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The Cure (NC-17) Print

Written by Minx

29 March 2004 | 13289 words

The Cure

Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Feedback: would love it - greenrivervalley@gmail.com
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Slash
Summary: An extra dosage of a fever cure has side effects that were completely unforeseen. General angst, PWP


Chapter 1

Aragorn stood at the window of the room and watched the city of Minas Tirith spread out before him. The faint sounds of someone stirring made him turn towards the bed. He moved towards it and sat by the reposing figure, smiling quietly into the grey eyes of his Steward.

“How do you feel now?” he asked tenderly, pushing a sweat-dampened lock of hair off the clammy forehead.

“Better,” came the scratchy reply.

“Liar,” Aragorn muttered but his features softened as Faramir sighed and curled up on his side facing the King, “Poor thing,” he murmured gently, as he stroked a wan cheek, “You shall feel much, much better soon. I promise.”

Faramir simply grasped his hand in response, but the grip was weaker than Aragorn had ever known it to be.

“You must drink that brew the healers have sent over. It contains herbs meant for such fevers.”

His patient promptly made a face, “It tastes terrible,” he said unhappily.

“If you do not, I shall write to Éowyn in Rohan and tell her you are ill. She shall return immediately, and all our plans for this week shall be disrupted.”

“They have already been disrupted,” came an almost bitter reply, “Because of my stupidity!”

“Hush!” Aragorn scolded gently, and then stroked the distressed face gently, “ There is no stupidity in falling ill, love. It could happen to anyone. Our plans can always be adhered to another time. For now, I merely wish to see you recover soon. You had us very worried, my sweet.”

Faramir gave him a remorseful look, and the dark lashes dropped. Aragorn sighed softly and bent down to kiss him lightly on his cheek.

He had to use up every ounce of self-control to stop there. It had not taken him long to realise that Faramir in a fevered state could present a very arousing picture. Even now, when he was recovering rapidly from his illness, one look at him was enough to stir up a familiar feeling in his groin. The dark hair was strewn wildly, and stray strands stuck to his damp brow. His face was flushed, and Aragorn could not help but notice that the hue went all the way down to his neck. The heat had forced the steward to leave his shirt half open, and it now lay askew over his squirming body, exposing a glistening shoulder and chest as flushed as his face.

Aragorn had not even realised the younger man had been ill, when he had arrived in Minas Tirith a week ago. Éowyn had left for Rohan with Arwen for company leaving the two men to ostensibly discuss matters of state. Faramir had dismissed his ailment as a light cold and paid no attention to his aching throat or the slight headache he felt. They had gone out hunting and been caught in the rain which only served to aggravate the condition. It was not until Aragorn had reached the Steward’s house later that night, that he had realised Faramir was ill. He had found the younger man leaning against a wall in a near faint, and had just managed to catch him in his arms as he had collapsed. The healers had been called in and they in turn had diagnosed it as the new strain of fever that had broken out in some parts of Gondor.

Aragorn had sat by his bedside and watched the ministrations, until he had been asked to leave. He left but then found to his dismay that he was to be kept away from Faramir for they could not have the king of Gondor falling ill. He had protested vehemently, silencing himself only when he was told Faramir wished him to stay away from the houses of healing too.

He had fretted and fumed but to no avail. All that night he lay awake, wondering how Faramir was feeling, for when he had last seen him, his steward had been writhing uncomfortably between the sheets in the healing room. His eyes had been dazed and the king was not even sure if he had heard him speak to him.

The fever being a new strain, they were still developing the antidote for it. Unfortunately Faramir was one of very few whom it seemed to affect very badly. And he was hit the most. His condition had only worsened the first few days and Aragorn had had a hard time controlling his emotions, when he was allowed to see him. It hurt him tremendously to think that the young man was suffering, and on one particular night when the healers had been excessively worried, he had feared greatly that he would lose one who had come to mean so much to him in so short a span of time.

He had insisted on being allowed to hold him and had sat by the writhing, delirious figure, clutching the thinned wrist and stroking the fevered brow for hours. In his heart, he decided that that had helped. For, the younger man’s health had improved and now, some days later, the healers had acceded to his request to move back to his room in the citadel, for the healing houses were a little crowded, and Faramir chaffed to be there.

A knock on the door interrupted them as a servant came in with some food for Faramir, a bowl of steaming broth that made the patient groan.

“I’m not hungry,” he said irritably.

Aragorn took the bowl and dismissed the servant before turning to his Steward, “Of course you are. You have barely eaten anything ever since you were ill. And you know this is all you are able to have yet. Sit up now.”

He placed the bowl on a table and gently tugged the reluctant man up. Helping Faramir sit up against the pillows, he dipped a small wooden spoon into it and held it up to the steward’s mouth.

“Eat now.”

Faramir simply groaned again and tried to swat Aragorn’s hand away weakly, but was ultimately forced to slowly ingest the broth, spoonful by spoonful. Aragorn held the spoon up to his mouth, each time gazing at the pale lips for a second longer than normal. He longed to simply crush them with a bruising kiss, to feel the younger man’s mouth melt under the force of his passion. Once again, he was made painfully aware of how entrancing Faramir’s body seemed in the flush of fever. Even the warmth of his skin affected Aragorn as their hands brushed.

“Not hungry,” Faramir tried to murmur after a while.

“There’s hardly any left - just a few drops,” Aragorn coaxed, as he held the spoon up.

When it was over, he picked up a wet towel and helped him clean up. Wiping it over the neatly sculpted mouth he let his fingers rest briefly upon the lips. He wrapped an arm around the slumped shoulders and hugged him gently, before bestowing a tiny kiss on the worn forehead, wishing he could make that kiss more forceful, and simply push him down and make love to him.

Faramir sighed in response, a soft little sound that Aragorn was by now used to. That Faramir loved him, he knew. He had said it often, and he said it again now.

Faramir had accepted him as king with an ease that had never failed to amaze Aragorn. The more he had got to know the younger man, the more fond he had become of his quiet natured yet brave and honourable Steward. When the mutual fondness and respect turned to love, he could not say, but it had seemed inevitable. Ever since they had first shared their bed, the love had only grown. It was not a matter they could speak of to anyone for the world of Men would frown upon it, as they were both married. But they loved each other and that was all that mattered.

And that Faramir needed him, he had guessed without being told. But now, in his delirium, Faramir had said much that he would have normally left unspoken. And what Aragorn had guessed had been confirmed. Among those he had cried out for, were the expected ones – his father and brother - both lost during the war of the ring; an experience that had left the Steward more scarred than he cared to admit. But an equally frequent call had gone out for Aragorn.

Faramir curled into his embrace now and shivered a little forcing him to tighten his hold. He slipped an arm around his waist, and at the last moment stopped himself from snaking it any further down.

“You had me so worried,” he said softly as he stroked the limp, dark hair.

“Forgive me,” came the remorseful reply.

“Nay, ‘tis my fault for not noticing you ailed earlier. I was trained in healing after all.”

“No! It is not your fault. You could never do wrong!” the force behind the words startled him as much as the words did.

“You cannot say that,” he said lightly, “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“No,” came the insistent response, “You can do no wrong. You are always good, and kind and just and –,” he broke off suddenly, wearily before whispering, “You do so much for everyone. You did so much for me. The second son of the steward, that is all I was. You made me a prince, though I deserve no such title, and you sit here now and care for me when you should be resting.”

“Hush. You will tire yourself out, if you speak so much,” Aragorn said, his mind still reeling from the words he had heard, “And you are wrong. You deserve your princedom for I know how much you love Ithilien. And you are the Steward now. All that I do for you earned it. And I sit here and care for you, and will do so as long as needed for you deserve that too. I love you much, my Prince, and you must never forget that!”

Grey eyes stared back at him apprehensively, “I am fortunate that you choose to do so.”

