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03 December 2012 | 3189 words
Aragorn and Faramir meet, like each other and then love each other.
In ten 300 word ficlets. This was written for a cliche fic challenge, which had 10 smutty cliches. So 10 ficlets for 10 cliches :)
1. First Meetings
Cliche: I’m lost for words – character is unexpectedly hot/well endowed/expert at sex/all of the above
Aragorn does not understand why Faramir blushes when he calls him beautiful.
When Aragorn first sees Faramir, he is in the healing houses, a thick blanket covering him completely. He gets a glimpse of dark hair and an ashen, drawn face before Gandalf pulls him aside and quickly explains all that has happened to Faramir. Aragorn listens, thinks of all he already knows, and is left with a mixed picture of a young man known more for his love of lore than war.
He returns to Faramir’s bedside, to examine his wounds. The healer removes the blanket, revealing Faramir’s nude frame.
It is the first time Aragorn sees the man who will become his lover. It is all he can do to not gasp. He was not sure what he expected but it was certainly not that Boromir’s younger brother, known more for his scholarly nature, would have such a fine body. He is lean, almost thin, muscled without a trace of flab.
He is an archer, he learnt later.
His skin is pale from illness, marked in various places, with cuts and ugly purpling bruises. But these do nothing to take away from the beauty that has Aragorn’s voice caught in his throat.
A dusting of fine dark hair trails down his chest to his groin, soft to touch.
He examines him thoroughly, starting with the healing shoulder wound. He runs his hands over the chest and abdomen looking for other injuries, lightly brushing the pinkish brown nipples pebbled from the cold. Moving down further, he takes the limp shaft in his hands and feels it. It is slender but long. His own shaft stirs.
Faramir is unhurt otherwise, so he sets to healing him of the darkness, putting aside his desire and need for this fine young man.
2. The Hands of the King
Cliche: Sexual Healing – sex is required to save a character’s life/help them recover from sexual abuse/rape
Faramir is unconscious, but restless. His bare chest rises and falls slowly under Aragorn’s hand. Beneath the blanket that covers him waistdown, his hips and legs squirm as his shaft hardens at every touch. Aragorn places a hand on the warm forehead, and reaches into the darkness that Faramir is sinking into.
Faramir dreams sometimes of that darkness. He is on his knees, hands tied above his head, his member hard and wet and heavy between his legs spread apart. Tendrils of cold trickle down his chest, over his taut nipples, letting them peak, moving over his stomach dipping into his navel, travelling over his glistening member. They crawl down his back, between his spread buttocks, a whiff of cold lingering on his entrance, and the hardness increases. His breath is short, rapid. Soft moans spill out of his mouth, as the sensations course through him. The hardness hurts now, as he seeks release.
And then, he smells suddenly, roses. The dark disperses undramatically. A warm glow settles around him, and gentle warmth. His hands are untied, and he clutches desperately at the arms that pull him close against hard chest. He smells roses leather and pipeweed, a strange combination, but one that even now sends shivers between his legs. His breathing quickens as hands rove his body. He is lowered onto a soft warm floor, so different from the cold stone of earlier. Long fingers explore his eager entrance and warm, wet flesh presses against his aching member. He releases with a low cry. Waves of pleasure course through his body. He is held close until finally he falls into darkness again. But a warm, welcoming darkness.
He remembers waking, naked and damp, to the face of the man he had known in many dreams. His king. His saviour.
3. Prelude to a kiss
Cliche: We’re pretending, right? – characters are forced to pose as lovers. Where does the pretense blur into reality?
The current ruler of Eastern Rhun is called the queer queen by those beyond her realms. She takes a fondness to things suddenly, and has odd notions. She arrives in Minas Tirith with her guards and attendants and lovers – tall, young men, bare-chested, clad only in tight trousers and boots.
When she sees Faramir, she takes a fondness to him. He is unlike the men she is surrounded by – shy of his looks, lean, soft spoken, clad in far too many clothes for her liking. Gandalf sees her gaze, the way her eyes focus on Faramir’s body, raking over the lean frame with satisfaction, and guesses what her request will be at the trade meeting the next day.
