This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Slash, explicit sex acts, PWP (and a rude word or two.)».
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09 November 2010 | 2259 words
Warnings: Slash, a rude word or two, explicit sex acts, PWP!
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me; all written in good fun with no offence intended :)
Author’s note: So, the wonderful Geale wrote All That I Am in response to my mention of a…well, okay, mushy Faramir in another fic, and so I started thinking that I should probably redeem myself (and restore his honour, perhaps) somewhat, so here we are :P And I never usually write PWP but I guess a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do ;)
Faramir smiled and looked over his shoulder. A delightful view, for both of them, for Aragorn lay naked on his back on the bed, face in shadow and his eyes even darker, gazing at him lazily through strands of mahogany, and Faramir himself stood with the window framing his unclothed body, the light bursting forth and illuminating his bare skin.
“Come here.” A growl, almost. But Faramir simply smiled at him and turned to the window again, leaning a shoulder against the cool stone, looking out, pupils contracting in the morning sun. Coy, playful perhaps? Two could play at this game.
Normally he would leap at Faramir, or rise from the bed after many minutes of patience and slide his palms around the younger man’s middle, around and down to curl around the intense heat of already stiffened flesh. And Faramir would murmur, and lean back, and his head would fall against Aragorn’s shoulder and his hair would tickle Aragorn’s skin. He would kiss Faramir’s throat then, and murmur too. And when Faramir began to groan beneath Aragorn’s moving hands, that was when they would return to the bed, and that was when he’d tell Faramir how much he loved him without a word passing his lips.
Desperately. Hungrily. Eternally.
Today though, Aragorn decided, Faramir would have to be the patient one.
“Where are you going?” Faramir had turned again, eyebrows raised in question, as Aragorn disappeared into the bathroom without a word. A game, perhaps? He looked out over the City. He knew Aragorn too well to go running after him, he knew the King was playing with him. He smiled again, to himself. He would go in search, in a moment, but Faramir was also a very patient man. Patient enough, he had reminded Aragorn, to wait so long to kiss him, to taste him, to take his flesh into his mouth, to take him and be taken by him. He could wait a little longer today. And perhaps, Aragorn would learn patience too.
But Aragorn was impatience. He wanted Faramir the moment the door to his study clicked shut. He wanted him then and there and would not so much as acknowledge the paperwork they had to review until he had Faramir bent over the desk and until he had had Faramir. Creased and rumpled paperwork, a torn shirt, and a flush to Faramir’s cheeks that did not fade quickly. And Faramir could be impatient too, and his own desk had seen more than enough of the two of them, joined, kissing, grasping and thrusting with the speed and fire that comes from say, two hours of separation.
He could hear splashing sounds from the bathroom; perhaps Aragorn really was washing? Faramir had to admit his curiosity had been piqued. But, he didn’t want to lose this game, however silly. He clambered back into the bed, body fitting into the warm hollow left by Aragorn’s neatly, and decided to feign sleep, unable to suppress the smile that still blossomed upon his lips when he thought of the inevitable result of their game.
Growing bored of splashing old basin water about, Aragorn peered through the gap in the doorway. Now he wants to get into bed, the bugger. Three long strides later and he stood beside the peaceful form of Faramir and grasped the edge of the bedcover firmly in both hands, pulling it off of the bed, and off of Faramir in one quick motion.
“I knew you weren’t asleep.” Aragorn grinned down at the Faramir, whose eyes had shot open, and who had cried out in fright with all pretence of slumber evaporating as he was exposed to the cool air of the room.
“Oh, bugger off.” Faramir’s laugh turned into a yelp as Aragorn dove onto the bed and onto him, teeth already nipping at the younger man’s neck. Faramir pushed at him, laughing, but Aragorn was impatient, tongue moving up to lick hotly in his ear.
“Fuck me…” No near-growl this, but a groan laced with desire and intent. The King was hard already, and obviously in a feisty mood. Faramir shivered, and breathed in a long, wavering breath before replying.