Aragorn sighed. Everything that he had normally seen in Faramir’s eyes or read in his actions now seemed to be coming out in words, “That is the fever speaking, love,” he said quietly, “You know I love you and I know you return the feeling. I do not care why I do so, but if you must know, be assured it is because you deserve it. I cannot think that anyone would not love you. But I love you more than anyone else could, and you must never forget that!”

Faramir opened his mouth again but the weariness written across his features did not escape Aragorn's eye. He gently let go of the tired man and nudged him down gently, “Rest now, dear one, and when you wake up, let us not speak of such silly matters.”

Faramir bit back his words and lay down as commanded, but his eyes were still clouded.

“You are ill still,” Aragorn insisted softly, “and you tire yourself out by saying such things. Banish these silly notions from your mind, and do not trouble yourself so, I beg of you, my love. ‘Tis I who should wonder what you see in one so old as I!”

That had the effect opposite of what he desired. Faramir shot up immediately, “I do love you,” he said beseechingly, “I would do anything you ask of me.”

“I know,” he stated soothingly, trying to push Faramir down again, “Lie down now.”

And he did know. He had always been deferred to in their relationship. They met when he wanted to; they made love when he wanted to, and where he wanted to, and, as he wanted to. He would have thought Faramir had no real heartfelt interest in the matter if he had not seen the adoration in his eyes or heard the love in his voice. He had inferred enough to realise that while his Steward could be forceful and decisive in matters of state and put his point across in the council, or in any matter of the mind, when it came to affairs of the heart, he would never take the lead.

They spoke of it just once. He had asked Faramir what he wanted to do, and was told they would do as the King pleased. A suggestion that for once he would like to do what Faramir desired was met with confusion and bewilderment.

“But I desire only to please you, Aragorn,” he had said in a sincere but puzzled tone.

He was scared of losing anyone who loved him, Aragorn had realised. It had struck him very forcefully that deep inside Faramir did not have the belief that he would love him forever. It seemed similar in case of Éowyn. It hurt him but there was little he could do. Faramir himself seemed not to have realised that so he could say little. And that he felt that way was understandable. It stemmed from being the less favoured son of a stern father, who had had no words of love to give to Faramir until too late.

He picked up the medicinal brew now and brought it to the ailing man, “Here, drink this. You will feel better.”

“It smells terrible,” Faramir sighed, “What vile herbs have they put into this?”

“Some new herbs from Khand,” Aragorn said, “You need fear nothing, love. It is safe to ingest. I am sure I remember it from my travels there many years ago. It had a strange name and the leaves had many uses. But the flowers were used for something else . . . I cannot recall what it was.”

Noticing that Faramir looked sleepy, he stopped talking and gently tucked him into bed, coaxing him to lie comfortably, and covering him up.

“Aye, you do everything I want,” he told the sleeping figure, “In your fever you look so lovely, my sweet. If you only knew how much I desire to lie with you now I fear you would forget your fever just to please me.”

Sighing a little he left the room to get some things. He planned to stay by Faramir’s side that night as he slept. He found himself thinking about the herb. He wished he could remember what other use the flowers had for it had been something important and they were rarely used. They gave strength to those recovering from extreme illness yet the people in Khand had used them sparingly.

He returned to Faramir’s room with a blanket and draped it over a chair. The smell of the herbs lingered on in the room. A strange sickly sweet smell, that brought back a fragment of memory. A happy one, he thought, but could not be sure.

He sat in the chair comfortably for it was huge and cushioned, and pulled the blanket over him, trying to jog his memory.

It was when his sleep was interrupted that he remembered what the flowers were used for. Moonlight streamed through the room from the window. Faramir’s face loomed over him as he struggled to open his eyes. Warm breaths fell over his neck and chest.

Long slender fingers were unlacing the bindings of his shirt, even as the other hand slipped underneath the cloth and began playing with his left nipple, the heat of the other man’s skin radiating onto his.

“Faramir?”

“Aragorn!” came the dreamy voice, “Aragorn! My love!” The dark head bent and nuzzled his exposed collarbone, the warmth continuing to creep across his skin. But this time it wasn’t just the warmth of Faramir’s fever, but that of his own aroused body too.

An aphrodisiac! A voice screamed in his head, as a wet tongue slicked over his throat. The flowers were used as an aphrodisiac in Khand!

Chapter 2

Somewhere in his sleep-laden mind Aragorn could piece together disjointed memories of dark haired maidens wearing diaphanous clothes and exotic perfumes and beautiful cream coloured flowers that emanated a strong sweet smell, as the skilled fingers of the courtesans of Khand squeezed them into exquisitely moulded clay bowls.

“Faramir!” he barely had time to gasp out his lover’s name before he found his open mouth claimed in a tender, loving kiss. Sleep left him immediately, as he stared back into enraptured face above him.

His shirt now lay open, exposing his well-muscled chest, and Faramir had wrapped his arms around his neck. He had climbed onto the chair now and was kneeling over Aragorn in such a way as to render it impossible for him to move. His tongue explored Aragorn’s mouth gently, making him moan involuntarily.

The sound made Faramir press his body down further upon him. All that the Steward wore was a thin nightshirt that reached to his knees. But it had ridden up as he knelt and Aragorn could feel an unmistakable hardness pressed against his stomach. He felt his fists clench, as the heat of Faramir’s arousal combine with the kiss threatened to sweep him away. In the hot tongue that set upon him, he could taste the juice of the flowers.

“Did you like that, my liege?” came the hoarse whisper as Faramir drew away. The King bit back a whimper at the feeling of loss that instantly washed over him. Faramir rose in a swift, graceful motion, and held out his hand.

“Come, Sire. Come to my bed, and let me pleasure you,” he said softly. The faint light of the moon played upon the planes of his body under the thin robe he wore, as he waited expectantly. Aragorn automatically put out his hand and grasped the thin, damp wrist. The pulse raced erratically under his fingers, and as further proof, when he raised his eyes, he could see that just his touch had made Faramir throw his head back in ecstasy.

“Aragorn!” he murmured reverentially, before tugging his King over to the bed.

It was the gentle tug that brought Aragorn back to his senses. He gently but firmly disentangled his hand and frowned at his Steward.

“Tell me what you wish me to do, my liege,” Faramir said huskily.

“No!” he replied calmly, “you are ill, and I insist you go back to sleep now. You need the rest! And so do I.”

Thin, long fingers reached up for his cheek and brushed them lightly, “You said you desired to lie with me. I heard you, my liege, my love.”

Aragorn winced mentally. He had thought Faramir had been asleep. The Steward was continuing to speak, “ You will not let a mere fever come in our way will you, my lord? ‘Tis so short a time we get to ourselves. We have wasted enough time already. Come, my King, let me pleasure you,” the voice was rich with a throaty sensuality that had Aragorn clenching his fists.

“Nay – ,” he began weakly, only to stop short as he saw Faramir’s seductively smiling countenance change into a unhappily pouting one.

“Do you not desire me anymore then?” the hand slipped off his cheek.

Aragorn felt his heart wrench at the words. The tone that accompanied them had lost the huskiness. It was raw and unhappy. But Faramir had not given up yet. The hand that had slipped off Aragorn’s cheek, now rested on his bare chest.

“Tell me what I must do then, my liege. I would do anything, you just need tell me. Even if you love me no longer, let me at least give you some joy this night.”

Aragorn grasped the hand that had trailed down from his cheek and stared back into the other man’s eyes.

“Of course I still love you!” he exclaimed, and then gasped as Faramir’s warm fingers began to work on his nipple. The other hand snaked around his waist, and he found his own hands automatically reaching for Faramir’s lithe body and pulling him closer.

In one sudden, swift motion, the younger man reached forward and fell into Aragorn’s open arms, kissing him everywhere. His wet lips roved Aragorn’s bare torso, while his hands pulled the open shirt off. Then, the King suddenly felt himself falling back onto the soft bed behind him, under the onslaught with Faramir spreading his body over his. The pillows felt soft and cool under his back, while at the same time his chest seemed to be on fire as the kisses continued, accompanied by purring sounds from the shapely mouth that was now attacking his flat stomach.