It is not news that pleases Faramir. Nor is the blithe suggestion Gandalf gives to get him out of this predicament, but there is little else they can do at short notice. The king too agrees with him on both counts. The treaty is most important.
They stand under her window, he and the king, early in the morning, when she will come out to take in the sun. He is cursing Gandalf in his head. The king, he thinks, looks no happier. She walks out onto the terrace, clad in nothing but a sheer, thin sheet that she has draped around her breasts and waist.
The king kisses him, and Faramir forgets everything, the treaty, the queen, Gandalf. He pushes up against the firm body and moans into the tongue that is now so lavishly exploring him. He slips his hands under the king’s shirt, feeling the hard planes of his chest and stomach. The king’s hands slide under his tunic as well. He feels his knees weaken, and then they are coming apart for air. A door slams shut upstairs.
4. Healing Hearts
Cliche: Right first time – amazingly good first time sex, with optional virgin character
He stops having the dream, the one where Aragorn heals his body and mind, after the king heals his lonely, aching heart, by making him truly his.
That first time, Faramir is uncertain, unsure of what to do. He has read, and many times dreamt of this moment, where he lies stark naked and waiting, Aragorn leaning over him. The king in his nudity is even more beautiful and magnificent and everything that is right.
Aragorn rests his hand on Faramir’s inside thigh. He feels the light tremble, and knows before the younger man’s embarrassed whispers tumble out that it’s Faramir’s first occasion of such intimacy with another man. He moves slowly, scattering kisses everywhere. He lets his hands move all over his new lover, feeling him, learning what excites him and causes his eyes to glaze over in pleasure. And saddeningly, what causes his eyes to shutter in fear and unhappiness.
Faramir’s nipples have hardened under his ministrations, peaks of slick pinkish brown, beautiful against the pale chest. His slender shaft has lengthened, but he acquiesces to the request to not touch himself though it is clear he aches to.
Aragorn spreads the no longer trembling legs. His questing fingers find the tiny entrance, working into it, easing the way with copious amounts of geranium oil. It is tight, but he lets his gentle kisses on the sweat streaked stomach wash away the burn, until he pulls his fingers out. He lines his oiled erect member against the stretched hole, and enters his lover gently and slowly. They move slowly against each other, and then he finds the tiny bundle of nerves deep inside and Faramir responds with soft cries of wonderment. His grey eyes are open, deliciously naive. And they both know there will be more such times.
Cliche: . Let’s go again! – physically impossible/highly improbable sex
Aragorn sighs contentedly, collapsing over Faramir, his limp shaft still inside the younger man. They have made love thrice tonight. The first time Faramir crouched wantonly on their bed, had pulled out the huge phallus he had worn all day, after which Aragorn had almost pounded him into the bed. And then a slow, pleasurable long-drawn coupling, and now another quick, rough bout . Before that Faramir had taken him in his mouth and sucked him so thoroughly that Aragorn is surprised his body has sustained.
Faramir usually quiet in bed, has today shouted, encouraging Aragorn to push deeper and harder inside him.
Aragorn rests his cheek against the soft expanse of Faramir’s upper back. Someday, he thinks lazily, he will run his tongue all the way down the curve of Faramir’s spine.
Faramir lets out a soft grunt and stirs under him. The movement causes Aragorn’s shaft to respond a little, and he almost groans as he reluctantly pulls out of Faramir. The younger man’s buttocks and hips have light finger-shaped marks were he has grabbed too hard. Faramir shifts suddenly, so that they are rubbing up against each other. He reaches a hand between them, and to Aragorn’s raised eyebrow, says just one word – again.
Aragorn wants to refuse, surely thrice a night is itself one too many, but Faramir’s hand wraps around their semi-hardened shaft. When he is erect and gasping, Faramir nudges him onto his back and straddles him. He lowers his entrance, wet and glistening and stretched, over Aragorn’s straining erection. Aragorn shouting pleasurably, grabs Faramir’s slender waist and pulls him onto his aching and engorged shaft. Faramir starts rocking into him, encouraging him deep inside, again.
