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25 October 2008 | 3016 words
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Summary: It all began with a hobbit, but then so many things often do. A glove for a halfling and a king for a steward. Balance is everything!
A/N: I gave Faramir some attitude and confidence… insecurities are nowhere in sight! I hope you don’t mind.
Warnings: Random silliness and slash! But I don’t think you’ll mind.
Disclaimer: I repeat: they belong to Tolkien and I’m only using them for my own wicked means. He won’t mind! (Being dead and all… )
The Glove and the Boredom
“Is it boring being a steward?”
“No, I do not think so.”
“Do you think I would be bored being a steward?”
Faramir put down the book he was reading on the small table in front of him.
“Why, are you thinking of replacing me?”
Thoughtfully, the hobbit shook his head.
“Nah, I think I would be bored.”
Faramir picked up the book again as the hobbit seemed to have been temporarily swallowed by his own ponderings. The library was peaceful in the evenings; the only sound heard was the crackling of the wood-fire beside him and the pounding rain outside.
Well, almost so.
“What are you reading?”
He held up the cover for Pippin to see. The hobbit squinted and leaned forward in his armchair.
“‘A history of the lost foundations of the ancient sites of Middle-earth?’”
The hobbit stared wide-eyed at him, not bothering to conceal his confusion.
“Why would you be reading that?”
“Because it interests me?”
Pippin surveyed him for many long moments, a concerned frown on his face.
“Are you sure you are not bored?” he said at last.
Faramir raised the book higher so he would appear completely engulfed in this chosen piece of literature. The rain was beating heavily on the windows and an occasional rumble of thunder carried through the rapidly darkening skies.
The steward of Gondor slipped further down in his chair and stretched out his long legs before him. He was actually beginning to see some sense in what he was reading, and if he gave the book some more time, maybe he would grow to appreciate it.
“How can there be a history book on foundations that are lost?”
He opened his mouth to answer but closed it again. Pippin was looking at him expectantly.
“Because they were found,” he said finally.
The hobbit did not seem entirely convinced.
After a while he began fidgeting in his chair.
“Yes?”“I am bored.”
“Are you now?”
“Why do you not find something to do then?”
“I already tried that!” the hobbit exclaimed, waving his arms about him as if that would clear matters up.
“What did you do?” queried Faramir, finding it increasingly difficult not to smile.
That was the thing with halflings, he had realised: they were a tad bit annoying at first sight, but then they turned on their own personalities and became rather entertaining to be around. And when it came to Pippin it was clear to him they had formed a friendship he would not want to be without.
“I tried listing everything I like about life,” said his smaller friend now. “I got as far as supper.”
“No further than supper?” Faramir raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“No…” the hobbit told him gravely, “it sort of put my mind to other things.”
Fighting a laugh, Faramir nodded and hoped he looked understanding and sympathetic.
“It is tricky,” acknowledged Pippin.
Silence fell between them again and Faramir returned to his book. He was just about to finish the chapter on iron bars found in the moss on the northern borders of Fangorn Forest in the first part of the Second Age when the small voice broke through the stillness once more.
“Yes,” the hobbit said, “I was only wondering whether or not you think there are any leftovers from supper in the kitchens?”
Lowering the book, he finally allowed a smile.
“There just might be. Why do you not go and have a look?”
“You know what? I think I will.”
Pippin jumped out of his chair and sped towards the door. Upon exiting, he threw a glance back at Faramir.
“Are you sure you do not want to come along?”
“I am fine,” the steward assured him.
“Well,” said the hobbit, “if you get bored, you know where to find me!”
The faint noise of disappearing footsteps mingled with the violent tapping of the rain on the window-glass as he hurried down the hallway.
Faramir closed his book and placed it on the table. Then he rose from his seat and made for the door.
Small drops of water, spilled upon the floor, glistened in the firelight. They caught the flicker of the flames and mirrored the dance by throwing the glow across the room. Faramir put down the damp towel next to the basin on the washstand and kicked off his boots. To think it was June and the evening was almost as dark as in autumn! He looked about the bedchamber, deeming that some more light was necessary.
There was nothing to be found in the drawers of the table, nor did he come across anything that could be described as any type of candle in the baskets stored away deep inside the closet. (He did find two odd boots though and one glove Pippin claimed to have been stolen from him while visiting the market last Yule.)
Almost diving into the great oak chest beneath the windows, he was so preoccupied that he did not hear the door opening. It was not until someone actually called out to him that he withdrew his head from inside the space so swiftly he almost fell back on the floor.
Pulling with him an excessive amount of dust, the steward turned to the doorway and the man who was observing him with a curious gaze.
“What are you doing?”
Faramir brushed as much dust as possible off his shirt and sent it swirling in the air about him.
“Looking for candles. It is damned dark in here.”
Aragorn closed the door behind him.
“Is that Pippin’s glove on the bed?”
“It is!” Faramir nodded. “The one that was stolen. Now it has miraculously returned to us.”