Aragorn moaned softly as a tongue explored his navel and lower belly. Faramir’s hand was toying with the waistband of his leggings, shifting it up and down but never pulling it down completely. He ran his hands up and down the Steward’s back cursing the cloth barrier. He wanted it off, but then that would mean Faramir’s mouth would be off him and he did not want that.

He adjusted himself, leaning forward a little to pull up the thin cloth exposing his lover’s taut backside to him. Faramir made a noise between a squeal and a delight, and lifted his head up to smile at Aragorn. Straightening up, he sat kneeling over Aragorn’s thighs, effectively trapping the King under him, a situation Aragorn found extremely intoxicating.

Meanwhile Faramir had pulled his robe off, revealing the familiar contours of his body. Sweat glistened on the pallid skin, making it seem almost like velvet. Aragorn had seen his lover many times, but this one night, he thought he looked as he had never before. His eyes travelled down from the face, to the chest, down a flat stomach to the arousal that made itself apparent between the Steward’s long flanks, and found himself groaning as a wave of desire swept over him. Faramir’s long, slender fingers went back to the waistband of his leggings. He felt the aching sensation in his groin intensify.

Aragorn tried shutting his eyes and telling himself that Faramir was ill and probably in no condition for to do what Aragorn wanted to do with him. He scrunched his eyes tightly, trying to think up the correct phrase to use. How was he to convince Faramir to lie back quietly, without hurting him immensely? Even one wrong phrase would make the sick man think he was rejecting him. And the effect of the drug was obviously not helping. He had always wondered what Faramir’s thoughts were behind the intense stares he used to bestow upon him at all times. He seemed to be getting a good indication of that now.

The sensation of having his leggings yanked down interrupted his thoughts. Long fingers clasped his erect shaft and stroked him slowly, causing him to nearly shout out. He shuddered as much from the sensation as from the look in those eyes, that even now stared up at him. Grey eyes gazed at him hungrily, questioningly, even as the beautiful lips parted a little, and a pink tongue snaked out, hovering enticingly over his aching shaft.

He tried to tear his eyes away, but he could not. The usually solemn, noble mien of the man he had come to trust the most now looked enchantingly beautiful. There was no other word for it. The flush of fever had seemed attractive, but the drug’s effects had added to that many times over. Wanton need was etched on the thin features.

He nodded almost imperceptibly, unable o help himself. The signal was immediately understood. His tiniest gestures could be interpreted accurately by the younger man.

The shapely mouth closed over his shaft, as Faramir took in the engorged length, not slowly as he usually did, but swiftly this time, sending Aragorn scrabbling at the sheets in an effort to control himself. He grasped at the unruly hair bent over him and felt himself thrusting forward as a skilful tongue attacked him. He had been aching for this ever since he had seen Faramir that evening, and his body responded swiftly. When he came, Faramir took his seed in hungrily, and the trickle of wetness that spread over his legs told him that the Steward had found his release too.

He shuddered as Faramir finally removed his mouth, and collapsed over him, the damp, sweat-lined face resting against his flat stomach, strands of thick hair splayed over his chest.

It was a while before he could sit up slowly and pull Faramir up along with him, holding him in his arms, feeling the warm body of his gentle Steward leaning against him. He gently kissed him on his lips. Faramir reacted promptly and kissed him back, surprising Aragorn. Aragorn felt a hardness against thigh and looking down, remembered what his Steward’s brew had contained.

Faramir moaned needily into his mouth, and thrust himself against Aragorn. The feel of the hardened member sent jolts through the King’s veins, and he closed his eyes trying to control himself. He couldn’t so he opened his eyes again and decided to make the best of the situation.

“Do you know what I really want tonight?” he asked softly pulling away a little.

“Aye, tell me what you want,” it was almost a demand.

“Tonight, I wish to give you all you desire. Why don’t you tell me what it is you desire, my sweet one?”

“You are all I want,” came the muffled reply as Faramir began nuzzling his neck, “I want you – inside me.”

Faramir pressed against him and he could feel the warmth of his arousal against his belly. He was being pushed down again, and Faramir’s legs snaked around his own. They fell together against the pillows, onto their side. His hands strayed to the Steward’s backside, running over them lightly. Then Faramir turned onto his back so that Aragorn lay over him.

“I love you,” he said, his eyes shining and his voice slurred, as he ran his hands all over Aragorn’s body, “I love you inside me. I want you to take me till I scream, my liege.”

Aragorn tried once, reason poking its head through for a brief second, “But dearest you are ill–“

Faramir wrapped a leg around his waist and thrust himself up, positioning his opening near Aragorn’s arousal, “Yes, my love, and you are the one who can always heal me.”

Reason fled promptly.

“I need some oil,” he aid determinedly. He was not going to hurt Faramir.

“Why?”

“Love – “

Faramir grinned lazily up at him, “It is said of you, my liege, that you must have had some magic in your tongue to have charmed the dreaded Lady of Morthond with your words.” He leaned back against the pillows and spread his legs apart exposing himself to Aragorn.

The King of Gondor stared at his lover, who seemed to be making all the decisions. But then, he told himself, that was what he had wanted – for Faramir to make the decisions. So he shrugged and leant down to tiny, puckered opening on offer.

He licked the ring of muscle, and smiled mentally as Faramir squealed in delight. Slowly, he continued to lick the tight ring of muscle but refused to penetrate it yet, sensitising it further and further. Then he stuck his tongue in, and Faramir released an incoherent moaning sound as he slicked it in and out, wetting the narrow passageway liberally. He pulled out causing a whine to emanate from between his lover’s lips. Then he attacked him again, sending his tongue in deeper this time, simultaneously cupping Faramir’s buttocks in his hands and lifting him slightly. He explored him slowly, taking his time, and felt Faramir clutch at his head, somewhere a voice in his head told him he should be forcing Faramir to sleep, but he ignored it, and listened to his lover’s call instead.

“I need you inside me,” the Steward was groaning, “I need to feel you, Aragorn, my love, my king.”

He pulled his tongue inciting an aching whimper. Leaning forward, he brushed Faramir’s lips with his, and then stuck a finger into his passage gently. Faramir smiled dreamily and mumbled out more jumbled words. He pushed it in slowly, gently, feeling the tight wet, channel close around it. He probed on watching as Faramir arched his body up sobbing for more. Then he pulled it out and bending down, stuck his tongue in again. He wet him thoroughly before pulling out again.

“Please Aragorn, my dearest!” the grey eyes looked beseechingly at him, and fell upon his now engorged member. Faramir’s own arousal was glaringly obvious and he seemed to be aching for release as much as Aragorn as. Or, perhaps more, Aragorn thought ruefully, as he remembered his own experiences with the drug.

“Soon, sweetling, soon,” he said reassuringly. Whatever the young one said, he was not going to hurt him now.

He reached towards the small table by the bedside and grasped the jar of oil the healers had been using to massage Faramir’s forehead when he had had a headache. He applied it liberally to his hands and shaft, and then turned back to Faramir whose eyes were upon him, still pleading. Gently preparing Faramir to receive him, he worked his oiled fingers in carefully watching Faramir’s face for any sign of pain as he stretched him. They had not lain together for more than a month now, and Faramir felt very tight. All he saw was the same expression on his face.

Pulling out his fingers, he positioned himself carefully and slowly entered the slicked entrance. Faramir shouted in delight, his sudden noisiness amusing Aragorn greatly. The drug obviously manifested itself in many ways.

He pushed in slowly, allowing the muscles to clench around him.

“Faster,” Faramir screamed.

He ignored him, and thrust slowly in. He brought his hands forward and grasped Faramir’s shaft and began slowly rubbing his hands up and down it, in rhythm with his thrusts.

