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23 November 2010 | 4224 words
Warnings: Slash, sex and swearing. I’m afraid Faramir has a few rather uncouth thoughts :P
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. All written in good fun with no offence intended!
Author’s Note: This is another one of those things that just came out of nowhere when I took a break from another project; I wrote this within about three hours, and that’s super fast for me! I’ve never written a story in first-person perspective before and I must say I think I’ll be doing it a lot more often in future, because this was insanely fun to write. I think I love this pairing a little too much ;)
What did I do before I had you? Or perhaps, the question should be; what would I do now if I did not have you? Both equally unanswerable, naturally, but both come to the forefront of my mind often enough, and especially on mornings like these, where I am lying on my stomach, half upon rumpled sheets and half upon you, and my cheek rests against your chest and your arms hold me gently, though they have slipped in their grasp as you have slipped into dreams. Your skin is hot; I kicked off the blankets long before. I grin as I realise my arse is bare for all to see, though I suppose that were anyone to walk into the room now and discover us my arse would be the least of our worries.
The door is locked though; I double checked, like always, before you undressed me and then yourself, and before your tongue slid past my lips. And my arse must be nice enough anyway, for you have slipped your tongue within it enough times too without complaint.
I am lucky and I know it. Lucky enough to hang on long enough so that you could heal me, and lucky enough to find that you had fallen in love with me as I had with you. Exceptional luck, that. To find that you wanted to place your hands against my skin, and touch me and kiss me and fuck me and above all, love me so well. And you do love me well, and your love is beyond anything I could have dreamed of. So lucky.
I have found that my own love has many facets. I love you as a dear friend, and we laugh together and talk long and often and are never long out of one another’s sight, and I do not tire of your company though we may spend the entire day together in meetings only to spend the night together under the linens in the Royal bed. I love your laugh and your wry smile and that look in your eye that you give to only me, or so I fancy, though I know you are a gracious King and a loyal friend to many, and I do not begrudge that for a moment.
And then there is physical love. Not the act itself, but the precursor, the preamble, the heat in the base of my stomach when I think of the planes of your body beneath my palms. It was so delightfully strange, so new and wonderful and frightening all at once, to find these feelings within myself, when I had never once considered that I might one day feel this way toward another man. I buried them in the beginning, when I found myself looking at you too often I tried to distract myself, but I failed time and time again. And when I caught you looking back I told myself I was imagining everything, that I was, perhaps, becoming addled and confused with the feelings that one has toward one who saves his life, especially when that one is the King. So, I loved you as my ruler and my saviour. And at night I would lie restless and think about the angle of your jaw, and the way your hair falls back across your shoulders, and I would reach down and run my hand along the hardness of my cock and imagine you were watching me as I did so. I told myself I would have to be content with this fantasy alone, even as I questioned myself for becoming so aroused when thinking of you. I liked women, did I not?
But things began to happen that I could no longer simply put down to my over-active, and over-carnal imagination. Your hand would brush against mine as you handed me a book, and I would have thought nothing of it (save for my own, fanciful imaginings,) if it had not again brushed against mine at almost every opportunity. When I glanced up, you would look at me for a moment, then look away or smile as if nothing had occurred, and I kept telling myself that indeed, nothing had occurred. We spent more time together, and it was more often than not that an evening of wine and companionable chat together would end with your kiss on my flushed cheek as you bade me goodnight.
And then, there was that evening; that ridiculous and wonderful evening, where everything and nothing made sense all at once. We had been out riding, all day, for we had found ourselves at a rare and unusual loose end; all duties dealt with and matters of court settled. And though you have maintained that it was indeed my idea, I am certain it was you who marched me off toward your chambers in order to bathe, for, and I remember this part most clearly, you said that one perk of being King was the ample bathtub. And I am most positive that the words “if the ache in my own arse is anything to go by, then you will be glad of some hot water,” did indeed pass your lips as you ushered me along the halls somewhat haphazardly.
