Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Chapter 9 – Doing

“…you will understand that I do not like to share.”

Faramir did not listen to, nor did he understand, the words — being far too concerned with his now obvious arousal. Aragorn stroking him like this, during an official dinner, was probably as far from protocol you could come. Yet, there was no place he would rather be and, truth be told, Aragorn was doing a very good job convincing him he should stay. Not that Aragorn seemed to be aware of what he was doing. The rest of Aragorn, apart from his awfully active hand, that was.

He was still leaning forward and he had no idea for how long this would last — or what would happen if he were forced to stand up. He decided he would be better off if he did not consider that just yet. All the same, allowing his body to respond even more to Aragorn’s actions might be hazardous. Then, again, was it not only seconds ago he had wished every thought in his head a million miles away? Maybe surrendering to Aragorn would not prove so bad.

Suddenly, an image of his father, the proud and cruel Denethor, surfaced in his mind and played before his eyes. If he had lived to see Faramir like this — if he had seen Faramir and Aragorn like this — he would spit and curse, roar and yell. He would most probably have beaten his son a thousand times and renounced him, expelled him from the White City. Perhaps from Gondor even.

A strange feeling awoke within Faramir. For once, he had chosen his own path to follow. He had fallen in love with a man he highly respected. This was his life and his decisions. For the first time since his father’s passing he understood that Denethor was actually dead. Gone. Never to come back.

With that, he found a new well of strength to draw from. With Denethor dead, Faramir was free. Therefore, it was with great satisfaction he finally gave up and yielded to Aragorn’s will. And the image of his father could curse and snarl as much as it liked for all he cared.

Oh, and yes, another voice spoke up within him, stating very clearly that Aragorn had some yielding to do himself. Faramir would see to that.

Skilled fingers were probing the fabric of his leggings under the table; they were looking for a way to conquer the material, proving themselves to be the winners and thus, acquiring the prize of their quest.

Faramir shifted in his seat, turning his hips and legs to his right and so giving Aragorn more space to work with. He had sobered somewhat (his father’s memory having a tendency to do that to him) and was now quite determined to see this through properly.

The fingers slid up his inner thigh once more and when they reached his groin, he purposefully moved against them. It was awkwardly done, limited as he was due to his position in the chair, but he was rewarded when he thought he detected the smallest of gasps escaping Aragorn. The King’s conversation with Deren had ended and he was currently talking to Forn, but Faramir had made up his mind.

Apparently Aragorn had decided he would proceed slowly so he kept his hand running along Faramir’s thigh. Several times he did it; up and down he went, all in all creating a pleasurable feeling in Faramir. However, the next time his hand came in closer contact with his Steward’s private parts, that same Steward enjoyed grinding his hips against it and so bringing Aragorn’s hand in full contact with the hardened flesh beneath it. Aragorn’s nimble fingers stumbled over the fabric and lost their rhythm.

Very much enjoying this new scenario, Faramir glanced around the table. The men had done some good drinking and some of them were sitting with heavy-lidded eyes in their seats. No doubt they would be sleeping in tomorrow.

For a third time he met Aragorn’s hand with a small thrust, but this time the King surprised him by pressing his palm against his arousal and beginning to stroke him in earnest. This lasted for a couple of blissful minutes, while Faramir could do nothing but to endure, without breathing too heavy or moaning loudly. Then, another surprise.

Aragorn removed his hand and stood. He did it without grace, but he did not stumble. His cloak shielded him from curiosity, showing nothing that was not to be seen.

“My dear friends,” he said,” it has been a long day and I bid you goodnight. Please, stay as long as you like and drink whatever is left of the wine.”

His guests smiled and thanked him, some more keenly than others, but at least they were awake. And polite enough.

The King turned to his left and glanced down. “Faramir, may I ask for your assistance?”

His voice and expression — all neutral. He was a King with weak legs and an aching back, asking his Steward to escort him to his chambers lest he should slip and fall on his way there.

Faramir, where he sat, panicked. There was no way he could rise without letting the others know what he had experienced during the previous hour. Half-hour? Ten minutes? No matter, it was too obvious not to be noticed.

He looked up at Aragorn who simply regarded him as if nothing of consequence had happened between them, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Faramir?”

The Steward cleared his throat nervously, “Of course…”

Clumsily he rose from his chair, pushing it backwards while he got to his feet, and then as quickly as he managed, he spun around, turning his back to the table.

Aragorn turned as well and took hold of his arm. Guiding Faramir to his right, keeping him as far away from the other men as possible, placing himself between them and his Steward, he made for the door.

“Goodnight,” he called and was echoed by his guests, all but Deren who eyed him and the man he exited with, with a stern, unreadable gaze.

The door had barely closed behind them, and Faramir had almost no time to groan “Oh gods!”, before Aragorn pushed him against the wall, pressing his lips against those of his Steward. He tasted of wine and sweet fruits, and Faramir willingly let him inside the cavern of his mouth. Aragorn’s tongue swept over every tooth and left no corner untouched. Demandingly, he sought hold of Faramir’s tongue and sucked on it hard, eliciting one of those moans which Faramir had been holding back throughout dinner.

When he pulled back, letting go of Faramir, there was a glow in his eyes that Faramir could only interpret as desire. He had a few questions for his King, however.

“Gods, Aragorn! What is all this?” He was short of breath but eager to find out more. And still a little suspicious.

Aragorn gave him a smile fuelled by the power of victory. “I was pointing out some details…”

“What did you and Deren speak of? The horses of Rohan?” Faramir had a fleeting memory of a discussion that had taken place sometime during the night.

“In a way… perhaps,” Aragorn said. “I told him I do not like to share.”

“Horses?” Faramir was confused.