Faramir jerked up and brought his legs around his waist, his hands clutching at Aragorn arms, the nails raking into his skin, as he arched his back, and shouted again. A sudden intense shudder as Aragorn thrust further in told him he had hit Faramir’s sweet spot. The steward’s release coated his fingers and dripped onto the sheets. He came almost immediately after that.

They collapsed in a heap bonelessly, Faramir kissing him all over his face and chest repeatedly telling him he loved him and that he was the most wonderful being on Arda. Aragorn felt his hot breaths fall all over his skin, and the clammy feel of his lover’s face and sighed.

“Well, you’re not at all wonderful. You never listen to me. You were supposed to sleep!”

Faramir stopped kissing him and looked up, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “Then punish me, dearest,” he said eagerly.

“Your punishment is this,” Aragorn said pulling him close and claiming his lips in a deep, passionate kiss, even as he wondered whether how long the drug’s effects lasted. He had little energy left, while Faramir seemed to be ready to jump out of bed and fight an army of Orcs single-handedly. It would fade as the drug’s effect faded, he knew, and Faramir would be back to normal.

Faramir hugged him tight, and Aragorn was suddenly worried to note that the heat radiating off his lover’s body had increased now.

“Love,” he murmured uncertainly, “you are ill, youngeling. Please rest now, dear one.”

And surprisingly this time, Faramir murmured in acquiescence, his head sinking tiredly against Aragorn’s chest. The drug seemed to be wearing away.

Chapter 3

Aragorn waited until the warm breathing hitting his chest had evened out, before he tried to move out of Faramir’s embrace. Faramir’s arms were wrapped snugly around him, and he was forced to shift them. The movement resulted in a soft whimper from the Steward but he remained asleep. Aragorn gently lifted him and placed him on the pallet near the large fireplace, covering him up in the blankets that had fallen to the floor. Then he cleaned himself up and pulling on spare clothes, replaced the soiled bedclothes rapidly.

Picking up a wet towel, he proceeded to wipe Faramir’s bare skin clean, slowly and tenderly, letting his hands explore the thinned body in detail. Faramir looked completely worn out. There were dark circles under his eyes that stood out against the ashen paleness of his face, and thin lines had formed around his mouth. Aragorn’s long fingers brushed over numerous battle scars that dotted Faramir’s chest and back and his long limbs. Many years spent defending Gondor against the shadow had left their mark on the brave young man.

He felt warm to touch and Aragorn was soon left berating himself for having succumbed to Faramir’s request. The younger man had been so ill; he should have forced him to rest, instead of listening to him, and making love to him.

“But I could never resist you, my sweet,” he murmured softly as he swathed him in blankets once again and carried him back to the bed. Laying him down on the bed, he ensured that Faramir was comfortably clothed in a fresh sleeping robe and covered in blankets. The only robe he had been able to find had been his own. It was a little large, but it was warm.

The younger man mumbled something and snuggled into the warmth of the bedclothes. He lay curled up on his side, his face turned towards Aragorn. The King gently pushed the stray strands of hair stuck to his face and kissed his lover lightly on his temple. Faramir’s expression relaxed immediately, and the tired lines seemed to vanish, as a soft sigh escaped from between his lips.

Aragorn drew away and moving towards the table, began to sort out the herbs kept there, searching for an alternative. The after effects of the medicine Faramir had taken were excellent and highly desirable, but his lover was in no condition to experience them once again. They needed to change the medicine. Faramir had been too ill to indulge in any activity that could get as strenuous as the lovemaking he had literally demanded from Aragorn.

He should not have listened, he thought to himself. Faramir looked so tired right now, and he had fallen asleep almost immediately. He knew from experience that his Steward rarely slept so easily, usually lying awake instead till the wee hours before drifting into a light slumber, often plagued by painful dreams.

He had often woken up in the few nights they spent together, to find Faramir’s grey eyes focussed intently upon him. He would invariably make love to his Steward all over again, revelling in just feeling the supple body encased in his arms. And Faramir would quietly submit to his desires, asking in return merely to be held in his arms.

The rustling sound of sheets interrupted his thoughts, and he turned towards the sound only to see Faramir moving restlessly in his sleep, throwing his blankets into disarray. He was by his side in an instant, holding him, and calming him down, pulling him away from whatever nightmare haunted his sleep then. He had done this often and each time it would take little more than his touch to soothe the younger man. It was the same this time. Faramir curled into Aragorn’s embrace, his breathing shallow and rapid, as beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. When Aragorn tried to move away, he whimpered, and moved closer in his sleep, swinging one slender leg over Aragorn’s thigh.

The sight of the bare limb over his leg nearly drove Aragorn into distraction, but he had heard the tremor in the faint sob that had resulted from his movement.

“I am here,” he whispered reassuringly to his unconscious lover as he gently nudged the bare leg off and pulled the blankets up again, all the while continuing to hold Faramir in his arms. When he was done he lay back against the pillows and let the still sleeping man rest his head against his chest. He could not possibly let Faramir suffer a relapse of his illness, all because he, the King of Gondor, could not control his lust.

He ran his hands through Faramir’s hair, smiling as he noted how the usually neat hair was now a dark unruly clump. He fingered his drawn face slowly, tracing out the sharp contours wishing as he had on numerous occasions before, that his lover could have been spared all the ordeals he had gone through. He had battled so many things in so few years, been hurt so often, and lost much he loved, and yet survived everything bravely, but still retained humility and gentleness. Three nights ago, Aragorn had been afraid he was going to lose him forever, and that to a mere fever.

It had reminded him rather painfully that Faramir, although he had Númenórean blood in his veins, would not live as long as he would. He would do anything to see him happy. A part of his mind argued that he had made Faramir happy by giving him what he wanted this night, but the other part argued that he had merely given into his lust because Faramir had looked so appealing, unmindful of the exhaustion he would cause him.

He felt extremely contrite for his Steward did indeed look completely worn out, and to Aragorn’s eye, he still retained the strange attractiveness that the fever seemed to cause. This time, he had a faint hint of a smile too on his sleeping visage.

He didn’t seem to be in pain, Aragorn decided. He’d never forgive himself if he caused Faramir to hurt. Thankfully, his illness did not seem to be worsening yet either. He found himself drifting off, his young lover still ensconced in his arms.

He was wide-awake, however, when Faramir began to stir. He stayed by his side, quietly watching him awaken. It was a rare sight to his eyes. Faramir would usually be the one awake, staring at him whenever they lay together. If ever he had awoken before Aragorn, it would have been due to some terrible dream. This time however, the dreams that may have floated through Faramir’s head seemed to have been pleasant ones. But he was still worried about his health.

Grey eyes opened sleepily to his gaze. Aragorn smiled. Faramir looked so endearing as his expression turned puzzled and confused while he tried to make out his surroundings and at the same time, pleased at the sight of Aragorn’s face.

“Aragorn,” he whispered softly, his voice still sounding husky.

“How do you feel now, dearest?” he asked tenderly while aiding Faramir in his attempts to sit up.

Faramir’s eyes widened a little as though he were still trying to decipher how he had woken up in Aragorn’s arms.

“I am well,” he replied distantly, looking down at the robe he wore, “But why am I in your clothes?”

“Your clothes were soiled last night,” Aragorn explained.

“Last night -,” Faramir spoke uncertainly, and then his eyes widened as the memory of their revels hit him in full force.

“I – last night -,” the distressed voice trailed off as he shut his eyes and a flush spread over his pale cheeks, a ruddy hue that promptly sparked off a warmness in Aragorn’s groin.

The King took a deep breath to control himself, before replying remorsefully, “Forgive me sweetheart. You were ill and I should not have –“

“But you didn’t,” Faramir spoke wide-eyed, “I forced it.”

He pulled away from Aragorn’s embrace, all the while muttering unhappily, “I behaved so disgracefully. You must hate me so, to have forced you to make love to me. I know you did not wish to.”

“Why would I hate you for wishing me to make love to you? I wish or no more, dearest but not when you are so ill and weary. I tired you out needlessly when I should have insisted you rest.”