I will admit that you were right about the Royal facilities, and as I sank into the deep, almost scalding water with a sigh, and leant back, and found to my delight that I did not need to bend my knees almost to my chin when I sat as in my own bath, I conceded that it had been a very good idea indeed. Perhaps I ought to take credit for it after all. You were not content to merely watch me though, and I‘m sure the concept of sinking into second-hand bathwater was not one you found overly enticing, so you were soon undressing yourself, unashamed as I had been, for we had nothing that the other had never seen before after all. A hand on my shoulder and you ushered me forward, for you wished to wash my back, ease out the knots, as you said, and you were going to sit behind me. I moved, and watched as your shins slid past my sides and rested either side of me, dark leg-hairs waving gently in the water. I smiled and offered to wash your feet in return of the coming favour, but you just laughed and wrung out a full washcloth of hot water onto my head. You said I looked like an otter with my hair plastered across my face, and I believe you received an elbow in the ribs that was only partly accidental.
Then you put your hands upon me. Gently, at first, and shielded from my skin by the cloth, which you soaked once more in the heat of the water and drew slowly across my shoulders, pressing your knuckles against my tense muscles. I remember my eyes nearly rolling back into my head; it felt so good. The rush of endorphins, the slow and steady warmth spreading through my body, warmth not from the water, but from your palms as they spread across my shoulder blades and travelled slowly up and down my back, pressing gently, thumbs massaging circles into the nape of my neck. My head fell forward, my eyes closed, and I could not stop the moan of content that escaped from my lips softly. You might have murmured my name, but I was lost for the moment in the thrum of blood through my ears, and the lapping of the water against the sides of the marble tub.
You stopped, suddenly, and I began to look around at you but you bade me look forward again with a gentle touch of your fingertips on my jaw. So I waited for you to continue, and you did, after a long moment. I wondered what was wrong, but you said nothing when I asked, and I soon began to succumb to the relaxation your touch brought to me once more. I discovered then, just how powerful my will could be. How, if I focused hard enough on the ripples in the water, or on my own hands resting on my knees, I could forget that it was you touching me enough to keep from getting excited. But it was very difficult, and I knew I would eventually lose this battle if this were to go on much longer. And so I tried to sit up again, lean back, but you spread your hands against my back once more and tried to keep me from doing so.
So I did the worst possible thing, in that moment. Probably, I should say, and from your perspective for that heartbeat, definitely. I meant to lean back onto you, to rest against you and look up at you from where my head would rest against your shoulder, and offer up some wry remark concerning your need to have me bent forward, (for though I was falling for you I found alluding to it directly to be an excellent diversionary tactic; anything to keep you from discovering my perversions, as it were,) but instead, and rather unexpectedly, I discovered your perversions, hitherto hidden from all but yourself, and even then I suspect you too only examined them behind the locked door of your bedchamber.
Your cock, hot and hard and instantly obvious, pressed up against my lower back as I shifted, and I froze, and time seemed to slow so that this dreadful second could stretch out for eternity. I remember I looked up, and you were looking at me with an expression I will never forget, and one that I would have laughed at were it not for the implication of that eternal second. Your eyes were wide, and you were biting your lip, and you looked down at me, and for that one heartbeat, the things that raced through my head were approximately these; Oh gods. We’re naked. In the bath. He’s hard. Oh gods. He’s hard for me. In the bath. We’re naked. Oh hell on earth. Oh gods his cock.
And then, my heart began to beat again, and you spoke suddenly, quickly, a rather strangled “I’m sorry!” and I realised that of course, of course, this was nothing to do with me. Who can explain the hardness that comes of its own accord in the middle of the night, or indeed the middle of a council meeting when your mind is set upon nothing more titillating than the plans for some new bridge, and you must make some sort of desperate deal with the tablecloth to protect your modesty until such things abate? You were hard, but it was an accident, and you were embarrassed, for to me it must seem as if you were aroused by me, and that would never do.
So I laughed, a little nervously, and sat forward again, and I turned to look over my shoulder at you, and your cheeks were flushed, and I did not look down. I must have been blushing too, for you placed a hand against my cheek, cool and damp from the washcloth, and you rested it there for a long time, and I knew then that I was doomed to discovery, for now my idiotic body was awakening from the endorphin-induced coma it had been up until now indulging in. My groin was on fire, in the good way, of course, but now it was the bad way for I could not let you see that I was excited too. There was a strange moment then, as I looked into your grey eyes, and you looked back into mine, and your thumb began to stroke the skin of my cheek so, so slowly, so tentatively. Seeking something, perhaps hoping to find something in me that you knew by all odds you would likely wouldn’t find. But you were taking a chance, now. And I could not bloody move. The gods knew I wanted to grab you then, and press my mouth to yours and taste you, and have your tongue lick across mine and I would push myself against you, urgently- but I could not move. Gods, I was so aroused, though you could not see it yet.