Aragorn leaves the next day for three weeks to Anorien. Faramir stays back. It is their first parting.
6. Old Dreams
Cliche: I hate you. So much. – mutual dislike = hot sex
Faramir admits shyly that he had dreamt often of him – not Aragorn as such, but one who would save Gondor from darkness.
Aragorn continues stroking Faramir’s bare chest and smiles, asking if he dreamt of this too.
Faramir blushes. Once he dreamt he was to wed a dark-haired northern man, he admits. Aragorn chuckles pleasurably.
In his dream he lives with Denethor and Boromir in an Ithilien which has a palace, universities, taverns and brothels. The dark-haired man is a northern prince, arrived with an entourage to treat with Ithilien. Their fathers decide to cement the alliance with a marriage between their sons.
Faramir and the man dislike each other at first sight. Faramir finds him obnoxious and cloddish, preferring weapons over books, uncaring of culture and finer things. The prince finds Faramir puny and weak. They are to wed in a week.
They argue a day prior. It is just the two of them in a large, airy, grey stone room. Words fly fast and thick. Faramir is declared impetuous, a pup, impertinent, a kitten, a baby oliphaunt, a khandrim courtesan and a duckling. He retorts with childish insults, for his mind, usually so fast with words, dries up now. They shove each other angrily.
He is cornered against a bed that suddenly appears. They fall into it, their robes fall open, and they are shoving each other’s naked bodies furiously.
They pause to breathe. Faramir admits the prince may be a scholar too, for he certainly knows many words, some that even he does not. And the prince admits Faramir has strength. Their bodies wake up to their closeness and nakedness.
The alliance is consummated.
Faramir thinks the dark-haired man could have resembled Aragorn. He remembers awakening from the dream in a pleasurable haze much like everyday now.
7. The consort
Cliche: You want us to…what? – forced/coerced into sex, with optional audience
If Aragorn declares Faramir his consort, Galadriel says, they must consummate their relationship. Aragorn smirks; that deed is done,
In front of witnesses, she adds.
It is an ancient Númenorean custom.
That evening a makeshift room with a balcony as a viewing gallery is prepared. Galadriel, Celebron, Imrahil, Elrond, and Gandalf are present.
Aragon tosses his robes off unconcernedly, Faramir undresses more slowly, shyly. A few gasps emanate from the viewing gallery when Faramir stands completely nude. His body is beautiful, and unfortunately stays hidden under robes and court clothes all day. Faramir sits on the bed awkwardly, blushing at being so exposed to others. Aragorn moves in quickly. He kisses him gently, stroking his hips and buttocks.
Faramir coats Aragorn’s shaft with oil. It is odd for both – Faramir’s movements are nervous and shaky. Aragorn too is embarrassed, and takes a while to harden. Once they are done, he nudges Faramir down to prepare him, folding back one leg against his chest so that his entrance is exposed.
He is careful and gentle, coating the passage thoroughly with well-oiled fingers coat. Faramir’s grey eyes are glazing over and he is moaning softly as the fingers move deeper and deeper. From above a few bawdry suggestions float down – Legolas, Gimli, Ealladan and Elrohir too are watching.
Once Faramir is ready, he enters him. They are well accustomed to each other now and as Aragorn angles Faramir’s body and thrusts in, both forget they have an audience. Their bodies move in tandem, with soft moans and grunts, until both release. It is evident they are lost in each other now, for after a few moments lying spent in each other’s arms, they stir, intending to make love again.
The viewers rise to leave. Galadriel plans to stay though.
Cliche: Where did you get that? – regardless of situation, sex toys, lube and accessories etc are always available
The rain starts suddenly as Aragorn and Faramir are riding through the forest. They are still some distance away Emyn Arnen. So Faramir leads them to a dry cave, an old ranger store, where they can stay till the rain stops.
They are both drenched and have to undress. The cave is large and comfortable, and being an old ranger outpost still contains some supplies, including dry wood. Aragorn builds a large fire, and they eat bread and cheese.
