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09 October 2013 | 2621 words
Title: A Conversation with the King
Warnings: Slash, sexual scenes.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. All written in good fun with no offence intended!
Author’s Note: It’s been roughly six months since my last update, and three years since I joined the archive but I’d like to announce that I am very much still alive and suddenly in possession of a reliable internet connection for the first time in three months (I want to say this is because I’m travelling around and everything is crazy but the reality is that I’ve been sitting in a foreign city with terrible internet for that time, nothing so glamorous.) So, a story!
I never know in which AU these stories take place; hardly any of my work is meant to be set in the same universe, but I think I write enough pieces that have no overarching plot that they could quite easily co-exist with another. Certainly, a lot of these tales work on the basis of an established relationship already existing. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I wish I had the patience and dedication to actually write something a little more substantial, but for now, more pillow (or couch)-talk will have to suffice.
He had the most elegant feet. Long-boned and nimble-ankled, with coppery hair on his toes. On occasion before bed, when Faramir took to his chair to read a chapter of his book Aragorn would seat himself on the floor before him and take his foot into his lap to circle his thumbs over the sole, and run fingertips over his heel and along the rear of his calves. When he looked up he often found the book forgotten in Faramir’s hands, his head resting against the chair-back, his eyes closed; the early protests of how unseemly an activity this was for a king now long-forgotten, or perhaps just long-internalised.
“Why?” he had asked, early on.
“You are on your feet more often than I.” And it was true, Faramir realised when he thought about it. As steward he was to be found by the king’s side in most situations, and more often than not, standing. Aragorn had quietly asked that he should sit, but Faramir had refused; tradition, it seemed, was more important to him than comfort and so really, Aragorn had argued, he had brought upon this ‘unseemly’ treatment himself.
“But what about you?” Faramir had countered. “Does your back not ache from sitting in those chairs?”
When Faramir had ever chanced to seat himself in the king’s chair Aragorn had not dared question, though he rather liked the notion that Faramir had been sneaking the opportunities to try out the throne when no-one was about. “The only issue that concerns me in that regard is that too much of this sedentary lifestyle will result in my having to change to a more forgiving belt-notch.”
Faramir had laughed gently. “It has not come to that; I would have noticed.”
“And chided me?” Aragorn was sitting beside him on the couch, and now reached down, beckoning Faramir to swing his legs up and over the king’s lap, which he did after some show of resignation. “In any case it has not and will not come to that; I practise swords and take out the horse whenever I am able.”
“I know; you smell more often of horse than aught else when you come to me. I might suspect you of massaging Roheryn’s feet too if I did not know better.” He was eyeing Aragorn over his book now, though no-one could have been fooled into believing he was actually reading it.
Aragorn made a face. “Alas, you have caught me! I know not how to tell you kindly, but your hair is so similar a shade to my mount’s coat that I could not help but pursue you so that I might be reminded of it.”
Faramir kicked him gently in mock-outrage. “Be gladdened that I am not your stallion; the kick would be far more memorable.” He closed the book and nudged him again with his heel: continue, even though I officially do not approve. “So,” he went on, “do you ride me solely for my red hair or is there some other quality I possess that marks me above a horse as company?”
Soft laughter was his reply, and for a time the massage continued in a comfortable silence, the king half-smirking still at Faramir’s rejoinder. Eventually, switching feet, Aragorn said, “Did you get it from your mother?”
Faramir shrugged, leaning back. “I do not remember her well enough. Perhaps. I did not think to ask Boromir; when I was a boy I was teased for it so little thought was spent on the subject.”
“Who teased you?” Aragorn’s face was full of worry, and Faramir laughed at him.
“Are you going to hunt them down? Do not be so concerned, they were children, other sons of nobles that I had lessons with, sometimes my cousins but I forgave them for it long ago; there is no need to strip them of their titles.” He smiled, and Aragorn ran his hand up his shin beneath his trouser-leg. “Boromir told me to ignore them, that it was jealousy only, but those are easy things to say when you are blond.” He chuckled to himself at the memory. “Red hair,” he said, “and curls. Woe was a boy named Faramir!”