But Faramir seemed not to be listening. He continued speaking in hurried phrases, the words tripping over each other, “Forgive me for not heeding your words, Aragorn. I know you wished not to lie with me tonight, but I made you.”

“Faramir!” Aragorn couldn’t help the raised tone, “Stop saying that!”

Tear-filled fevered eyes glanced fearfully up at him, “You are angry with me,” Faramir spoke uncertainly.

“Yes, I am!” Aragorn growled as he stood up, and walked over to the window. He found he could not stop the words coming out now, “Do you not love me Faramir? Tell me now and I shall never bother you again.”

He heard a gasp from behind him, but he didn’t turn. He would never have confessed to this fear of his, but Faramir’s words had hurt him, though he knew the Steward would never have intended so. But the fever had made a different man of him, and Aragorn found himself scared now that he would learn what he had so far managed to hide from.

“I – Aragorn, - ”

“Do you feel anything at all for me?” he asked brutally, his voice hard.

He heard the rustling of clothes from behind him. Faramir seemed to be rising from bed. The tiny, unhappy voice came from behind him.

“Forgive me. I did not mean for this to happen. I do not know what came over me. But to see you here by my side, and when I heard you say that you wished to lie with me this night, I thought- I only wished to please you Aragorn,” the voice had turned hoarse and pleading now.

Aragorn shut his eyes in despair, “Do you love me Faramir? A simple yes or no will suffice,” he repeated calmly, turning around to stare at the drooping figure of his Steward.

The ashen face lifted up, shock mirroring the worn expression, “I love you Aragorn,” Faramir said beseechingly.

“And yet you do not trust me?” Aragorn responded tiredly.

“I do trust you! Since the day you saved me from the shadows. I knew you were the King. You could be no one else. I knew I could give Gondor over to you.”

“You trust me with Gondor but not with your heart?” he asked brutally.

“I would trust you with my life!” Faramir protested.

“With your heart, Faramir. Do you trust me to love you forever, unheeding of what others may say, or of what may happen?”

Faramir nodded brokenly, tears now flowing down his pale cheeks, “I trust you with all I have, Aragorn. You saved me.”

“Is that all I am then? Your saviour? To pull you out of the shadows.”

“Nay. You save me everyday. Without you, there is naught for me here. Believe me Aragorn, please, I beg of you. Why do you doubt me so today? Is it for what I have done? I was not myself, Aragorn forgive me,” Faramir was almost swaying on his feet as he spoke, and Aragorn had to put out his hand to support him.

For a moment he almost thought, the hand might be shrugged off, but then it was accepted gratefully.

“Then why will you not believe me if I tell you that I love you and that nothing you do will change that? It is you I love, loveling, and if you, one day, choose to ask me to make love to you, I will willingly do it. Why do you fear me so? Do I seem so stern to you, my love that you cannot ask me for what you desire?”

The dark head fell into his shoulder, “Nay, it is not what I please that is of aught. It is what you please that we must do. I will not lose you,” he muttered fervently. The heat radiated off his forehead onto Aragorn’s shoulder through the cloth.

“Faramir!” he said shocked, “You would never lose me love. How can you speak so?” He gently pulled him away and stared into the stricken face quietly.

“I do not want to lose you,” Faramir sobbed incoherently, “One day, you too, will see for what I am and stop loving me.”

“What do you say?” Aragorn exclaimed uncertainly.

“You will realise how worthless I am and you will love me no longer. I am of no use. Father spoke true. I was ever the lesser man.”

“Faramir!”

His literally shouted out the name causing Faramir to look up, out of scared eyes that wrenched at Aragorn’s heart. He had never realised how much of an impact Denethor continued to have on his lover even after his death.

It was obvious such thoughts had remained dormant in the younger man’s mind for long now, and the impact of the fever had brought them out, loosening his tongue and his self-control. For, under normal circumstances, Faramir would never have admitted to such matters. He spoke rarely of his father, preferring instead to dwell on the happier memories of his brother’s love and affection for him.

“I do see you for what you are,” Aragorn said softly, clasping the warm face in his hands and staring into the deep grey eyes, “I see you for the lovely noble man you are, for the brave captain, the intelligent scholar and the sweetest lad I have ever known. You are you, my dearest, and it is you I love. Do you truly doubt me, sweetest?”

The same scared expression dotted Faramir’s visage.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you doubt my love for you,” Aragorn insisted.

“I could never doubt you,” came the hoarse reply, and Aragorn automatically found his spirits lifting. He had been foolish, he knew, to think that Faramir might not love him, but for a while he had feared that to be the case.

The hands that had hung limply by Faramir’s sides now suddenly wrapped themselves around Aragorn, the grip very weak, but there nevertheless, “Forgive me,” Faramir whispered, his head sinking against his king’s chest.

“You keep asking my forgiveness, love. It sounds – trite, now.”

“I know you love me, and I do trust you, but the fear never leaves me.”

“Then I will drive it away for you,” Aragorn said firmly, gently stroking his hair.

A stifled sob made him lift the drooping chin in concern, “Faramir?”

Faramir’s eyes were brimming over.

“What is it, love? Do you hurt anywhere?” he asked frantically, shocked to see the stricken expression upon the Steward’s face. He placed a palm against the exposed throat. It was warm to touch, “What is it you require, love?”

“You. I beg of you. Please Aragorn, stay with me tonight.” He raised a curled fist and wiped his eyes, and then sniffed softly.

The gesture completely undid Aragorn’s resolve. Faramir seemed to be hurting terribly, and he would do anything to prevent that.

“I had every intention of doing so,” he promised softly.

He tugged him towards the bed, sank down next to him, and pulling him closer, hugged him gently.

They stayed that way awhile, in each other’s arms; the Steward slumped against his King for he had no strength to stand on his own. The King meanwhile, found he loved holding his lover in his arms so, as he soothed his fears away, holding him as one would hold a child.

They spoke after awhile, of simple, ordinary things, of the weather outside, and how they could go riding when Faramir’s health improved. Outside, the sun rose, a thin line against the horizon. They even spoke of the herbs from Khand and how Aragorn had encountered them in a courtesan’s house, where he had had to take refuge once, a story that made Faramir laugh.

It thrilled Aragorn to hear him laugh like that and see his mood improve.


“I do not like how I behaved last night,” Faramir gulped, his head still in Aragorn’s shoulder, “Can I make it up to you?” he raised his head, and attempted a coquettish grin, failing miserably as the pallor on his face showed up how awful he felt inside.

“Yes,” Aragorn said promptly, “Get to sleep, you little imp. And take what rest you can for there is much work to do! The papers are piling up on my desk and the councillors are beginning to get tiresome, and no one will let you work for some days yet, so I must do it all!”

Faramir gave him a guilty look, but before he could start off again, Aragorn placed a hand on his lips, “Say nothing! I merely jest. But rest you must, and I will ensure you do that if I must tie you to the bed.”

“Tie me to the bed?” Faramir inquired with a small smile, “I should like that.”

“Really?”

“Those flowers – are they all destroyed?”

“Why, need more, do you? Have you not thrown yourself wantonly upon me enough for one day, my dear loveling?”

“Well . . . you seemed to like it.”

“Go to sleep, dearest!”

Relapse

Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Warnings: Explicit slash
Notes: For Anne Robbins who wished to see dear Faramir tied to the bed;-)
Summary: A sequel to The Cure – Aragorn wishes to wait for Faramir to recover completely from his illness. Faramir is tired of waiting. And an herb from Khand seems a good solution. PWP


Faramir was thinking of Aragorn. He could feel the frustration welling up inside him. Theirs was not a relationship that could be maintained in the open, and both men were married. What little time they got to each other was precious and savoured slowly. This was the first time that Éowyn and Arwen were both away at the same time. They had had plans of a few weeks in each other’s company in Aragorn’s private chambers in the citadel.

Instead, he had fallen ill.