The rain continues to pour down, and after about an hour the novelty of the cave wears away. They were returning from a lake some distance away, a pretty but secluded spot, where they had bathed and frolicked a bit, with each other. They had planned to make love in the meadow there, in the outdoors, but the sky had turned overcast, so they left aiming instead to reach Emyn Arnen and their bedchambers there.
Aragorn mopes a little about that.
The cave is dry and warm, Faramir points out, his eyes twinkling. They could spread out their cloaks and take to the floor.
But Aragorn wants other supplies as well – oil, for one. Faramir is willing to forego that but he won’t. Faramir is still sore from the previous night and the ride today has not helped.
And he thinks some rope would be of use too. Faramir’s eyes darken with pleasure and need.
He pulls Aragorn along to the far corner where the old stores are piled up, dusty and forgotten. They find books, candles, writing materials, rope, scented oil and an object that looks strangely like a phallus – the men had had to spend weeks here, some even months.
Aragorn deems the supplies satisfactory and soon the rain is forgotten, as they sink into each other’s arms.
Cliche: Sex Pollen – exactly what it says
The shrub is a gift from Legolas in Ithilien. The elves love it, its colour and the gentle fragrance. In the human settlement though, it is a weed, thrown away before flowering.
It flowers now. The pale pink blossoms are so enchanting, the servants fill a bowlful in the bedchamber.
That night as they sit by the fire, the fragrance in the bedchambers is a heady one, a mingled combination of flowers and pinewood smoke.
Their gentle touches and soft kisses soon become harsher and harder. They are desperate to feel each other. Clothes fly in all directions until they are both naked. They have been together some months, but this feels different, they realise.
Aragorn is breathing heavily, his shaft already hard and erect. All he wants is to pin Faramir down, take him fully and completely, marking him as his, outside and inside.
Faramir looks at his lover’s shaft, long, thick and full. There is a gnawing emptiness inside him. He whimpers in need and desperation, his own member hardening too. A hurried word from Aragorn, and he lies back on the bed, hips raised, legs spread open. Aragorn enters him swiftly, roughly, and he pulls him in. They kiss, hands groping everywhere with each thrust. Every bit of their bodies is sensitised and aching in need.
There is little they remember after that first coupling, barring that there were more. When they wake the next morning, the fire has died and they are spooned on the floor. Their nights work is evident in the strewn sheets, the table, rugs, and the marks that cover them, kisses, finger-shaped bruises, bites.
Later when Ioreth comes by and sees the flowers, she tells Aragorn what they are for, and it is clear she knows why they are both so tired.
Cliche: Never felt like this – any other/previous relationship becomes worthless, this is Twue Wuv
In the winter mornings, Aragorn wakes early, with the sun. Faramir stays sleeping, his slender frame curled against Aragorn’s under the blankets. It will take his Steward some time to wake up, for their nights are busy.
As the winter sets in the evenings get quieter. There is neither horseriding nor walks in the gardens. Instead there is a warm fire, a cosy room, and warm spiced drinks and hot buttery cakes. And there are soft rugs spread in front of the fire, where they explore each other thoroughly.
Faramir shifts, and lets out soft, snuffling sounds, endearing in his sleep. Aragorn gently pulls the lean body closer. Faramir’s bare skin is an odd mixture of soft and rough, marked by various injuries. Aragorn is filled with an intense desire to ensure there are no more of these. This feeling of protectiveness seems strange to him, but he likes it. He likes that he wants Faramir so much.
Aragorn has shared his bed with many others, men and women, in his days in Imladris, as a ranger later, and in guise in Gondor and Rohan, even in the days walking with the fellowship. There have been many who have shared his bed for many days, whom he had looked forward to being with and when they have parted ways, he has though of them later with fondness.
But with Faramir, he cannot think of a day when they will part. There is more than fondness for this man in his heart. And it is not mere lust he knows, although his groin still stirs each night when Faramir steps out of his clothes. His feelings go far deeper, into the realm of an abiding love and he is glad of it.
Faramir stirs, and he bends forward to kiss him.
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