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28 December 2010 | 4582 words
Title: The Cliff-Claiming Sea
Warnings: Slash and sex scenes.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. All written in good fun with no offence intended!
Author’s Note: I won’t lie; I really loved writing this, and took my time doing so (even if it is more of less PWP!) Any thoughts you have on the style would be very much welcomed :) As always, the first line of this story popped into my head and I went from there, but looking back now I realise that the first line in this case requires a tiny addendum: the leaves are falling from window boxes. So say I :P
Anyway, something that hopefully warms up a winter evening. I hope you enjoy :)
Moonlit leaves fall from their abode high above to rest upon the ground, their hair. Skin is pale silver in the dusk, eyes molten pools of starlight. The moon is full and it is cold in the street; their breath mingles and dissipates in clouds of soft mist, but limbs and bodies are hot and lithe, flexible and needy. Long fingers slide along an arm, the hand bends across the curve of an elbow, up, up over the shoulder, lines traced across collarbones and finally, the fingertips are kissed reverently as they edge over the jawbone at last.
Cloth wrinkles, leather bars the way, buckles and lacings fence off further exploration. It is still light enough to be seen. Stable hands eye them curiously, warily. Perhaps they do not care, or perhaps they rush off to let the gossip spill forth from their lips like gurgling fountains. The King and the Steward, standing for a moment, very close in the shadow. The King and the Steward discussing matters of state. Chatting amiably. Kissing. Kissing like lovers would, though no-one can be sure. The light dwindles. They were whispering, perhaps. Laughing. It was two other men, or a man and a women altered by guttering lamplight and active imagination. Webs of half-truths spinning from idle chat, but when anyone looked over at the sheltered spot beneath the eaves of the smithy there was no-one to be seen.
“There is a rumour. The King grows close to his Steward in the weeks after the war’s end. They have become good friends, capable and strong leaders. But the Steward corrupts his King. His gaze lingers too long upon him. He draws him in deeply, turns him, touches his hand, kisses him. So they say. What truth do you find in that?”
“’Twas the other way around, was it not?”
A locked door now stands between them and the ever-inquisitive world. The hint of a smile, eyes half-shut, gaze heavy with something more than mere lust. Faramir’s fingers hook into the metalwork of Aragorn’s belt-buckle, releasing the braid from the metal tongue of the clasp. It is ornate, finely made. The King’s clothes are commissioned, while the Steward still shrugs on his old familiar apparel beneath his father’s robe of office. Faramir does not remove the belt, but holds either end in his hands, trapping his King in a loop of bespoke leather.
“Indeed.” They breath each other in, standing very close. Close enough to spark plenty rumour, but they are alone. Aragorn’s hands rest on Faramir’s chest, palms flat as the younger man controls his breathing for the moment.
The air is warm and laden with possibility. They know what may come, but expectation is as much a part of this as is secrecy. It is a new thing, curious and unknown, something to be explored softly and tenderly, together. Grey eyes scan features they now know so intimately. Faramir gazes back unwaveringly, but Aragorn can hear how the younger’s breath shudders through his nostrils in restrained anticipation. Desire mingles between them, but they are calm.
A tongue traces a lip briefly, then withdraws. They are so close that Faramir can feel Aragorn’s beard brush his chin but they do not kiss. The belt falls open as hands, bow-callused and tanned, fan into the hair of the King, so long now and as dark as the wood not yet consumed by the fire. Faramir smiles. He likes the contrast before him, between the velvet and brushed silver of State and the wildness of the Ranger. Elessar and Strider combined and yet still at odds, though they both like to set bewitching eyes upon Faramir whenever they are alone.
Or even when they are not.
“You are the most beautiful man I have ever met.” Words spoken now, and the first words spoken properly by the King to his Steward as Faramir awoke in the night, free from shadow at last, to find his rescuer seated beside the bed, sending pipe-smoke furling into the healers’ ward. Faramir knew not what strange force guided him to place his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder as the King leant over him, nor what possessed him to move the hand slowly, over rumpled collar to meld itself to the heat and curve of his neck.
It began as something chaste, as if anything more would destroy this moment as quickly as fire devours the dry grass in summer. A kiss, innocent and excusable, gratitude for the life returned to him. Then Aragorn’s tongue had swept into his mouth, and he knew no more of his old self. The King told him he was beautiful, and Faramir knew then that it was not a dream. This man, this King, this love that he had seen, the light in the darkness, the lifeline, it was real.
“And what of you, Aragorn?” Faramir lets his hands fall from smoke-scented hair to the King’s shoulders.