“From the very first it was what caught me; your red hair, as you put it. I knew not who you were in that healer’s bed, not in the first moment. But even after I knew you were Boromir’s brother and my future steward, I thought of you in my heart as the man with a crown of sunset, and I must say I knew I would love you, even then.”
Faramir blushed madly. “Oh hush, you thought no such thing, though I thank you for the kindness even if I am long past the influence of schoolyard taunts.”
Aragorn ignored him, smiling to himself, rubbing the back of Faramir’s heel. “Such well-sculpted feet, and toned, strong legs. Who is this man with whose friendship I have been gifted? What deed did I perform that the gods should grant me these narrow-hips, this firm backside–” He reached up suddenly, fingers delving under his shirt. “–this delicate trail of copper dust on your belly.” Faramir laughed again in embarrassment, cheeks the colour of his hair. Aragorn, unperturbed, began to move closer, crawling over him, straddling him on hands and knees. “This chest, these arms. You have such beautiful hands, Faramir, archer’s hands. The gods made them so well and somehow I chanced to be the man who has known them on his skin in the night. Each freckle, Faramir. I love every mark upon your body. I love your fair complexion, I love how your shoulders burn in the summer, how the bridge of your nose, how your cheeks become sun-touched. I love how clear your eyes are, how blue, how they look at me. And do you know,” he said, face now inches from Faramir’s, “what else I love?”
“What?” Faramir breathed.
“I love,” said Aragorn, “that the hair between your legs is as fiery as that on your head.”
“I would lie with you,” Faramir said quickly, “if you would wish it. Please.” His eyes were wide, his breathing quick and quiet, his expression that of a man who is so flattered he is confused by it, but no less lusty. Affection radiated from him, between them, more potent and binding than base desire.
Aragorn smiled warmly. For some reason inexplicable to the king Faramir seemed so blithely unaware of his own handsomeness that when reminded of it, when made explicitly aware it was almost amusing how he reacted. Despite childhood taunts it was not that he was ashamed or even self-conscious – he would undress readily and without shielding himself when they went to bed together, he had not hesitated even the first time – but he did not flaunt himself; it was more that he was somehow shy, and not quite able to believe who his bedfellow was. Aragorn knew this because Faramir had told him. To aim so ludicrously high, he had said, and be granted a heart’s most longed-for need was not an experience common, or even much-known, to Faramir of Minas Tirith. Of Ithilien, Aragorn had replied, and kissed him until there would be no doubt in this Faramir’s mind that he was indeed awake and that it was no dream-king who loved him just as ardently in return. After this, still shy, but a shade more accepting, and Aragorn had to be content with that.
“Aye,” Aragorn said, “I would lie with you.” And when Faramir made to sit up, presumably in order to move this scenario to the bed, he halted him with a kiss. “Why not here?”
Faramir looked conflicted; indeed his expression told of mild horror even as he lowered the book to the floor out of the way. “I entertain guests on this couch!”
“Am I not your guest?”
“Well, I suppose technically- oh!” Aragorn had slid his hand down into Faramir’s underclothes, into the furnace. “I, I just think it a little…inappropriate–” Now Aragorn was pulling his breeches open, sliding them down without much difficulty for Faramir raised his hips despite his ongoing protestations, “–to-…what if someone found out?”
“Who is going to tell?” Aragorn was looking up between Faramir’s bare knees, having pushed them apart. “My tongue is shortly to be otherwise occupied; you, I dare predict, may be a stranger to coherence for the next while.” When no further demurrals were made he lowered his head, and had Faramir the wherewithal to look anywhere but the interior of his eyelids he would have seen naught of his king but a cascade of earth-tone tresses spilling and bobbing over his lower marches, and a swordsman’s hand grasping one thigh, the other exploring still southerly and more intimate regions which only served to hasten Faramir along the path to incomprehensibility.
When he was finished Aragorn looked up to see Faramir’s head thrown back, face in his hands. Concerned only until he heard Faramir’s muffled laughter he scoffed and slapped him lightly on the thigh. “Changed our mind, have we?”
Faramir looked down at him, face flushed and eyes damp from irrepressible joy. “You have a way with me and I know not how to tell you of my love for it.”
“I am glad to make you happy, Faramir.”