“Lie down then.” Aragorn slid off him, almost reluctantly, and clearly expected Faramir to climb upon him in return, but Faramir had other ideas, shifting along the bed and kneeling near the older man’s hips. Aragorn grinned, but Faramir motioned with his hand. “Other way.” And he waited for Aragorn to roll over with all the patience in the world.
Faramir could be feisty too. He liked to take Aragorn’s flesh into his mouth, and swallow against him hotly, and murmur and hum and do all the things that made Aragorn cry out his name as he spilled himself down Faramir’s throat. He liked to let Aragorn know exactly what mood he was in by touching himself, gently, slowly, until he was sure he had the King’s attention, and he would hold Aragorn back with one hand as he stroked himself in the bed, head falling back onto the pillow as he gasped softly. Out of the corner of his eye he would see Aragorn growing aroused, weeping, shaking with restraint. And only when Aragorn’s soft moans harmonised with his own, and his panting became audible would he let the King lower his head toward his aching flesh, and taste him in return.
But on this morning, as the dawn light danced across their fair skin, Faramir had a different idea, and a notion to teach Aragorn that impatience could be his undoing, in a manner of speaking. The King lay on his stomach, and looked around at him, hair messy, eyes eager. Faramir grinned, and spread his palms between Aragorn’s legs, pushing them apart. He raised himself on his knees, and Aragorn watched as Faramir swept his hand over his own erection, once, twice, gently, eyes closed, lip bitten. He kept going, until he could almost feel the impatience radiating from Aragorn, and he locked eyes with him for a moment, before changing position entirely and lowering his head to Aragorn’s rear.
The small noise of surprise became a sudden, deep groan as Faramir’s tongue left a hot, wet trail between Aragorn’s buttocks. The King shivered, and Faramir smiled and did it again, tongue dancing across the older man’s furled opening, and receiving a more violent shudder and a muffled yelp for his trouble.
“My love,” Faramir began, then swept his tongue along the cleft once more. “Have I ever told you…” He did it again. “…that you…” Again, swirling around Aragorn’s opening slowly. “…are far…too…” Again. “…impatient?” And Aragorn‘s reply was unintelligible, a pillow-muffled shout, for Faramir had punctuated this last by closing his eyes and pushing his tongue into Aragorn, past tightly coiled muscle and into hot velvet; deeply, suddenly, slick and, somehow, impossibly gentle all at once.
It took all of Aragorn’s willpower not to buck his hips at this, and Faramir’s fingers dug into his backside, holding him down as his tongue undulated within him. Gods, Faramir…oh Faramir…oh love…I love you, I love you. Faramir knew this, but Aragorn wished he could say it out loud. He groaned, then groaned again, guttural, an animal, teeth clenched and eyes shut, and then he cried out, gasping, for Faramir’s tongue had brushed that one spot within guaranteed to make his eyes roll back in his head, to make his stomach roil with lust, to make Faramir’s name fall from his lips in increasingly louder volumes every time it was touched.
Aragorn was close to the edge already, and with a last ripple of his tongue, Faramir withdrew, running his hands across the backs of Aragorn’s thighs and up onto his lower back. The King shook. Faramir grinned, and with palms spread against Aragorn’s sides rolled him over.
Aragorn looked rather un-Kingly, with sweat-dampened hair plastered against his forehead, and a hot blush across his cheeks, and his eyes couldn’t seem to focus on anything, least of all on the man between his legs. He could speak though, finally, though Faramir didn’t plan on giving him the chance to get anything useful out.
