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Morning in Minas Tirith (NC-17) Print

Written by Fawsley

31 August 2005 | 1210 words

Title: Morning in Minas Tirith
Author: Fawsley
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Summary: Dedicated to Lady of the Marshes, who likes an angst-free Gondorian. Just two lovers, waking up in the White City.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I think they own themselves, they certainly wrote themselves into this one!

This was always the most beautiful moment of his day.

Slipping gently from sleep into wakefulness, remembering where he lay and who lay next to him.

His joy was boundless and every one of his senses was alive.



His beloved slept so silently. For one who was so very vocal in the throes of their lovemaking, whose cries and urgent demands rebounded around the citadel walls leaving none in any doubt as to what acts he performed and with whom, it seemed astounding that he could ever be so quiet.

Even now, knowing him well, it was hard for the lover to catch the sound of his breaths, identify the occasional snuffle. The first time they had lain together the lover had awakened deep in the night and panicked at the silence of his beloved. Terrified that the wildness of their first shared passion had stilled forever the heart he adored, he had shaken his confused and sleep-befuddled bedmate then fallen weeping with relief into his arms. The lover smiled to himself at the memory of his groundless fear, smiled again as his beloved moved slightly and gave a low contented sigh in his sleep.



Breathing deeply the lover inhaled the scent of his beloved upon the warm morning air, the elusive sweetness of soft hair washed in water infused with herbs and wildflowers, the warm musk of his skin and the faint lingering notes of leather and sandalwood. Sometimes he would catch his fragrance on the air of an empty room, a deserted corridor, and the lover would stand for a moment to inhale like sacred intoxicating incense all he could of the man.

Another scent was also present this morning, the more acrid tang of the remains of the previous night's debauchery. A potent mixture of sweat and oil and stale seed hung about them still, powerful enough to arouse the lover again, taunting him with memories of how that heady brew had been concocted, laced with pleading moans, stirred with thrashing limbs, garnished with cries of mutual ecstasy. The rarest, most costly perfume would fade into insignificance against the odour of their lust.



At last the lover opened his eyes and gazed longingly at his bedfellow. In the heat of the summer night they had thrown the covers off and his beloved now lay gloriously naked. Never one to crouch or curl or bury into his pillows, he faced sleep and the night as he embraced life and love - recklessly at times, ever fearlessly, always head on.

The lover's gaze traced its path from the soft hair still tangled from passion. He paused over the noble profile of that face, the first glimpse of which had seemed to awaken knowledge of beauty within the lover for the first time. Travelling further, he came to the grey eyes that had instantly claimed and possessed the lover's heart, now closed against the world yet soon to open and offer again the absolute devotion, trust and desire that ever moved the lover almost more than he could bear.

Down the long neck and across the strongly muscled torso, past healed battle-scars and fresh wounds of love - bites and bruises from the night before. For a moment the lover let his gaze pass over the goal of his lust, saving the best until last, and instead studied his beloved's shapely thighs, thighs that would part for him, allow him to enter and take his beloved's body, thighs that would pin him down and crush him as he was possessed in turn. Then he returned to the prize, the erect and twitching member, and watching it the lover's own member hardened and throbbed. He could no longer resist.



Raising himself slowly so as not to disturb his mate, the lover knelt over his beloved and slowly licked the long member from root to tip. The taste of hot fine skin, almost metallic, the bitter salt of spilled seed, the dangerous must of his own plundered depths. Roused at the memory of how he had been taken the night before, his buttocks clenched and his bowels ached for the sublime sweet agony of his beloved's unbridled passion to be unleashed again.

The lover's mouth watered. Gently he grasped the swollen head of his beloved's manhood between his lips, caught it with his tongue and drew it into the wet warmth of his mouth.

A moan from his beloved, awakening to the pleasure being offered, a strong hand reached for the lover's head, found it and tangled tightly within his hair. The lover took his beloved deeper, opening his throat, lowering his head until all was buried deep within him, holding it there as he felt the member grow even thicker and harder, embracing the root with his lips and sneaking out a tongue-tip against the scrotum he now kneaded towards release.

Pulling back, his mouth began to ride his beloved's shaft, urging him towards completion, alert to every change in body and voice, using every trick he knew of lips and teeth and tongue, desperate to feast upon his beloved's seed, groaning in ecstasy as at last his mouth was rewarded and filled with long hot pulses of thick salty cream. Needing to show his gratitude to his beloved he sat up, met the grey eyes now opened and regarding him and swallowed slowly, licking his lips to capture every drop, savouring the very essence of the man he adored beyond hope or reason.



Sated and shuddering, the beloved reached out and pulled his lover into his arms, nestling the dark head upon his heaving chest. The lover stroked the firm stomach, allowed his hand to find and play with an erect nipple, before descending again to stroke a long flank, tracing the curve of powerful muscles, knowing every inch, every nook, every secret place and loving all of them.

He inched his body upwards onto a shoulder and found his beloved's face, rubbed his own against the short beard and sought out the mouth. His beloved's lips were soft and tender, slowly nibbling and sucking at his own before opening to offer an agile tongue, to accept the lover's own deep into his mouth for the slow kiss they shared. Burrowing his head within the long soft hair, the lover sighed his devotion as his companion at last found words to greet him in return.


'Good morning, my king.'

Aragorn looked up from where he had buried himself and smiled at his beloved.

'Faramir, you know very well that in this bed you are ever my king, as indeed you are lord and captain of my heart and of my soul.'

And as sunrise brought of flush of palest pink to the white tower of the citadel, steward and king locked themselves in an embrace of total and unconditional love that would last only until their passion resumed.


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Thank the author

The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Anastasiya , , Mel

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1 Comment(s)

NB: Comments may contain spoilers!

Oh, so beautiful, Fawsley!
And these words – ‘Faramir, you know very well that in this bed you are ever my king, as indeed you are lord and captain of my heart and of my soul.’ really were something amazing. I like to think that Faramir could be so important for Aragorn.

— Anastasiya    25 December 2009, 06:23    #

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About the Author


A complete list of Fawsley’s fics is available at her LiveJournal (friends only!). Failing friendship, her work can be found at sons_of_gondor, rugbytackle, tolkien_weekly and drabblechalleng.