“Thank the Valar.” Aragorn placed one hand over his heart and gave a short bow.
“Aye, we should present it to him tomorrow. On a cushion.”
Smiling, the king walked over to the bed and picked up the tiny piece of fabric.
“Do you think the gods would hand over an,” he lifted the glove higher in the dim light to examine it, “an unwashed hobbit glove on a cushion?”
“I am sure they would – if the hobbit in question missed it extensively. I daresay Pippin does.”
He rose to his feet and joined Aragorn where he stood. “Make that ‘terribly unwashed’!” He blinked at the glove. “I had no idea so much mud could collect on one so small an item.”
“Incredible,” the other man agreed in a wondrous tone.
“Any way it will satisfy him though… He was utterly bored tonight and this might cheer him up,” Faramir said. “Tomorrow,” he added.
Aragorn let the glove drop back onto the bed and turned to his steward. Faramir could feel his warm breath lightly wafting over his face. Lifting a finger, he traced a hardly visible cut on the other man’s cheek.
“Here I thought I had a healer for a king,” he mused as his finger continued its exploration, following the curve of Aragorn’s upper lip.
“Oh you do,” countered the healer, “for a king and a lover.”
“Is that so?” said Faramir as Aragorn’s tongue sneaked out and wet the tip of his finger. “Is that so,” he repeated softly as he pulled away his finger and replaced it with his own lips.
Immediately the tongue sought entrance to his mouth and he willingly opened up. He felt Aragorn’s body coming closer and hands settled on his lower back. Returning the kiss, he slid his own tongue along the length of his lover’s, mimicking the motion with his hands, letting them slide up Aragorn’s upper arms to come to a rest in the tresses of his hair.
The hands on his back stroked him, finding a way in underneath the shirt and there beginning to explore the bare skin. Faramir tugged at Aragorn’s lower lip with his teeth and was rewarded by a moan that echoed inside the caverns of their mouths.
Upon finally pulling apart, he drew a long breath. There was a burning blaze in his lover’s eyes that could not be matched by the flames in the fireplace.
“Did you say something about being bored,” asked Aragorn in a raspy voice.
Faramir’s hands left the tangles they had created in the royal hair and skimmed across the broad chest before them.
“No, I believe that was Pippin,” he said slowly, brushing over a cloth-covered nipple and taking the time to scrape his nails over it.
A hiss from Aragorn told him his forming ideas would not be dismissed. The king leaned in and placed a wet kiss just beneath his ear. Faramir pulled him closer and made a circling motion with his hips, stating his condition clearly. He was met by a similar growing hardness.
“I like that,” he breathed as Aragorn continued to weave a pattern of kisses on his neck.
“I like all of it,” murmured the older man against his skin, his hands once more finding their way inside his shirt. “But even more, I like you undressed.”
Faramir was content to have his lover do the work for him. Aragorn slid the shirt over his arms and head, and unceremoniously dropped it on the floor.
“You treat a hobbit glove better than my clothing,” Faramir stated as his shirt settled in a heap at his feet. “A dirty hobbit glove,” he added.
“You want me to drop the glove on the floor as well?” inquired the king.
Faramir pretended to think it over for a moment. “No, leave it,” he said finally as a wide grin spread across Aragorn’s face. “One should always be respectful to gloves.”
“Indeed,” his lover agreed, lowering his head to circle one of Faramir’s nipples with the tip of his tongue. “Very, very true.”
Shivering at the sensation, the steward fingered the lacings of Aragorn’s leggings. “So, have we been respectful enough now?”
Aragorn pulled off his own shirt in one swift movement. “I think so.” The grin turned slightly devilish. “Any ideas on how to proceed?”
“I happen to have a few,” Faramir nodded as he set to work on the knots. As the touch grew firmer his lover bucked his hips, if it was, or was not, involuntarily, Faramir could not tell. The younger man placed his hand against the straining fabric and smiled. “Patience.”
Aragorn groaned and caught Faramir’s lips in a heated kiss. “I have no patience, love,” he murmured, pressing into the open palm. “Want you.”
“Help me then,” Faramir suggested and pushed his lover back a little to resume his attack on the lacings. Aragorn returned the favour by tearing open his steward’s leggings mercilessly.
“There,” the king smiled. “Done.”
“You are impossible,” Faramir sighed, tugging at a particularly tangled knot. “What have you done to these!?”
Aragorn looked down to where his young lover’s fingers were stationed. Bringing his own hands to join them, he tore open these leggings as well. “Now, let us move on,” he commanded.
The rain was still beating down hard on the windows as the two men fell onto the bed, entwining limbs and tongues. Aragorn’s palm ran across his steward’s chest and stomach, rapidly descending towards his raised sex. Faramir arched upwards at the touch and grazed his teeth along the other man’s collarbone.
“Eager, are we?” Aragorn mused in a dangerously seductive voice as he encircled the heated manhood he found nestled among light brown curls.