Aragorn had in turn displayed an overly protective side tending to him meticulously after the healers had released him from their care. They had made love just once during his illness, an experience heightened by an aphrodisiac that had been given to him. But he had suffered a relapse a day after that, and Aragorn had been convinced it was caused by the exertion from that act.

He insisted now on waiting until Faramir had recovered fully. It was futile to try and convince him otherwise. And Faramir had tried till he was hoarse. He had begged, pleaded and cajoled, reminding his king that such time as they had was little but Aragorn refused to budge. He would hold him possessively, kiss him on the top of his head, and tell him to get better soon.

Faramir was recovering, but slowly. And to his mind too slowly. It was irritating, but the relapse had weakened him considerably, and apparently frightened Aragorn a great deal. He had faint memories of being held in his arms as he thrashed around in a fever for the second time in a fortnight.

He was unable to understand this ardent desire Aragorn had developed to coddle him, as he felt it to be. He was, after all, a grown man, a prince, and a warrior, but the King seemed not to care these days. He was tender and caring as though he held delicate glass in his hands. To Faramir, Aragorn’s happiness meant everything. He had revered him since they had first met, and as time went by, he never failed to realise how much Aragorn did for him, how even through his gestures and words he lifted his spirits in the days after the war. Faramir had then slowly succumbed to the depression of losing his family and it was Aragorn with his words and deeds that had helped him. And when their friendship had turned to love, it was as though he had received all he could ever ask for.

He wanted desperately to give Aragorn what he wanted now. And he knew what the King wanted; he could see it in his eyes. He could not miss the hunger in Aragorn’s eyes. It flattered him but it also worried him for that hunger remained unquenched. He had tried.

He had literally thrown himself on Aragorn only to be gently placed back in bed again with strict orders to not get up. He had tried to kiss Aragorn, tried unashamedly to paw him and arouse him but the ploy had met with little success. All they had managed was a deep, passionate kiss. Aragorn had withdrawn with great reluctance.

“No, I will not have you fall ill again!” he had said, “A few more days that is all you need. It is just as hard for me, but I cannot forget what a fearful sight you appeared in your illness!”

The hunger in Aragorn’s eyes, and the love in his embrace kept all of Faramir’s doubts at bay as he wondered how he could get Aragorn into bed with him. To be around his beloved for so many days, to see him each day, be near him, and feel his touch, yet not be made love to by him was maddening.

Aragorn had finally relented and decreed that the day he could walk into his chamber alone and without help would be the momentous day. He had tried that early in the morning only to find his strength flagging when he was not even halfway there. He would probably have fallen to the ground if Aragorn had not caught him. The memory of being swept up and carried back to his room was unforgettable. He had let Aragorn carry him for he felt too tired to protest. He had tried nuzzling Aragorn, so much that when they had reached his room, he had been deposited on his feet and subjected to long, lingering kiss. The tiredness had suddenly seemed to vanish.

The lips had closed in on his and he sighed softly, letting Aragorn’s tongue explore his mouth. His king’s arms tightened around him and he found himself sinking into the embrace, unable to stand on his own much longer. He felt the hands around him slip lower brushing his rear in an electrifying touch that sent him thrusting his body towards Aragorn’s.

But then, Aragorn had pulled back remorsefully, and told him to get better soon.

It was later that morning that Faramir had the idea. While searching for his healing herbs, he had come across a lovely flower. He realised that he held in his hands the same powerful aphrodisiac he had ingested. Aragorn had insisted on getting rid of it, but this one flower had got mixed with some other herbs. To pound it to paste in a little pestle had not taken him long, and when Aragorn had joined him for the noon meal, he had quietly slipped the paste into a bowl of soup while Aragorn went to get some more fruit for him.

Then he simply sat and waited hoping he had not made an error and used too little.

By evening nothing had happened and he cursed himself for being stupid and ill trained as a healer. His plan had failed and he felt a headache begin to assault him as the excitement that had coursed through his veins all day died out. Stumbling out of his bed, he went over to his table where his books lay, hoping to find something to read. Leaning across the wooden surface, he examined the pile of bound volumes stacked in a row. He heard the soft footfalls and recognised them.

Before he could turn around, however, and greet his King, a strong pair of hands wrapped around his waist.

“Now, love, out of bed again?”

He leaned back into the embrace, closing his eyes, “I was just –,” he started off, but then he felt the hand slip lower down and his voice trailed off uncertainly.

“You looked so lovely bent over the table. I could take almost take you, dear heart. I must have you tonight love. I hunger to feel you, and you, sweetest one, are most appetising today.”

The flowers, Faramir thought to himself gleefully. They are working. How else could Aragorn find him enticing when he was such a terrible sight in his recovery? He had lost much weight, making his lanky frame now look bony, and his skin was always flushed uncomfortably, while his face was marked with ridges and furrows, and his hair lay mussed and unkempt all the time from his constant tossing and turning.

The hand was now resting on his crotch, pressing down only very lightly. But that was enough. Faramir gasped pleasurably at the light pressure that was applied, and tried to turn his face towards Aragorn’s only to find his King’s other hand snaking around his chest and preventing him from doing so.

“Do you like that?” Aragorn asked huskily in his ear, “Being pawed like this like a tavern wench. I would take you over this very table, dearest!” The hand on his torso was now lightly pinching his nipples through the thin cloth while the other continued to rub up and down his lower stomach.

The feeling of the fingers brushing his nipples through cloth had Faramir crying for more. He felt himself pushed against the table, his hardness coming in contact with the cold edge of wood. The hand left his lower body and he grunted in protest at the loss of the touch, but Aragorn soothingly patted him on his back.

He leant over the table obediently, bent forward slightly using his palms for support even as Aragorn continued to hold him. He felt his hair being swept away and a series of kisses being deposited on the back of his neck even as his torso was stroked from behind.

Then his robe was pushed up and a hand stroked his backside, gently at first, and then hungrily, dipping into the cleft.

He felt Aragorn bend over and heard him whisper into his ear, “How inviting you look this way, love. I just want to push myself through your tight, little passage, and give you pleasure.”

“Then accept the invitation, My Lord,” he whispered back hoarsely.

A low chuckle followed his words, and he sighed in pleasure at the sound.

“Soon, sweetling, soon.”

Faramir parted his legs in anticipation thrusting forward into the table in desire, feeling the cold wood press against his sensitive flesh, “Aye, my liege. I await you.”

“Nay, not like this. Not like some tavern wench!” Aragorn stated and pulling Faramir up, turned him around so they were face to face.

“Why not?” Faramir countered promptly. As long as Aragorn made love to him he cared little what method he used, “For you, I would be taken in any manner.”

“Love, you deserve far more than that.” Aragorn said softly, cupping his chin and kissing him roughly.

He moaned involuntarily as the hands stroked him, lifting his robe. Cool fingers played on his bare skin and he felt himself thrusting forward yet again, even as Aragorn’s mouth plunged deeper into his. The fingers danced lightly over the curve of his buttocks before cupping them roughly, while the lips pressed down on him. He could feel himself hardening against Aragorn’s hardness.

The fingers brushed his entrance and he almost gasped. Aragorn had released his mouth now and was nuzzling his chin and neck instead. He was almost ecstatic at the sensation. For days he had wanted nothing but this. The thin cloth of his robe was fast becoming soaked in his sweat and a blackness threatened to overwhelm him as the friction of the hardness rubbing against his erection seared through him.

Then the lips withdrew inciting a whine from him. He opened his eyes to find Aragorn gazing hungrily at him.

“My sweet Faramir, long have I waited for this! I’m going to take you, my love.”

“Aye, my lord,” he whispered softly, and ran a finger down Aragorn’s face. Years of outdoor living had given it a weathered feel that had never quite disappeared even under the finery of his kingly attire.

Aragorn gasped and tightened his hold on Faramir, “How I want you tonight! To feel your sweet, lovely body under mine, to make you scream with pleasure as I enter you,” he murmured, grasping Faramir’s hand in his.