And then, and then, it happened. Or, I should say, I did it. The single most daring act I have ever performed. The prospect of retaking Osgiliath with only a handful of my men was a trifling matter compared to the utter fear I now experienced as I reach up to grasp your hand gently, drawing it from my cheek slowly. I briefly considered kissing your knuckles, but then some unknown part of me decided a more direct approach was the only way to end this debacle one way or the other. So I pulled your hand forward and down, turning from you as I did so, (for no matter how brave I was pretending to be I could not look into your eyes at this moment,) and I took a quiet but deep breath and pressed your palm against my own already stiffened cock.
You breathed in sharply, and I awaited the jolt, the withdrawal, the anger or perhaps the apology for misleading me, if indeed you decided to be nice about it. I had to take that chance, I had to know. Was it pathetic that I wanted my fantasy to be real so badly that I would do this? And then you fell forward against my back, and your chin hooked over my shoulder and your beard scraped my neck, and your cock rubbed against my back as your fingers, ever so gently, curled around my erection and held me for an even longer second than before.
You said my name in a breath that huffed across my skin. A question. And all I could think of to say back was your name, and it danced off my tongue like never before, and I imagined shouting it in bed as I came, back arched and feet splayed, and then I shook myself, and turned my face to yours, as best I could.
“Do you…want me?”
And your eyes slid shut for a moment or two, before cracking open and gazing at me sidelong and longingly, and that grin split your features most desirably.
“Of course I bloody want you. Have I been so unobvious these past months? I practically love you, Faramir.”
I had not dared hope, of course, and I began to say as much, or at least I began to say something, for the jumble of emotions and thoughts in my head had to spill out somehow, but you silenced me with a movement of your fingers along my aching cock, which I had seemingly forgotten about in that instant, and also with your lips, for you somehow wound your other arm around me, pulling me back and twisting me impossibly so that our mouths crashed together and I could barely breath for trying to get my tongue as far into your mouth as I could. You said something about floodgates, afterwards. But I had wanted this for so long, and when you are given the one thing you dream of every night, and the one thing you know that by all rights you can never have, well, I make no apologies. And you told me you liked it. And if the pressure of your erection against my lower back was any indication, you were not lying.
Your hand fell from my flesh as I manoeuvred myself with a few banged elbows to face you at last, and my fingers slid into your hair either side of your head and I pulled you toward me again so that our tongues could touch each other. I slid forward between your legs, hooking my own over your thighs, my heels at your backside, almost cross-legged in your lap, and then our cocks slid against each other and I came so close to losing it that I bit your tongue somehow. I have never wanted to fuck someone so much as I did in that moment, even as we broke apart, for breath and for you to make a face at me, bitten tongue stuck out before you grinned again and tilted your head as I lifted my jaw for you to kiss beneath. Your hands ran up and down my back like before, and your fingernails dug into my ribs, and I began to move against you, grinding slowly for I could not help myself. My cock rubbed against yours, equally as hard and jutting from your lean body as my own flesh arcing from mine.
“Fuck me.” We both said it at the same time, and I remember the breathless sigh of laughter that escaped your lungs, the shudder of your body against mine and the wild look in your eyes. Your hair was as sodden as mine, from steam and sweat, dark waves that trailed across the angles of your face most beautifully. My tongue traced your sharp jawline and I could feel your breath rushing across my forehead as I did so.
We fucked each other, in the end. You took me and then, after our hearts had ceased hammering and after afterglow, I took you. I think I hit the back of my head off the edge of the bath at one point, but I was so far gone that I did not notice the bruise until some time later when I could remember my name again. You wanted me. You practically loved me.
You wrapped me in a towel and pressed a kiss to my forehead. We stood there, and you looked at me, and this time the lust was gone, temporarily, and you looked at me so fondly that I could not stop the grin that crept onto my face.
“I suppose you deserve an explanation,” You said, and I shook my head, damp hair slapping against my forehead.
“I never thought…just-…Aragorn, I thought I was going mad. I…for so long I-…I did not think you wanted me too.” I shivered, and you brought your arms around me and pressed our bodies together again.
