This story is rated «R», and carries the warnings «angst, somewhat AU, hurt-comfort themes, implied het relationship.».
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04 November 2016 | 11924 words | Work in Progress
He feels Aragorn grow into his hand, and it is a sensation as exciting as it is strange. His light touch is as though changing the actual composition of the other man’s flesh, crystallising all traces of the soft and the supple out of it, making it like unto star-metal awaiting rebirth at the hands of a talented Elven-smith.
It is fascinating how quickly everything in him rises to the task, how his palm begins to glow with the warmth of the strokes only yet to come. How could he, how could have he lain for all these nights by Aragorn’s side and not become mesmerised by the possibility, so real, so easy, so within reach? But he is yet capable of reminding himself that his errand is, in fact, only tangent to this beguiling prospect, and that were he to give ground to the mood of the moment and without further ado set to speeding things to their logical conclusion, it would abridge what fragile trust he has managed to earn.
With one final brush of his finger-pads bidding an interim goodbye to where he is determined to return before long, Faramir quests lower – to complete what had been implicitly asked of him, to acquaint himself with every angle of his lord’s unfortunate innocence, without arbitrarily assigning precedence to one part over the other.
In the crease of the groin his skin is so untoughened, so shiveringly tender, and it is impossible to understand how it can coexist in such close proximity with the lean rigidness of the long muscles of the thigh. When Faramir moves down over the thigh, the feel is even and sleek, but no sooner than he turns back his progress is halted by the many little hairs curling up against his palm. He enjoys the notion, and somehow it amuses him to think that the exact same effect would take place if he were to rub his own leg. He repeats the little play, and it is just a tad bit scratchy, and he finds that very earthy and cosy.
It is a stark, exquisite contrast when he cups from beneath the more delicate components of his lord’s masculine manifest. They weigh roundly into his hand, so sensitive, full, such unreasonably fine skin. He is reminded, as though from far away, of how her breasts used to weigh into his hands when she would bow over him.
The reminiscence brings sadness, but that of a gentle, diluted sort, for it is sweetened with the new purpose her passing has given him, ironic as that in itself may be. Once again he tells himself not to dismiss the possibility of soon parting with his sanity, for it all seems to be coming together now, a warped, uncanny sense emerging from the messy tangle of grief, secret woes and broken dreams, the little individual tragedies arranging themselves into graceful shimmering constellations upon the inner sky of his mind.
So be it, he thinks. He is tired of analysing, of driving his thought at the pointless pursuit of the clever and obvious solution that would prevent what has already come to pass. So be it if there is some bigger meaning to this – so be it if there is not.
Aragorn has not uttered another word, and aside from the involuntary jolts he makes when his steward wanders across the more finely-wired spots, it seems he is grimly bent on remaining an unintrusive observer to his own premiere, patiently enduring whatever new ideas strike the younger lord’s fancy.
Faramir no longer trusts himself to judge whether this is a good sign or not. He fondles the hard curve of the King’s hip-bone – sweetly, acutely aware of how good it feels to be lying like this with Aragorn, so close, so engrossed, so safe in their private little universe where all the threads are coming to fit together at last. And to that end, he is drawn, inexorably, to return to where it is the hottest and hardest of all, and he has ceased to care whether the permission is being granted to him through weariness, desire, or hope, through love or fear. He simply shifts his hand sideways, and a primitive test as it is, it works, for the King is swift to match this slight movement with one of his own, just as faint – but it is enough.
As though without any conscious intention on his behalf, Faramir’s fingers close into the simplest, most harmonious of shapes, a snug and familiar hold. A perfect circle. Perfect intimacy.
The King sighs.
As for the Steward, he does not want it to end, wants it to never end. He does not even move, for he wants to set this moment in amber, to keep it unchanged till the end of his days. For this is not about body parts and lustful caresses, this is not about pleasure or pity – this is about a sensation of such startling kinship that he dreads to as much as inhale lest he spoil it.
And so it is not he, it is Aragorn who takes the reverie a step further, who asks for it with his hips clearer than he ever could in any of the spoken languages of Middle-earth.
Faramir knows the guard will not be let down, even now, especially now, knows Aragorn will not be coaxed to relax onto his steward and lie atop him – but the distance is intolerable, and so with his other hand he grasps, and hoists himself up, and hides his face on the older man’s shoulder, and it is strong and solid against his cheek. He is clinging, hanging on Aragorn for support, and he can feel the strain in Aragorn’s frame, and his own nose is positively squashed against the bone of his lord’s ribs. But he is filled to the brim with this dear, kindred scent, and as it expands his lungs he hears it call to something good and ancient in the depths of his memory, and he forgets all about bodily comfort. And what does comfort matter, for they are floating, and the tide is gentle, and what can a man afloat do but row – slowly, thoughtfully, for it is so intuitive, so little physical effort, like conducting a symphony with the sole motion of his wrist.
He wishes to never strike shore, to sail, and sail, off into the bright radiant blue, away from here, away from anywhere at all. He sees blazing sunsets and rosy sunrises, he sees whipped creamy clouds stacking up into castles and swimming lazily through the transparent air far above, he sees the golden glow of late evening reflected across the infinite seas. And selfishly he veers off the course, and lets his fingers dally – but dally they can in one direction only, for fleetly they seek out the most elaborate, most complex part, that where the long stretch of straight curves over into bluntness, where it seems there is no skin at all, only the flawlessly polished feel of thin expensive satin. He recognises the geometry from his own make, knows what every subtle dent and curve is for – but he has never noticed how streamlined all this intricacy is, how tastefully designed, how cleverly symmetrical. Captivating, and he cannot withdraw. A wetness marks his fingertips and he understands he should, really should stop, but instead he goes on, for he also knows just where a nonexistent graze with the pad of the thumb would be utterly—
“Ah, Faramir, not so—” the King whispers, panicked, but before he can even tear himself away, only a startled, strangled sound escapes his parted lips, and it is all over.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: alecia , ebbingnight