Faramir bit down hard on the king’s skin, eliciting a growl from him, and then soothingly lapped over the reddened mark with his tongue. “And that is coming from you,” he muttered as Aragorn pressed his own erection against his thigh. The older man grunted something unintelligible in response, but as his hand began sliding up and down Faramir’s rapidly swelling member, other matters were focused upon.
Lust coursed through his blood and filled his mind as Aragorn’s skilful fingers smeared the first drops of liquid over him. If it were possible, his breathing became deeper and shallower at the same time. He sent his hands exploring the strong body beside him, running over taut muscles and pulling gently at the dark hair covering the exquisitely bare chest. Faramir’s fingers trailed their way along his lover’s spine, and further down his body they found the entrance they were looking for. As gently as possible, while his own body’s responses were becoming harder and harder to control, he probed at the orifice, feeling new ripples of pleasure wash through him.
Aragorn’s hand was coming down to swipe over his lower abdomen, giving him some respite from the constant stroking, and delaying his inevitable climax. “I want you,” the king whispered hoarsely against his neck. “Take me.”
Faramir needed not to be asked twice. To the deafening roll of thunder, he pushed himself up and rolled over, picking up the vial of oil left on top of one of the bed tables. Bringing it over to Aragorn he stopped for a few moments to take in the sight of his love and lover, spread out on the bed, waiting for him.
This lover of his gave a mischievous grin. “Are you going to sit there for a long time?”
Faramir tossed the vial at him and ordered with a similar smile:
Positioned between Aragorn’s thighs, he watched the man’s fingers sliding in and out of his own body, stretching and scissoring. It took a great deal of effort for Faramir to remain still, to refrain from touching the enlarged manhood that lay twitching on the king’s belly. He only idly stroked himself in time with Aragorn’s movements in preparation of what was to come. Sweat gleamed on the king’s brow and his chest was rising and falling quickly. Deciding he had had quite enough of this torture, Faramir bent down over his lover and placed a teasing kiss on his lips. “Are you ready soon?”
A sly smile crept across Aragorn’s face. “Ready when you are.”
Faramir drove into his body with one swift push, also this time overwhelmed by the heat that surrounded him. Underneath him, a low moan caused a shiver to run across his skin. Aragorn sought out his own erection and started to stroke himself in time with Faramir’s thrusts. Their bodies were so used to this dance by now, that no soft moves were needed if they were not desired.
Aragorn ground out as he raised his hips to meet the thrusts and Faramir felt control slipping away. His movements became more and more erratic and when he finally came with a loud growl, he shot his seed deep inside his lover’s body. The last shreds of intelligence left in his mind ordered his hand to cover Aragorn’s and within moments both of them lay spent, panting heavily upon the bed.
“Gods, I love you…” the king breathed into his hair after a long while.
“Because of this?” Faramir snuggled closer.
A low chuckle enwrapped him and a chaste kiss was planted on his temple. “This too,” Aragorn said, “but for many other reasons as well. You know that.”
“I do,” agreed Faramir as he brushed away something grey and powdery from the older man’s arm. “And I love you too. Aragorn, what is this?”
The grey powder stuck to the king’s sweat covered body in several places, creating interesting patterns that were not necessarily attractive. Aragorn raised his head slightly and a puzzled look crossed his features. Then light seemed to dawn on him.
“Oh…” He dragged himself into a sitting position and from behind his back he produced a small glove that looked even more miserable now than it had done earlier.
“Oh,” Faramir echoed him as he beheld Pippin’s glove, no longer covered only in dried mud but also dampened by sweat. “Right.”
“Wash it before we return it?” Aragorn said as another wave of rain assailed the windows and battered the glass.
Faramir nodded slowly. “Might be a good idea.”
The next morning, a clean glove, neatly placed on a small cushion, awaited Pippin at breakfast. The hobbit let out a joyful squeal at the sight.
“Brilliant!” he cried out, trying it on and waving his hand before him.
Aragorn slid a hand around Faramir’s waist as they beheld the reunion between the beaming hobbit and the slightly more solemn garment.
“I stumbled upon it last night,” the steward told Pippin.
“Excellent!” the hobbit tried the glove on his other hand which did not prove equally successful. “I thought it was gone forever! I am so happy to have it back.” He looked affectionately at his partially covered hand. Then the look was replaced by a frown.
“What now? Is it the wrong glove?” Aragorn queried.
“No, no,” Pippin shook his head, “I am surprised is all. It looks so unsoiled… I would have imagined it to be much more… well, dirty if you understand.”
The king and the steward exchanged a glance and Faramir could almost swear he saw a faint blush steal across the other man’s cheeks.
“I have never been good at taking care of my stuff,” continued the hobbit, but then he visibly brightened. “Oh well! It is back with me now.” He patted the glove lovingly.
Faramir pulled out his chair and sat down at the table. “One should always be respectful to gloves, Pippin.”
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