“Take me now, Aragorn,” Faramir whispered, “We have waited long enough for this moment.

“I will,” Aragorn assured, “But, how should I take you, I wonder?” Aragorn murmured when they came apart once again.

“Upon the table,” he urged, feeling a flicker inside him at the thought of being pressed down upon the unyielding wood surface by Aragorn.

Aragorn pulled him closer and murmured softly, “I have often wished to grab you in the middle of one of those exhaustingly long council meetings, lay you out on the high table and take you right there.”

“In front of all the councillors?” Faramir asked smiling a little.

“Of course not!”

“Oh, but an audience would be so desirable! The King of the realm and his Steward!” he chuckled softly.

“What!” Aragorn growled, “And let them see what a lovely treasure I have unearthed under their very eyes. What if they tried to steal you away from me? Nay, love, you are mine and mine alone!” So saying, he bent down to kiss Faramir upon the lips.

“Aye, I wish to be yours alone,” Faramir said softly.

“Then you shall be. Come let me use your bed as a lover should.”

He felt himself being scooped up in his King’s arms and laughed softly as he was deposited on the soft bed, gently. He looked up at Aragorn expectantly, and then with satisfaction as the long, slender fingers reached for the thin material of his robe.

It was whipped off unceremoniously exposing his bare body to the feasting eyes of his King. Faramir smiled up at him as he stretched out under his feral gaze, parting his legs slightly in invitation.

Aragorn sat by his side, and then reached a hand out to stroke his face in slow, deliberate movements. Faramir found himself moaning just at the touch. The long fingers still slick with his saliva, moved rhythmically up and down, the touch gentle and almost flighty in nature.

“My sweet, lovely Faramir,” Aragorn crooned softly, “Your fever makes you look beautiful, love. I could make love to you all night!”

“Aye, do so, my lord,” Faramir gasped out as the stroking continued. He had never thought that merely a touch to his cheek could induce such a sensation in him, but Aragorn’s hands seemed to have a magic in them.

Aragorn leaned over and swinging one leg across his lover’s body, pressed down on him, bringing his lips close to his face and whispered, “And what else should I do with you?”

“Whatever you wish to do, Aragorn. I am but yours to command,” Faramir arched back as he felt Aragorn’s groin brush against his, “I seek only to please you, my liege,” he murmured, stretching his legs apart a little as Aragorn pressed down upon him some more.

“Shall I tie you to the bed, my dearest, and enter you till you scream?”

“Yes, oh yes,” he breathed out. This Aragorn was so different from his usual protective self, that Faramir felt a tingle of excitement coursing through his veins. The thought of being tied up and lying at the mercy of Aragorn had him trembling in anticipation. And how much pleasure Aragorn would derive from that!

He watched as Aragorn picked up his robe from the floor and promptly tore it up. He opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it as his hand was lifted and one long piece of material was used to bind his wrist to the bedpost. Then one his second wrist was similarly tied up, and he soon lay spread out under Aragorn’s gaze. He panted softly as he felt Aragorn’s eyes rove his exposed body. With his hair askew, and his flushed skin coated with a thin sheen of sweat, he wondered if Aragorn would still want him.

But he need not have worried.

“Beautiful,” the king breathed out at the tableau in front of him. He undressed himself rapidly and Faramir sighed in pleasure at the sight of the familiar body.

He waited tense with eager anticipation, as Aragorn bent over him. Spreading his legs, he made to fold them at the knee when a hand upon his thigh stopped him. He shot a puzzled glance at Aragorn’s face, worried that he might have changed his mind. But the hunger in the grey eyes indicated otherwise, so he obediently straightened his legs out.

Aragorn smiled lovingly at Faramir and lying down upon him, spread his body over his, gently brushing his bulging erection against his thighs. Faramir gasped at the sensation, and then almost cried aloud as his King lowered his mouth on his right nipple. As the tongue slowly circled the stiffening nub, Faramir found himself tugging at his wrists. He felt an intense desire to thrash his limbs around, but even his legs were immobile now for Aragorn held them firmly in place between his knees.

He was trapped completely under Aragorn. Just the thought was enough to heighten his arousal, pressing against Aragorn’s flat stomach. Having no other recourse, he found himself emitting soft, throaty cries of pleasure.

The sound made Aragorn raise his head, releasing the nipple. But the mouth was replaced immediately with his thumb, stroking gently, as he smiled at Faramir.

“What do you say, love?” he asked softly, “I do not understand.”

His other hand came up to finger the left nipple now, and almost simultaneously, he lowered his mouth on Faramir’s capturing his lips and blocking out his cries.

Faramir found himself bucking violently in pleasure, as his nipples were twisted under skilful fingers and his King’s mouth ravished his relentlessly. An intense ache seized his groin, and he found himself desperately he rubbing against Aragorn, causing the King to let go of his mouth and chest, and sit up, still trapping his legs.

“Patience, loveling,” he crooned pleasantly, “What is it you want?”

“Take me now!” Faramir cried out urgently, “I need you now!”

“Aye, I need you too,” Aragorn laughed softly and placed a hand upon Faramir’s lower belly. His own erection was bulging, and Faramir knew he would be aching for release too, and sooner for he would be under the influence of the flowers.

Two fingers were inserted into his mouth, and under Aragorn’s instructions he quickly licked them well, coating them with his saliva, running his tongue over them, an act that was in itself proving immensely pleasurable. A third finger rapidly joined them, then a fourth. They explored his mouth lovingly, pulling down the lower lip, going under his tongue, stroking his cheeks from inside.

When the fingers were withdrawn, he whimpered in need. Aragorn laughed softly again.

“Nay, loveling, there is elsewhere those fingers would rather be,” he said stooping over to kiss him fleetingly on the lips.

Pushing Faramir’s legs further apart Aragorn knelt in front of him. He grasped his legs and made him fold them at the knees, stretched apart. Then he lifted Faramir up a little and placed a pillow under his lower back so that the tiny little puckered entrance that he wanted to penetrate lay in front of his eyes.

Faramir thrust his hips up in invitation desperately. He could feel a pent up intensity searing through him as he waited. Aragorn was being maddeningly slow. He had bent his head down now.

Faramir almost screamed when he felt a warm rush of air blow over his entrance. Aragorn looked up grinning wickedly.

“Like that, love?”

He did it once again, this time blowing for a longer period of time. Faramir shut his eyes and moaned. Then he felt the fingers brush lightly over the same spot.

Aragorn thrust two fingers into him in a single stretch, scissoring them into his tight entrance, the slickness of his tongue having done a little to ease their passage in. But it was not enough when the third finger too was pushed in, and Faramir grunted involuntarily in pain, as they pushed into the unyielding passage trying to stretch it to fit them. His muscles clenched around the fingers and he hissed as Aragorn thrust in again, this time stretching them apart, attempting to widen the channel. He found himself straining on his arms but the bindings were too tight. His legs began to thrash as the thrusting went on, and then his body suddenly wracked itself. He cried out in pleasure as Aragorn touched his sweet spot, and then whined loudly as he withdrew from inside him.

“Please Aragorn, I must have you inside me,” he sobbed out.

“I love it when you plead so,” Aragorn said.

“I beg you!”

“Hush, soon,” Aragorn assured him, as he poised his erect member between Faramir’s legs, and slowly began to push the full length into him.

This time, Faramir thrust himself forward eagerly to receive him, and together the two men rocked in unison as Aragorn pushed into his lover’s body. Faramir felt himself being stretched, almost painfully, but the sensation of Aragorn’s fingers in that special place was yet to leave him. One touch there, and he knew the pleasure would be untold. He tugged at the bindings that held his wrists, ineffectually, and clenched his legs around Aragorn’s waist as the man pushed into him, until he was sheathed completely inside him. Faramir’s muscles were now clenched tight around Aragorn’s bulging member.

The King began thrusting slowly at first and then faster, as he pushed deeper and deeper into the tight, hot channel, moaning incoherently all the while, his hands clutching Faramir’s waist in a bruising grip.