“Still want you, love.” You kissed the bridge of my nose, and drew back a little. “Can I call you love, Faramir? I do love you. As my friend of course but more than that.” I nodded, my stomach in delightful knots. “A strange state of affairs then, for the King is in love with his Steward.” You pushed my hair behind my ear and smiled, your eyes creasing and I wanted to kiss you again so badly, but I managed to restrain myself a little longer, though my words carried little of your finesse when I managed to speak.
“I love you. I…Aragorn I’ve been falling in love with you forever. Just-…oh you know what I mean, I hope. Aragorn I…-” I shook my head and shut my eyes, laughing softly and you joined me, and we laughed together, and after a long, complicated route we made it to your bed, where I drew my hands down over your slim hips, and with bent neck and shut eyes your tongue danced across mine feverishly. And then you set your tongue to a new task, and bent your head between my legs and I cried your name out again and again as I thrashed against the bed. Never had I thought this would actually happen. Never had I dreamt that you would want to be with me in this way. The forbidden way. Never.
I reach up, and the tip of my finger catches in your beard as I draw it down your cheek gently. You stir, and tighten your embrace, and murmur softly, and dream on. Of me, I fancy, of course. How long has it been now? Months, years? I love you no less, and I know that your feeling has not diminished, for the fire in your eyes when you push me against the desk is no less intense, and your tongue no less skilful or willing when you begin to explore my body with it. Your cock no less hard, either, I might point out.
I would ask you to marry me, if it were in any way permissible, and if I were braver. We have kept it a secret for a very long time. I do not want to lose you, Aragorn. You have made me so happy; you bring me such a peace within myself that I would never have guessed it possible.
“Lost?” You are awake now, then, and your hand lifts my chin so that my eyes meet yours and I smile. You grin, and lean forward slightly and playfully run your finger down between my shoulder blades and spine, all the way to my backside and between, tantalising me, circling my opening as soft as a breath upon skin, before bringing your hand back the way it came, ending the journey in my hair which you tousle affectionately. You have always been a tease, and I tell you often enough so I know that you know. But I like it either way. I do like when you touch me there as well, by which I mean my arse and not my hair, particularly.
“Thinking, only.” I shift, crawling further up the bed to meet you with a kiss, soft, almost chaste. “Of you.” I grin and turn and we arrange ourselves into a favourite position, with myself at your side and your arm around my waist. Your fingers dance softly upon the skin of my hip and I run my own fingertips through the hair on your chest, following the trail down to your groin and back in imitation of your action a moment ago. The bedcover has shifted back to cover your hips and I toy with the idea of slipping my hand down below, into the dark and the heat, but not now, not yet. Later. Definitely later.
“Mmm.” You say, and close your eyes again, your head resting against my shoulder as you chase after the vestiges of sleep. “Good.” I kiss the crown of your head, and inhale the softly spiced scent of your hair. You are not sleeping, though you are a convincing actor. The hand on my hip holds me gently, and you loop your other arm around to meet it, holding me loosely against you, though I need no such encouragement; were it my choice I would not be separated from you at all when alone with you. “I am glad you still think of me, love.”
I laugh softly, fondly, and kiss your hair again, and whisper, “You fear that I think of another? Or that my thoughts simply do not dwell upon you any more?”
“No, it is not that.” I shift as you lift your head, eyes intent and hand rising up to touch my cheek. “I…I often wonder what I would do without you, Faramir. I would be lost without you now.” You look at me so seriously that all humour, coming from fondness though it may be, fades from my voice as I reply softly.
“You need never fear that. Becoming lost.” I tilt my head into the warmth of your palm, and a callus on your thumb catches on my whiskers. “You know that I do not think I can live without you, Aragorn?”
You laugh softly now, echoing me, and you kiss the bridge of my nose, for that had become a favourite gesture of yours and mine. “I am sure you would live, my dear Faramir. But you need not fear that either. I am not going anywhere.”
“Oh, of that I am certain; you are going to outlive me by a hundred years or so at any rate.” I am rewarded with a gentle shove for my insolence, but your hand returns to my cheek as you press your forehead to mine.
“To a long and happy life together, Faramir. Love.” Your lips brush mine, and your eyes stay open as mine begin to slide shut.
“To a life with you, my King, my Aragorn. Love.” I kiss you back, this time deeper, and we do so silently, for a long time, tongues and lips and breath together until the inevitability of our arousal awakens our flesh and our bodies and we move together, again, and take joy in simply being together.
I am lucky and I know it. So very lucky.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Minx , Mira Took