“I am happy. Is that enough?”
They kiss, deep and long and with slow-burning lust that drives the breath from their lungs in great shaking gusts. Fingers wind themselves into hair again and arms loop around a slim waist. Pressed together, the heat grows between them, and hardness becomes obvious soon enough. They have not yet seen each other naked, and the thought of it makes Faramir’s stomach twist in impatient longing. To slide his palms beneath Aragorn’s shirt, to lay them against his flat stomach, against the heat of flesh and muscle.
To be with another man in this way, to love his own sex, it had been a thing he had neither dwelt upon nor desired. But to love Aragorn was to love the wind and the land and the sea; he was the floating embers of a fire set amongst fragrant bracken, the soft light of stars reflected in mossy dew. It was to love himself and it was to be loved as the waves love the cliffs upon which they break themselves endlessly.
Faramir shivers, and Aragorn pushes forward.
“Happiness suits you then, my lord.” The Steward smiles, widely and prettily. “Though you were fair to begin with, I do admit.” Colour dusts his cheeks. “I have always thought that.”
Nerves tingle in the base of his stomach as Aragorn’s fingernail scrapes against his neck. His collar is pulled open, kisses left along the angle of the bone. Lingering, light. His hands rest on Aragorn’s hips, thumbs hooking under the belt again.
The King’s voice is low, close, and his breath rushes over him like the wings of many doves. “May I make love to you?”
The world, for a moment, falls away into nothingness. Faramir’s breath catches. He swallows, and his nod is so halting that it is almost imperceptible. Aragorn runs a soothing hand over his cheek.
“There is enough time.” There is hope in the King’s voice, and kindness. He would not press the matter, if Faramir seemed reluctant.
“I want-…” Faramir’s eyes are cast down, briefly, his gaze inadvertently falling upon the forge they have created between their melded hips. His cock is hard and heavy, he feels Aragorn against him. He looks up, eyes clear and open. “I would have you do that.”
Like shifting sand dunes the bed-linens slip from the mattress, drawn back to create a haven for their coupling. Aragorn stretches out upon the bed, long-limbed and lissom. Faramir aches to undress him, but he hesitates, lingering by the bed’s edge, eyes trained on the lines of Aragorn’s body.
A hand hovers between them briefly, before Faramir raises his own to meet it and allows himself to be drawn down onto the bed. He kneels over his King, legs between legs.
“You may undress, if you like. Or you may undress me.” A smile, firelight flickering within grey eyes. Aragorn lets Faramir take the lead, stay in control. There is a fire in his own belly but he knows his Steward is nervous, though his hands are steady as he lowers them to the lacings of his King’s shirt finally, weaving fingers into cord and pulling gently.
Faramir bites his lip, feels his cheeks flush. It is hot in the room, and the heat from Aragorn radiates upwards, enveloping him and joining the heat within his own body. It consumes him, but he keeps his pace slow. He trusts Aragorn, but he does not trust his own skill in this new act. He is afraid, a little, but remembers how he himself likes to be pleasured, how he pleasures himself, and he keeps the knowledge clear in his mind. He knows what to do, but the nerve to do it, to set his hands upon the King, upon his hard flesh, is yet leagues and fathoms away.
The knots unravel, and Faramir finally lays his hands flat against Aragorn’s chest, sliding them apart, opening the shirt. The King shifts, extricating himself from the sleeves. He lies back, looks up. Faramir breathes out.
Aragorn’s heart thrums beneath his scarred knuckles, his long fingers, short nails. Still kneeling, Faramir runs his fingertips over the lean muscle of his King’s chest, lets them dance among the dark hairs scattered there. He breathes in.
Aragorn is beautiful. The sunset, the lung-ache after battle. The Western wind that blasts the topmost ramparts and sends the banners whip-like, frenzied. There is still wildness in his looks and Faramir would run with him forever, fall into his depths and never surface. He breathes out again, and Aragorn props himself up on bare elbows.
“I would like to undress you, Faramir.” The King sits up properly, Faramir’s hands slide up to lay upon his shoulders as their faces come close. A whisper, gentle, reassurance. “Do not be afraid.” He waits, and Faramir smiles with the first hint of shyness this evening has drawn forth. Soft waves of russet and sorrel rest against his forehead and cheekbones. Aragorn reaches up to run a hand through the curls. “May I touch you?”
Faramir yields to him, hands falling away as Aragorn bends to press a kiss to his unshaven throat. The Steward cannot answer, but he allows Aragorn to do what he will, tilting his head back further as lips trail along his neck. The King’s fingers are light and unobtrusive, negotiating his shirt fastenings, revealing smooth skin and coppery chest-hair. A soft noise of approval, Aragorn’s eyes dart up to meet Faramir’s, but the younger man’s eyes are closed.
