faramir’s, and Faramir lifted it in response.
They breathed for each other for a timeless moment before Faramir sucked
Boromir’s upper lip into his mouth, and then Boromir’s tears fell, because
Faramir had not kissed him in his sweet childish way for a very long time.
And Boromir knew that Faramir did it now as a farewell and a welcome— for the
man who would always be his little brother, yet was no longer a child.
End
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
ad, come from his last orgasm dripping down the
base, matted in the dark curls of his pubes.
There's a low, humming growl echoing from somewhere close by. Stiles discovers
that the sound is a noise that's trapped in the hollow of Derek's throat,
coming from the reverberating purr that's rumbling in Derek's chest.
"You need a mate," Derek murmurs, purr-ish growl tampering off as he strips off
his shirt, not waiting another second before sliding the denim of his jeans
down his thighs, black boxers outlining the hard jut of his cock.
"Ohhhhh my God," he moans when the alpha shucks the boxers. If he wasn't in
heat he would be asking is it hot in here or is it just me? He doesn't care
that he's making grabby hands because the guy in front of him is naked and hung
and is a suitable mate and he fucking needs that.
"On your stomach, legs apart," Derek orders and yep, apparently, Stiles is into
dominance because he just rolls right over. Derek's flanking him from behind
before he's even finished spreading his legs, wrapping two strong, muscular
arms around his torso and pulling him up so he's balanced on his knees, hands
supported on the banister of the bed.
Stiles can't catch his breath fast enough, can only gasp breathlessly as Derek
spreads apart his ass cheeks and pushes in with one smooth slide, bottoming out
with a soft grunt.
Derek takes his time with slow, rolling thrusts that rock his body forward, bed
squeaking beneath them with every one of them. He tries to push back against
them but it's no use and he feels like a swimmer battling a riptide. Derek just
keeps the same pace, not thrusting in too deep, both hands holding his hips in
place.
"Faster, harder," he whines. Derek doesn't pay it any attention, just keeps
moving in and out of him at the same speed.
It turns out that, apparently, pace doesn't matter. Just the feeling of
being filled is enough. A few more minutes in, Stiles feels his sixth orgasm
brewing, settling in the pit of his stomach like a spark about to give birth to
a mighty flame. Two more thrusts and his breaths break into shaky whimpers,
hands gripping the wooden banisters hard enough that they groan under the
weight.
"Der, g-gonna come," he pants. Derek's movements pick up then, harder and
faster, the force nearly throwing him off-balance. The alpha's hands slide up
from his hips and instead, Derek wraps both arms around his waist, pulling him
back onto his cock with every thrust.
"Go on then," Derek growls. His breaths are growing shallower, hips starting to
stutter. Derek's close too, and with that knowledge—that the alpha's probably
tried to remain in control since they started this, restraining himself from
fucking into him too hard—he lets go with a choked gasp, arching his back so
his head's resting on Derek's shoulder, come soaking the bed sheets underneath
him and ass clenching around the werewolf's cock.
That must do it for Derek, too, because the alpha's hips slam forward, bucking
in tiny jolts, before stilling as he comes, crying out softly. Stiles feels the
come flood his ass, coating his insides in slimy, slick warmth.
"Wow," Stiles sighs after a few minutes of breathing heavily, closing his eyes.
He feels limp and satisfied, the happiest he's ever felt in a long time.
Derek doesn't answer though, pulls out of him and gets up. Stiles blinks his
eyes open and watches, confused, as Derek pulls his jeans, boxers and shirt on.
When Derek turns around to look over at him, his olive green eyes are cast over
by the light of the moon, illuminating them like emerald diamonds. The tick in
the alpha's jaw destroys the beauty of it, though.
"Derek?" he says, nervously. Derek has barely said a word. It's worrying.
"What's the matter?"
Derek looks pained, eyebrows pinching together as his eyes flit up and down
Stiles's body. Before Stiles can say anything else, the alpha shakes his head,
turning back around and heading toward the window.
Stiles swallows audibly, feels a lump form in his throat, an ache in his chest,
buries his face into his pillow.
The thump of the alpha's feet hitting the ground below his window is the last
thing he hears before the sob held in his chest spews out, muffled into his
pillow.
                                      ***
Stiles wakes up sticky, uncomfortable and with a crick in his neck. When he
opens his eyes the sunlight attacks them fiercely and he whines, throwing an
arm over his face. He just lies in bed, breathing quietly for a few seconds.
When he's sure that he's lazed around enough, he slowly sits up, rubbing his
hands over his eyes as he yawns.
Then there's the sound. It's a soft creak, barely there.
Stiles's head flies up as he searches his room for whatever it could have been,
freezing when he finds himself staring straight into the wide, startled eyes of
Derek Hale, right foot halfway in from climbing through his window. "Sorry. I
just." He snaps his mouth shut, eyes flickering away to the wall before landing
back on Stiles with full, unnatural sincerity. "I just… I came here to
apologise."
Stiles's eyes narrow. "What? Apologise for how you screwed the pooch
then left?" He scoffs. "Well, I don't need your apologies. I'm fine. You're the
alpha and you gotta take responsibility for werewolves in heat that reside in
your territory. I get it. Okay?"
Derek's face contorts and it looks like he's been slapped in the face. "What?
Stiles, you think—no." He swings his other leg through the window, strides up
to the bed Stiles's sitting on and yanks him up so they're chest-to-chest,
face-to-face. "It's not like that," he says gently. "I—I freaked out. You're
only seventeen, and I—I shouldn't have. What I did was—"
Stiles's anger vanishes. "Wait. You left because you felt guilty?" He gapes.
This was not what he'd expected.
Derek nods, glances down at the floor like a shy little puppy.
Honestly, it's adorable.
Stiles doesn't know what to do in this moment, thinks he should say something,
but the feelings win out. He tugs the werewolf's head up, ignores the shock and
confusion on Derek's face, and presses their mouths together.
The kiss is short, chaste, and Derek doesn't respond. When he pulls back,
Derek's staring at him uncertainly, mouth parted. He holds up a finger.
"Don't even think about it. You felt guilty? I don't care. I want you,
seventeen or not. Okay?"
Derek stares, silent and speechless.
"All right. Now, I'm going to kiss you again whether you like it or you don't."
This time when their lips meet, Derek kisses back.
End Notes
     Kudos and comments show me if you liked this. I hope you did, even
     the not-so-great ending I wrote in a hurry ^-^
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!