“I am happy,” Faramir said, reaching for his hand. Aragorn moved up, lying upon him, propped on his elbows. Faramir’s breeches were still around his ankles but he seemed to have forgotten all about propriety relating to the furniture. “I am very happy.” He kissed him then, deeply, arms wrapping around the king’s back and holding him firmly. “I am so very content.” He was positively glowing and Aragorn’s heart warmed at the sight.
“As am I,” he said, kissing him again softly, “save for one small detail.”
“Does it concern what is currently prodding me in the hip?”
“You are perceptive.”
“‘Tis not so small–ow! I did not deserve that! ‘Twas a compliment!” For Aragorn had slapped him again, this time on what part of his rear he could reach, though again not hard enough to cause any real pain.
“Cheek for cheek,” Aragorn said, but he ran his hand over the assaulted skin soothingly anyway.
“I ought to spank you.”
“And for what?”
“Sullying the upholstery, and I would if I did not think you would somehow enjoy it.”
Aragorn sat up and back, raising his hands in surrender. “Hold, hold. I yield; to the bed, this evening preferably, unless you wish that I take this matter in hand–” He nodded down at his groin.
“Off with you, then!” Faramir practically shoved him away, and promptly tripped over his breech-entangled ankles in his attempt at following; not so nimble now. Aragorn turned around to regard him at his muttered curse, offering him his hand, which Faramir accepted after he had extricated himself. “What a pair!” he said, indicating them both, he bare-legged with modesty preserved only just by the hem of his shirt, and Aragorn, rather more suitably attired but were anyone to regard him front- or indeed side-on they would be presented with irrefutable proof of exactly how close a friend he considered his steward.
“Indeed,” Aragorn agreed, “who would have us?” He began steering Faramir toward his bedchamber with a hand on either side of his waist, pushing gently from behind, a method that worked well enough until the king’s grasp skated downwards until he had the curve of an unclothed buttock in each palm. Faramir twisted to look at him, and was rewarded with a kiss on the nose for his flexibility.
“Do not get any further ideas about spanking.” He paused. “At least not until we are in bed.”
Aragorn tightened his hold ever so slightly. “Is that a suggestion?”
“If it will result in our vacating my drawing room finally then you may take it any way you please.”
Aragorn wrapped his arms around Faramir’s shoulders, and they made their way in a crab-stagger to the door. “Oh, I could never hurt you, dear heart, not even in bed-play.”
“You would not want to spoil my fair complexion, you mean.”
“Red is your colour.” Aragorn punctuated this with one last playful clap of his hand against Faramir’s backside, this time barely enough to provoke protest, let alone a mark.
“Yes, be gentle with me, I beg. Already my sensibilities are being tested by the stiffness that so unashamedly presses against me from behind.”
“Enough now,” Aragorn said, re-embracing him, holding him against him and indeed pressing himself into Faramir but burying his face in his hair, breathing him in. He stood like that for a moment, Faramir reaching up to cover the king’s hands with his own. “I do love you so very dearly.” Aragorn’s voice was muffled. “I would never be anything but gentle with you.”
“There is no need to wrap me in silk.”
“No, but beneath everything you are gentle, you are kind.” He loses a kiss in Faramir’s curls. “In the healing houses I knew I would come to love you for it and I was right.”
They were standing before the bedroom door. Faramir lifted one of Aragorn’s hands and kissed the back of it. “I thought it was my hair you fell for, or will you change your mind a third time and claim it was the freckles?”
“I am a man of varying tastes.”
“I hope only then that I continue to be to those tastes for a long time yet.” He opened the door, pushing it swinging into the darkness of the bedroom beyond. “Shall we? I would think that with the way you are not so subtly rubbing against me that you would be keen to get on with things?”
Aragorn kissed him once again, this time on the hinge of his jaw before releasing him, and watched as the younger man stepped forward into the doorway, turned and regarded him with an uncharacteristically wanton confidence. “It is your turn, I think, to tell me how handsome I am,” he laughed, and Faramir’s needful expression collapsed into mirth. He reached for Aragorn’s hand, pulling him into the low light.
“Where shall I begin?”
“Run your fingers through my hair,” Aragorn suggested, following him eagerly and closing the bedchamber door behind them. “You might then find yourself suitably inspired.”
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