“Fara-a-a-…” And that was that, for Faramir had bent his head back down and trailed his agile tongue lazily along the length of Aragorn’s now weeping cock, licking gently at the tip, drawing the moisture back into his mouth and swallowing. Then he did it again, eyes fixed upon Aragorn’s face, or rather, the underside of his jaw, for the King had given up on communication and thrown his head back one more, chest heaving, hands fisting in the linens, knuckles white and shaking. He arched his back against the bed, raising himself toward Faramir, desperate, and Faramir decided that perhaps Aragorn had endured enough torture for one morning. He let his tongue slide across the head of Aragorn’s cock once more, then took him into his mouth, as far as he could go, his hand curling around the hilt to steady it. With his other hand he began to caress and rub at Aragorn’s balls, and then, as he moved his tongue against Aragorn’s hard flesh, he slid his fingers down and pushed two past the now-slick muscle and into him again.
Oh love…oh…oh gods…Faramir…oh! Aragorn would ask himself where exactly Faramir had learned all of this if he didn’t already know the answer was himself. I fear I have corrupted you, innocent love…oh love… Faramir swallowed against him again, and his fingers moved within him, and curled around and caressed that spot and he cried out, thrashing against the bed, hair flying wildly as he came, hard and shudderingly. “Faramir!”
Faramir drank him down, eyes closing finally as his fingers slipped out, bringing both hands up to rest gently against Aragorn’s sides. The King shook, his body twitching gently as he calmed, and Faramir sat up finally, and moved alongside the other man, pressing himself against his side, his own erection still very much an issue.
Aragorn’s head lolled to the side and he looked at Faramir with a gaze still not entirely focused. He reached up and let his fingers dance against the younger man’s cheek. “I thought…I thought you were going to fuck me?” He grinned, and Faramir grinned back, before turning his head and licking Aragorn’s fingers.
“Hmm?” He bit gently, then reached up and took Aragorn’s hand in his own, turning it so he could kiss the palm. “Dearest Aragorn…” He brushed his lips against Aragorn’s wrist softly, then seemed to forget about speaking, planting soft kisses down the length of the King’s arm right down to the elbow. Aragorn murmured softly, hand coming to rest in Faramir’s hair.
“You were saying?”
Faramir looked up at him, and smiled, in fact, the smile had not left his lips since he had stood at the window. Feisty indeed. His hand left Aragorn’s arm and slid over his chest, stroking across the flatness of his stomach and back again. “I was saying, my love, my dearest Aragorn…” He leant in then, and pressed his lips to Aragorn’s, tongue sliding in deeply, moving against Aragorn’s slowly, a tender heat. His hand slid up to rest against the King’s whiskered cheek. Aragorn turned on the bed, fingers carding in Faramir’s hair as he brought their hips together, pushing his thigh between Faramir’s and causing the younger man to groan softly.
They broke apart, but not far. Faramir rested his forehead against Aragorn’s, and their eyes were equally heavy-lidded. “Patience is a virtue, you know.”
The King laughed, but didn’t move away. He tilted his head in for a moment, kissing Faramir gently, with love. “I am not a patient man, Faramir, when it comes to you.”
“Oh, how well I know.” Faramir’s eyes danced, and his cock nudged impatiently against Aragorn’s stomach.
“Are you patient, Faramir?” Aragorn slid his hand between them to grasp Faramir’s hard, hot flesh gently. Faramir jolted against him, mumbling against his shoulder, for his head had fallen onto the pillow as Aragorn’s hand had travelled.
“Not always….not really…” Faramir looked up at him. “Do that again.”
“This?” The hand tightened its grip momentarily, and when Faramir made a noise that could only be interpreted as an affirmative, Aragorn did it again, and again, and began moving his hand up and down, slowly, so very slowly.
Faramir screwed up his face. “F-f-faster…!” A soft moan escaped his lips, growing louder as Aragorn ignored his pleas for speed and instead kept up his steady rhythm. “Love, please…” Faramir moved his hips against Aragorn’s hand, thrusting gently. Aragorn just smiled down at him, cheeks still flushed.
“I have but one thing to say to you, love of mine.” He gazed down at Faramir, heart thumping in his chest with lust and with love.
Faramir managed to look up at him even as he wept all over Aragorn’s still languidly-paced knuckles. “What?”
Aragorn grinned. “Patience.”
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