“You are very handsome.” The flat of Aragorn’s palm presses against Faramir’s heart. “Indeed, so comely.” A finger trails southwards. “So fair.”
Faramir’s voice is low, and he speaks as if in a dream. “And you, my lord, are you not comely?” His eyes open, and he lowers his head, now looking up at Aragorn through a choppy sea of umber. Coy, but there is still that shyness hidden poorly beneath the surface. “I deem you so, for I think it, and know it to be the truth.”
Aragorn smiles at him. “You are very kind to me, Faramir.”
The smile is returned, and the tension breaks. “I am only honest.” The warrior is not kind, the lesser son does not learn kindness. But Faramir is yet kind and faithful, and thinks not on his father’s opinion of men who couple with other men, or of a man who would love his King. And he is attracted to Aragorn, not just to his character and wisdom, his honour and wit, but to his looks, his physical self also, his scars and the angles of his body, as if the stiffening of his cock were not indication enough.
It is still wonderfully strange to him.
The King’s fingers furl beneath cloth and he draws Faramir’s shirt up over his head, letting it fall to the side. Faramir’s hair is wild. Aragorn kisses him with eyes open. He wants to see him, all of him.
Faramir shifts in the kiss, his slender hands curving around Aragorn’s hips, downward, beneath the loosened belt and over his backside. Bold, for him, and his heart is thundering, but Aragorn moans softly, mouth still melded to Faramir’s, and presses closer. His arms loop around the Steward’s shoulders, their chests together, breath rushing in and out in tandem. Faramir presses deeper, his wet tongue writhing against his King’s, losing himself only a little in the rush of heat and lust. His fingers brush against Aragorn’s opening, softly, daringly, and the King jolts against him.
It does not take long to divest themselves of their remaining garments. Belts and breeches gather on the floor, and Faramir sets eyes upon the camber of Aragorn’s cock for the first time; heated flesh, hot and proud, hard for him amidst a nest of soft dark hair. He almost forgets his own nakedness in that moment, but Aragorn is regarding him with the same curiosity and barely restrained desire, and he feels his cheeks burn with want and need. Faramir’s own manhood arcs impatiently from his body, and a small part of his mind notes that they are of similar proportion. He is hard for Aragorn, so achingly hard, and it is almost incomprehensible to him, but he embraces this lust. He wants his King.
It is like velvet, hot and tight and darkly tempting. A long finger, slicked with glistening oil, pushes gently against the guardian muscle until it yields, slowly, edging inside with care and caution. Faramir shudders, a gasp caught in his throat. It is like nothing he has ever experienced before.
“You must tell me if I hurt you. I will stop.” Aragorn’s voice is somewhere behind him, somewhere else. Faramir’s eyes roll back and the lids feel weighted by lead.
“You do not. Keep-…keep going. Please.” He adds, though the last word is hardly more than a groan as the King’s knuckles slide within.
Faramir tenses around him, but Aragorn persists, caressing him from the inside, moving as gently as he can, though the sight itself arouses him almost beyond control. Faramir kneels on all-fours before him; they could think of no other position in the heat of things. They have not done this before, though common sense bade them perform this act before all other intrusions. Faramir’s head falls down, face against pillow, his arms, bent at the elbows, are beginning to shake with the effort of support. Aragorn withdraws momentarily, and Faramir exhales, but it is a brief reprieve, for the second finger is now being persuaded to enter, and the fingers of Aragorn’s other hand now reach around and below to wrap around the weight of his Steward’s cock, weeping a little now, eager and straining.
Faramir tries to speak, attempts to explain that he will not last long at this rate, but words are reluctant. He moans into the pillow, long and low. It becomes a groan after a while, wavering, unearthly.
Moonlight streams through the gap between the carven shutters. It is quiet in the City. For a moment Faramir wonders if anything will ever be the same after this night, after he and Aragorn share everything they have to offer. Minds, bodies, hearts. He knows he is in love, he knows this is what he wants. Only a few short weeks ago he did not even know this was possible, and would have frowned, or laughed at the idea were it put to him. But that was before he met Aragorn, before the image of the longed-for King in his mind dispersed and was replaced by the reality of the Ranger now knuckle-deep within him. It is the reality of Strider, and he thinks now that perhaps the King only shows his true wild self to him now. A release, a freedom from the weight of velvet and silver, from tradition and etiquette.
