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12 January 2010 | 2312 words
Title: Mapping Desire
Warnings: the mildest of BDSM undertones.
Disclaimer: the characters belong to the Tolkien estate, and no infringement is intended.
Note: written for savageseraph for lotr_sesa 2009. Happy holidays!
Thanks to the stellar caras_galadhon for the invaluable help.
“Faramir, I did not expect to see you here at this hour.” Aragorn was still wearing more formal robes, those he had worn at the council earlier that evening, but his demeanour seemed more relaxed.
“I can leave, my King, if the hour is inconvenient,” said Faramir hastily. “The matter is not overly important, merely a confirmation of certain border issues in Ithilien, and in truth, I asked to see you so that I might relay it before I forgot it. “
“It is not inconvenient. Please, will you stay and keep me company?” Aragorn stepped to the side, sweeping his hand out both to welcome Faramir in and to indicate the flagon of wine set on the desk. “I am certain that these documents will send me to sleep if I do not have someone to keep me awake. And I have something that I believe belongs to you. I have been perusing the library shelves, and I came upon a few books that I believe you will have more use of than I,” he went on as he closed the door behind Faramir. He handed Faramir a bundle wrapped in dark blue cloth, and stood leaning on the table as Faramir unwrapped it.
“Ah,” said Faramir, pressing his fingertips to his mouth to stifle the laugh that rose in this throat at the sight of the books. “You were right about the ownership, my King, but I imagine I will not have much use for them any longer.”
“You seem very amused by old atlases,” noted Aragorn, sounding somewhat surprised. “I admit that their maps of Ithilien may be somewhat aged and not the most accurate, but surely that is not cause for such mirth.”
Faramir did not reply immediately, but instead stood weighing whether to tell the truth or spin some convenient white lie.
“They are… not what they seem. Yes, they are mine, after a fashion, for the maps traced on the later pages are of my hand, but these have not been put to their proper use for very long. It is a very long story,” he offered with a rueful smile.
“You are a good teller of tales, Faramir, and I did ask for diversions.”
“These are quite the treasure,” noted Aragorn, tapping a finger lightly on the book in front of him. “I must confess that I did not imagine the library of the Citadel held such… interesting material.”
“Nor did we. Had Boromir not had a fit of temper and knocked the book to the floor with enough force to crack the spine, we might never have known about it.” He paused, smiling. “It is admirable handiwork. It is not easy to create double covers like this, ones which pass undetected. I wondered if they chose an atlas in order to be able to hide more drawings.”
Aragorn gave a smile which seemed closer to a grin. “They may well have. To think I have had such lascivious material hidden in my library without knowing of it. Among maps of foreign lands, there are maps of bodies, outlining paths of desire one has never taken.” He leaned over to pour more wine. “Worthy of a toast.”
As they drank, Aragorn flicked through the drawings, setting some aside. The artwork was skillfully executed but bore no signatures, and it was difficult to gauge the age.
Suddenly, Faramir caught sight of an errant chart among the drawings, and attempted to snatch it before Aragorn noticed it. And here I thought I had burned that list. However, Aragorn was faster. “What is this? Judging by the look on your face, it must have some importance.”
“Importance only to those who have written it,” he said, reaching for the parchment still.
Aragorn tilted his head as he regarded Faramir. “Very well. But I think I can guess at the meaning. Is this an index, one with comments on each item?”
“Not on all,” replied Faramir at length, feeling somewhat awkward for a moment, “for some are difficult and have been left out, and some are not to my taste.”
A sly smile seemed to flicker over Aragorn’s features. “But some were? Faramir, this a side to you I did not know of.”
“I might say there are a great many things you do not know about me, my King, were it not such a flippant statement.”
“The only thing I might take offense at in that statement is your insistence on titles. This is not a throne room, nor a council, and I have given you leave to use my name rather than my title more than once. Now, will you confess to which ones pleased you or should I guess?”
Faramir shook his head, laughing, finding it hard to believe how freely he was speaking with his King.
“This one resembles you,” noted Aragorn breezily, picking up a particularly detailed drawing. “Did you model for it?”
“Oh no!” laughed Faramir, nearly choking on his wine. “These drawings were old when I found them, and I was little more than a youth then.” He tilted his head, trying to see the image properly. “Though I will confess that I favoured that one for other reasons.”
“I dare say that your jaw would set in the same line,” noted Aragorn, stretching over the table to run a finger along Faramir’s neck, up to his jaw. The touch seemed to burn, and Faramir found himself leaning in. “And that you would be as pleasant to look at, were I the one on the receiving end of your attentions.”
“There is a way to determine that,” Faramir said, the wine letting the statement roll off his tongue with ease. Had the situation, and indeed the man sitting across from him, been another, he might well have acted already. Here, decorum seemed to hold him back even though his body was reminding him of its own wishes in an all too pressing manner.
“It would seem our thoughts run along similar lines,” noted Aragorn. “Do not look so startled, Faramir. You choose your words well, but you forget, perhaps, that words very rarely carry all that is said.” He smiled. “I know what you are so careful not to ask for. It is a pity you do not ask, for I would grant you what you wish.”
“Grant me what I wish? The tales of your skills are many, but I do not think I have heard one where they claim you are able to grant wishes in the manner of a wizard.”
“There is no magic involved here, Faramir, only honest desire. If you wish to reject it, then you are free to do so.”
Words burned on his tongue, but he would not speak them. Instead, he rose and rounded the table to all but haul Aragorn to his feet. “I do not reject it,” he breathed, giving in to the need he so keenly felt.