Faramir was moaning incessantly too. The stretching hurt, but he knew what was to come and just the thought of it was driving him to madness. He thrust himself upwards to meet Aragorn’s movements. A hand closed over his erect member causing him to gasp. Soon Aragorn was pumping him in keeping with his thrusts, and Faramir found himself crying even louder. Aragorn’s hand worked its way up and down. The other hand continued to clutch at his waist, the fingers digging into his skin, but he ignored the pain. He could do nothing more than buck his body in response. He strained at his hands with each thrust as waves of pleasure rode through him. His fingers wrapped around the post his wrists were tied to, while he thrashed his legs as he thrust himself upwards to match Aragorn’s thrusts.

Then he felt the grip tighten even as a burst of pleasure shot through him. They climaxed together, Faramir emptying himself at the same moment that he felt Aragorn’s release spurt out inside him. The pleasure overrode everything, even the hot wet sticky fluid inside him onto his thighs and his own release coating his stomach.

He had been crying out he realised now, crying out Aragorn ‘s name. Aragorn was kissing him, running his hands through his hair.

He fell back limply, Aragorn still inside him, and tried to hold back the needy sob he felt when Aragorn pulled out of him.

“Don’t cry love,” Aragorn said reassuringly as he kissed him.

Faramir was beginning to feel tired and sore. And happy. He was half-asleep when he felt his wrists being unbound. It ached even to lower his arms, while his wrists felt quite numb. Aragorn seemed to be chaffing them. It set off little pinpricks of pain as the blood flowed back into his numbed fingers but the feel of Aragorn’s hands over his could make Faramir ignore even that pain.

Then Aragorn kissed his wrists gently, lowering wet lips on the reddened, inflamed skin. Faramir almost cried out at the sensation of pain and pleasure that simultaneously filled his mind. Tears stung his eyes, and he opened them to see Aragorn gazing down at him tenderly. He lay in his King’s arms, his head resting against his chest. He felt extremely tired. And as he looked up to Aragorn’s face he could see he looked weary too. He could remember now that exhaustion had slowly and suddenly crept onto him as the effect of the flowers had worn away. Aragorn was perfectly healthy, but he had little doubt that he would be feeling worn out too soon.

“I love you,” he said to the elder man and received a smile in response.

“I am honoured, love,” Aragorn replied teasingly, and ran a hand along his hip.

Faramir sighed and snuggled closer into his embrace, and then realised for the first time that the stickiness on his lower body was a little discomforting.

“We need to clean up,” he said.

“I do not wish to rise,” Aragorn stated, “We can clean ourselves quite well from here.”

Before he had a chance to realise what Aragorn meant, Faramir had been laid on his back, and a wet, pink tongue was lapping at his lower belly. He bit his lower lip at the touch. Just the sight of that little pink tongue roving his skin was making him ache again. He squirmed as the tongue moved lower, and licked him between his legs, cleaning up the liquids caked around his entrance. He was still a little sore, after the repeated bouts of lovemaking, and the slick touch stung him sharply, making him arch back.

“Now, it’s your turn,” Aragorn said softly.

He rose and moving over to his King, obediently used his tongue to clean his lower stomach. He lapped his tongue against the semi-erect member that lay covered in Aragorn’s release, lovingly taking his time to rove over the warm, soft flesh, and loving the shuddering sounds he was inciting from Aragorn. He felt fingers curl around his hair, as he continued to lick away at his lover’s arousal, watching it grow thick with desire.

“Stop, now,” Aragorn ground out, and he obediently stopped.

“I must have you, again,” Aragorn groaned, as he pulled him up, and stared into his eyes, questioningly, “I need you again if you like. Would you, dear? I hope you would, for I certainly feel like doing nothing else!”

Faramir stared back into the deep, grey eyes and forgot his tiredness promptly. Lying back, he smiled invitingly at his King and pulled him down upon him, encouraging him along as he made love to him, this time more energetically and with greater force. The last bout had left Faramir fairly exhausted and it took him longer to climax this time. Even Aragorn was beginning to tire out when they were done, and both men collapsed in each other’s arms exhaustedly.

“You were wonderful sweetheart,” Aragorn muttered to him, as he felt the numbness of sleep descend over his worn body.


When Faramir awoke, it was to heavy shaking. He groaned and opening his eyes found himself looking into the face of his beloved King, drenched in moonlight, creased in extreme worry as he shook him awake.

“Love! Are you alright? Are you feeling ill? Do you hurt anywhere?” he asked urgently, pulling Faramir into his arms.

The Steward lay there limply, feeling in no mood to budge from the comforting embrace, and rested his head against Aragorn’s chest.

“I love you,” he mumbled.

“Yes, dear, but how do you fee?. Oh, what have I done? Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what?” he asked snaking a hand around his King’s waist and hugging him tight.

“For doing what I did. I do not know how I lost control as I did. I should not have. You are ill. My poor, little one. You should have stopped me!”

“Stop you making love to me? Never!” Faramir declared avowedly, “I wanted nothing more.”

“Nay, I should not have done so.”

“You did not. ‘Twas the flowers, my liege. They did this to you.”

Aragorn stared at him in disbelief, and slowly disengaged from his embrace.

They spent the next few moments in a heated discussion. Aragorn alternating between self-recrimination and remonstrating Faramir for having drugged him, and Faramir contrite but insistent that he had wanted what Aragorn had done.

“You asked me to trust you and your love!” the younger man finally shouted out, “why can you not trust me too?”

“I have always trusted your love.”

“Then believe me when I tell you that I needed this and a mere illness was too minor a thing to stand in the way. I could take it no longer, Aragorn. I have not your endless patience.”

“It was not patience. ‘Twas fear. You fell ill again. I feared I would lose you.”

“Then believe me, my liege. You shall not be rid of me so soon. I am well, I know. A little tiredness is all I have been feeling these days, but that has kept you from my bed, and that pained me greatly. With you at my side I have vanquished the shadows. A mere fever is nothing!”

Aragorn looked unconvinced at first but then he seemed moved and Faramir was emboldened enough to edge closer to him. But his soreness made him wince a little, and the King was immediately remorseful.

“I was too rough on you!” he cried out in anguish.

“You were as I wanted,” Faramir said firmly, “but it has been some days yet since we last shared our bed.”

“I feel terrible,” Aragorn moaned.

“Well, you must not. I am the one at fault, and I feel wonderful so why should you hurt yourself so?” Faramir asked, hugging his King.

“You feel wonderful?”

“Aye, and it is all due to you. For earlier, I felt terrible too.”

Aragorn slowly kissed him on his face, “I wished not to sadden you, but I could not let anything happen to you.”

“And nothing has happened. I am well – much better, in truth, for I feel none of my fever, and my head no longer aches.”

Aragorn pulled him close, “You are still thin,” he murmured, “but aye, you recover well, now. I would have waited some days yet afore we shared a bed again, but you are stubborn, are you not?”

Faramir looked up delightedly, “Then we shall make love each night from now until I have to return to Ithilien?”

“When you are able to come to my chambers,” Aragorn said firmly.

Faramir’s face fell at that, but then almost immediately a smile touched his lips, “A truce then, my lord. The council room is closer. Shall we not have a tryst there? Upon the long table where the councillors sit and bore you?”

A glint in Aragorn’s eye was the only response he would get, before the King rose to clean up everything around them, as the sun began to appear over the horizon.

 

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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4 Comment(s)

It’s amazing how the hand of a King can still heal. This was lovely. Especially the aphrodisiac.

— balrog    Tuesday 10 February 2009, 5:18    #

Thank you balrog:) I’m delighted you liked it.

— minx    Tuesday 10 February 2009, 18:24    #

Ingenius! I like the way you write. Thanks for this great story!

— Morwen    Sunday 9 January 2011, 22:04    #

Thanks you Morwen! I’m delighted you like it

Minx    Sunday 23 January 2011, 18:57    #

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