But why him? If Aragorn is thus inclined then surely there have been many other such men he has encountered in his long life. Handsome, comely, fair. But Faramir has been told he is the first to know his King in this way. The first to know his love.
The sudden absense of Aragorn’s fingers is almost as alien as their presense. The King withdraws fully, shifting, placing spread fingers upon Faramir’s sides and steadying his breath, though it is no use for his voice shakes as he speaks. “How…how do you wish…?”
“I want to see you.” Faramir looks round at him, leaning on elbows now, arms giving way long moments before.
Aragorn moves along the bed, sliding onto his back. “Sit astride me, then.” His cock twitches, and Faramir cannot tear his eyes from it. “Faramir…love, I will not last. You must-”
But he gets no further, for lips claim his own, messily, with no finesse, for Faramir is urgent, sliding onto him and pushing his tongue into a willing mouth. His cock bumps against Aragorn’s, and the fact they were now both very naked, very aroused, and very, very close together has yet to filter into the younger man’s thoughts, for surely he would spend himself right now were he to take stock of the situation. But he pushes further, kissing wildly, eyes closed, and it is as if this is some other Faramir, lost in his need, reservations as forgotton as the daylight.
Aragorn kisses him back, his hands fisting madly in his Steward’s hair. His back arches, his hips buck against him, anything to push himself closer, as close as they can be before taking the final step. Faramir is yet young, and Aragorn would show him his love for as long as he would stay by his side. They say love in wartime moves fast, is intense, for every new morning may herald loss.
The war is over, but Aragorn would yet fight for Faramir.
Faramir makes a noise that not even he can identify. There are no words in it, that much he knows.
Nerves and desire combine and crash over him again and again; he thinks of the sea, inexplicably, in the midst of it all. Salt and thundering waves. Drowning in unknown depths. The roughness of sand and the scratch of Aragorn’s beard against his cheek. Faramir stifles a cry, hair flying. His skin is hot and sweat-damp as his King’s fingers stray across his back, periodically gripping him as his thrusts hit the mark.
It is sweeter and more glorious than even Aragorn imagined. There was an age where he would have simply been content to kiss Faramir, to have Faramir upon him, to dig his fingernails into Faramir’s shoulder-blades and taste him. But it passes too quickly, his body demands more.
Aragorn had managed to sit up, and with soft words in his ear and his King’s eyes upon him, Faramir had straddled him and brought a hand down between his own legs to steady the angle of his King’s keen member. Then, with a darting glance into stormy eyes he breached himself, slowly, stiflingly and completely.
It was slow at first. Uneven, the rhythm not yet found as Faramir adjusted to the intrusion, the pleasure-pain sweeping up through his body, burning him from the inside out. The pain ebbed, but did not dissipate completely as he gathered himself and moved against Aragorn, tentatively, nerves still wracking his body, manifesting themselves in great uncontrollable shudders that Aragorn might mistake for lust were he not experiencing the very same thing.
The heady scent of the fire burns in Aragorn’s nostrils, and when he sees the half-mask the moonlight creates on Faramir’s face he is reminded of nights spent in the wild, lying on grass with hot ash-fragrance in his lungs and muggy, lightning-thick air rushing over his body. Faramir rocks into him, and he responds, ploughing back into his Steward’s grateful body with a fervour that is almost roughness, but he catches himself in time. The nerves in Aragorn’s stomach are of a different sort to those roiling in Faramir’s innards, though they are kin and close enough.
Faramir is afraid to love his King for myriad reasons. He fears the fragile notion of this kind of union, and he dreads the consequence of this most blasphemous of acts. Here he is, Steward to the King, and he dares allow the King to enter him and love him physically. He grits his teeth as the head of Aragorn’s cock nudges repeatedly some part of his insides that sets off fireworks in his mind and blinds him.
Aragorn fears only that he can not love Faramir enough. He thrusts deeper, upwards, and feels Faramir’s teeth bite into his shoulder. He pulls Faramir to him, chest against chest and stomach against stomach, to thrust again, harder. Faramir groans into his neck, hair awry, his own cock trapped between them and weeping as he nears the blade‘s edge.
He feels Aragorn within him, he feels the pressure, the muscle-ache, the strain. Everything hurts, but he would not stop now. He pulls back somehow, hands tangling in the damp welter of his King’s hair. They look at each other, and Faramir cannot stop the wild laugh that he emits, grin wide and eyes wider. His back is a marble curve, concave against the pillar of his monarch. He comes, suddenly, head falling back, eyes rolling upwards and words undecipherable.