Aragorn responded eagerly to the kiss, wrapping his arms around Faramir. “That is the right answer,” he noted once he broke the kiss. “Now, I believe you mentioned something concering the your likeness?”
Faramir remained silent for a moment, attempting to gather his scattered thoughts. The entire situation was bewildering but pleasant, and he resolved to exact all he could from it. Who knew when he would be offered an opportunity like this again? He cast his gaze about the room. It was sparsely furnished, but there was a low windowside bench that might serve his purpose. It was wide enough to pass for a narrow bed or a couch, and as he looked back at Aragorn, he was favoured with a nod.
“Ever quick-witted,” noted Aragorn.
“It is not quite the same,” said Faramir, feeling suddenly bolder, “but I imagine that the armrest is sturdy enough to withstand it.” He set his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “Lean back further.”
Aragorn settled to lie on the bench, setting one foot on the floor. His posture seemed all too suggestive and forward, though in all fairness that was hardly surprising. Faramir set one knee on the bench, then hesitated. He was no stranger to taking the lead in matters such as these, but this was his King. And still… this was a boon, he realized, something to show him that hierarchies were not as strict as he had imagined at first. The thought struck him more keenly than he had imagined it would, and he drew a sudden sharp breath.
“You have played this particular game before. I have not. Therefore, I ask you to lead.” There was a glitter in Aragorn’s eyes, but it was neither mockery nor arrogance.
That must certainly be a falsehood, but who am I to protest at the claim?
He leaned down, stealing another kiss as he slowly undid Aragorn’s belt, pulling it free of the loops and testing its strength before wrapping it around Aragorn’s left wrist. He did not need to command further, as Aragorn settled his wrist along the spindly and ornate armrest he was leaning against.
“I will tie one hand only. Grasp your bound wrist with your free hand, and keep it there. Do not move it unless I give you permission.”
He had expected a mild smile, perhaps, some little token to let him know Aragorn was merely humouring him still. Playing along patiently. Instead, Aragorn met his gaze levelly, then obeyed. It felt as though he was not entirely himself, and the rush of power threaded through his veins like strong wine, heady and heated. “Do you trust your Steward, my King?” he asked, leaning in so close his lips brushed Aragorn’s ear.
The initial reply was merely a harshly indrawn breath. “I trust him.”
“Do you trust him enough to obey him?”
Aragorn’s gaze was sharp, and deep with a shadow Faramir could not identify. “Yes.”
“Good.” Faramir set his hand on Aragorn’s chest for a moment, feeling the steady heartbeat under his palm, then let his hand slide further down, nails skipping over catches and embroidery. “Even when it means not moving?” He paused, smiling. “It is a worse trial than you might imagine.”
“Keep still,” he commanded softly, closing his fingers over the tell-tale bulge in Aragorn’s breeches. “Do as I say and you will be handsomely rewarded,” he went on, stroking firmly and relishing the immediate reaction. Aragorn was clearly struggling not to to disobey, and seemed to fight not to squirm where he lay. To tease him further would be plesant, noted Faramir, but decided against it. Instead, he undid the lacings of Aragorn’s breeches, finally pulling them off with something bordering on impatience. It was difficult not to rush, not to give in entirely to the burn of lust that was threatening to cloud his mind.
“This is not the most suitable, but it will suffice,” Faramir noted, leaning over to pick up a bottle of oil that still stood on the table as a lone remnant of a meal now past.
The oil made his hands nearly slippery enough to make him drop the bottle, and he hurriedly set it down on the floor. Slicking his fingers up slowly and deliberately, he made sure Aragorn focused on his hands. “Need knows no law,” he noted simply, before reaching down to grasp Aragorn’s cock. The reaction was immediate. Aragorn bucked into the touch, a surprised hiss escaping him.
Faramir stroked slowly at first, teasing glides that he noted affected him quite strongly as well. It was rewarding to watch Aragorn seem to unravel, to see the keen gaze cloud over. He shifted where he sat, attempting to ease the unfortable pressure his own clothes were exerting. Aragorn followed his movements, but before he could move himself, Faramir mouthed a simple “no”, a command which Aragorn obeyed.
The sense of power was beginning to intoxicate him, twine into his mind. What misgivings he held about the abuse of power and the taking of unsuitable liberties he merely pushed aside. Had the right not been given to him? Had he not been told to take what he wished? And most importantly, the insistent little voice crooned, had Aragorn not agreed to obey?
Aragorn arched up against him, jaw working to hold back some harsh noise. His grip on the armrest still held, though Faramir could see the muscles flex as Aragorn fought the impulse to move, to offer some reciprocal caress. Shifting his hold, Faramir let his fingers simply slide lower, finally ghosting between Aragorn’s buttocks. He stilled for a moment, a breath, and when no protest came, he pushed and teased, coaxing forth a raspy moan from Aragorn. He leaned in, twisting his fingers as he did so, and was immediately rewarded with a harsh groan from Aragorn, who had closed his eyes.
“Open your eyes. Look at me.”
The words seemed to weave their own spell, and it took little further effort on his part. Aragorn gave another harsh groan, something all to garbled to be a curse, then climaxed. His bound hands clenched and unclenched, rattling the armrest and making the leather of his bonds creak.
Aragorn’s breathing was uneven still once the worse tremors had subsided, and he was truly a sight to behold, Faramir reflected. Here, he was but a man, undone and desirous. And all the more desirable for it.
Faramir reached for the lacings of his own breeches, tugging impatiently to free himself. He smiled. Indeed, this was one expanse of flesh he would be more than happy to map and explore.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Laurel