The clouds part and the light blazes through him. He is blind again, and it lasts for a lifetime. The thunder and the earthquake and the cliff-claiming sea. His body reacts and he is dimly aware of a second jolt and a new heat as Aragorn climaxes some moments later. A cry, gutteral, aggressive, but the hands supporting him are still gentle in their firmness. Eons pass, and he can again draw breath.
The night continues. Faramir damps a cloth in a basin of cool moonlight. He cleans himself, then presses the cold rag to his King’s chest. Aragorn smiles and draws the messy copper away from Faramir’s face with one hand.
“I was afraid.” The words seem ungainly in the quiet and Faramir does not meet Aragorn’s gaze. Water streams over his knuckles as he grips the cloth, sweeping it down the older man’s lean stomach. A half-smile, still shy. Aragorn’s lips press against his forehead.
They return to the bed. Faramir sits on the edge as Aragorn lies back once again, crumpled bed linen straightened and pulled up to his chest. When Faramir makes no move to join him he reaches out and runs his hand down his Steward’s back lightly, the straight road of his spine traced by a fingertip. There are many freckles on Faramir’s shoulders, but even his outstretched hand cannot reach them. Aragorn feels something surge within him; it is not lust, though that is present, tempered for the moment. He is fond of Faramir, very fond of him, and the sight of his Steward sitting bare-skinned before him, unashamed, unhindered, is a sudden strange novelty.
“Aragorn, what did this mean to you?” Faramir looks over his shoulder at his King. Aragorn’s face is so familiar to him now, so very fair indeed. The smile still plays about the younger man’s lips, but he is quiet, seeking.
“Come into the bed, Faramir.” Aragorn lifts the blanket up and Faramir lies down beside him finally. Aragorn strokes his hair, propped up on an elbow as Faramir stretches out on his back .“What are you afraid of?”
Faramir watches his toes splay beneath the bed sheets, then looks up at Aragorn. The King holds his gaze, winding a curl around his index finger fondly. “I am afraid of loving you.” He pauses, but there is no interruption. Aragorn waits patiently for him to continue, lips brushing Faramir’s forehead again. “I am afraid that to love you, to be in love with you…- the rumour spreads, my lord. I would be with you but I am afraid we will lose everything.” Blue eyes glance downward, staring at nothing. “I do believe the welfare of the Kingdom and her King is more important than the affairs of my heart.”
“And what of my heart?”
“What do you want, Aragorn?”
The King breathes out slowly. The finger frees itself of the curl, joining the rest as they fan into Faramir‘s hair again. “You are a fine man, Faramir. The finest. This would be easy if you were not the Steward. Or if you were a woman.” He smiles, and Faramir’s laugh is soft, a pale bell in the night. “I want to love you without rumour following us, and I want to love you outwith the shadows. I will not lurk in hallways with you.” His head tilts, and Faramir looks up at him again. “We will walk into Merethrond1 side by side, always. If that is what you want.”
Faramir’s eyes glimmer in the darkness, beacons in the night. “I would like that.” He reaches over and winds his own fingers into Aragorn’s hair, in mirror of his King. He kisses Aragorn, a delicate caress of lip upon lip. Everything is warm. Faramir is no cowering fool in need of rescue, but he feels safe here. Strange, and safe.
Aragorn smiles against his Steward’s lips. His eyes are shut. “Shall we let them talk, then?”
“Yes.” Faramir’s brow furrows, there is defiance and a decision in his low voice. “Let them create falsehoods as they wish. I will not shy from the gossiping housewife, or the glare of the council.” He buries his face between Aragorn’s neck and shoulder, his nostrils fill with the subtle scent of the briar, the river, the wind. “I will make no apology for loving my King.”
“And the King shall make no excuse for his fondness of his Steward. Nor shall he make it secret, though he will not be announcing it at the breakfast table either.” His arm winds itself around Faramir, pulling him close. “But if anyone should inquire, plain truth will be spoken, and they can whisper in the corridors all they like.”
Faramir’s breathing slows as sleep comes to him, but he does not succumb yet. He pulls the bedcover up over them both. “So, you would make it known that the King is courting his Steward?”
“I think we are, to be fair, courting one another.”
“Oh, you know what I mean.” Faramir yawns and stretches, his anklebones cracking in unison. He settles, and his breathing slows into the steady pull of sleep. Aragorn smiles into the top of his Steward’s head and he too turns his thoughts toward slumber.
Clouds shield the moon in her skyward march. The streets are silent. The King and the Steward sleep until dawn.
1 Merethrond: the Hall of Feasts in Minas Tirith.
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