“Anything.” Aragorn leaned in again and claimed his lips possessively.

Faramir allowed him entry once more, overpowered by the lust that was coursing through him. He pulled Aragorn closer, bringing his hips in contact with his own. Upon feeling the hardness within Aragorn’s own leggings, he shivered from another wave of desire.

Aragorn moved against him now, thrusting his tongue into Faramir’s open mouth.

“I need you,” he whispered hoarsely, not breaking the kiss.

And Faramir kissed back desperately. “We need to get to your chambers,” he managed.

Unwillingly, they parted. Steadying Aragorn, Faramir took his arm and they began walking. The tightness in his groin was both painful and a blessing. With some luck, all would be well as soon as they were behind closed — locked — doors.

“I hated to see you with him.” Aragorn.

“Who?” Faramir was still light-headed.

“Deren,” muttered Aragorn.

Faramir stopped and turned to face his King. “Nothing ever happened between us,” he said, willing, no needing, Aragorn to know the truth.

“Nothing?”

He shook his head. There was more to it, though, and Aragorn deserved to hear everything. Uncertain, Faramir dropped his gaze and kicked at the floor. “He offered… to…” Oh, this was difficult! “He offered…”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. “What did he offer?”

Faramir swallowed. “It was yesterday evening, after dinner…” Was it really only yesterday? “He said…”

“He said what?” There was anger in Aragorn’s voice.

“He said he would help me in any way I liked… if it was only to relieve some… pressure.”

Faramir swallowed a second time, harder this time, his heart beating fast. He had done nothing wrong, but Aragorn looked like he was about to kill someone — right there and right then. Faramir was nearest.

“He did, did he? And what did you say, Faramir?” He took a small step towards Faramir who was already very close by.

“I could think of nothing to say!” he blurted out. It was true – he had been taken aback by Deren’s offer. “I told him I would… let him know.” His voice faltered. “I do not want him, Aragorn!”

Once more, he found himself pressed against a wall as Aragorn searched his face with that grey stare.

“And what is it you want?” he said in a low tone that might have been menacing if it were not for the slightly anxious flicker in his eyes.

“You. I want only you.” Surrender indeed.

“Good.”

As Aragorn’s body fell against his own, Faramir exhaled deeply. This time he let his fingers wander among Aragorn’s dark locks, threading and twirling. His blood was pulsing through him, not allowing him to forget the state he was in, and had been in for quite some time.

“I will go mad,” he whispered, as much to himself as to Aragorn.

“Nay,” Aragorn laughed quietly against his shoulder. “It was I who was to go mad… Do you remember, when I said I would go mad if this winter never ends?”

Faramir let go of him and held him at an arm’s length distance. Regarding him softly he said in a wondrous tone, “How long ago was that Aragorn? A week, two? It seems like an age has passed since then.”

“It does,” Aragorn agreed, smiling softly. “Faramir, will you share my bed tonight?” He paused, colour showing in his cheeks. “Will you share this life with me?”

He looked no more than a young boy in that moment. Somehow, it was all Faramir needed to see.

“If you would let me.”

“For whatever it is worth?”

“It could be nothing but amazing.”

Aragorn nodded then and brought his lips to Faramir’s. The Steward licked away what was left of the wine and then dove into the opening before him.

The King was easy to kiss, letting him try whatever he fancied, moving his head so Faramir could gain access to the warmth offered him. Hands roamed over Faramir’s back, tugging at his clothing, and expressing their silent desire to expose some of the skin they knew hid beneath. He returned the feeling of being wanted, placing his hands on Aragorn’s flat stomach and searching for a way in. Soon, they were both panting, flushed with pure want.

“Your chambers,” Faramir repeated roughly.

They resumed their walking, stopping at times to nibble at neglected lips or tongues. Aragorn’s legs were gradually giving way as the King felt the pressure of standing up for such a long time. Faramir supported him as much as he could and badly wishing — for several reasons — for the door that signified the end of their journey.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, he laid his hand on the handle and pushed the door open. A small fire was burning but other than that there was no light source. The bedroom was chilly; the servants must not have known what to do since it was unusual that the King stayed up this late.

“Are you alright?”

Aragorn was pale, but he looked determined.

“I need to lie down,” he said with a faint smile.

“Are you very tired?”

“In one way, yes… In another, no.” Aragorn shot him a playful glance.

Blushing, Faramir lead him to the large bed and made sure he sat down comfortably. Then he went to stir the fire, which crackled happily at the attention. He added some more wood and the flames licked at it gratefully. At second thought, he added some more.

Meanwhile, Aragorn lit some candles by the bed and the room became more friendly and welcoming. Knowing very well what might happen — or what might not happen — Faramir walked over to him where he was still sitting. He dropped to his knees and though the stone floor was cold enough to chase him away, he found he was mesmerised by Aragorn’s eyes looking down at him. The glow had returned to them and it was as warm as the fire he had just re-awakened.

“Are you kneeling before me Faramir?” Aragorn’s voice was soft.

“I am at your service.”

Aragorn held out his hands and Faramir placed his own ones in them.

“I do not know how…” The King’s voice trailed off, an insecure note to it.

“Aragorn…”

“No, I want to do this.” He shook his head slowly. “I have wanted it for a long time… It is just…” Once more he lost control over his words.

“We do not need to…” Faramir said carefully, knowing well he very much wanted this. If Aragorn knew not how to proceed, and was too unsure to try, he neither could, nor would, force him — all his determination from earlier completely erased from his heart.

“You have… I have, no we, have waited long enough.” Aragorn seemed to pick up his courage. “Faramir, it will have to be you who… enter… me.”

Faramir blinked. He felt his stomach twist in an uncomfortable way. Now that he was actually presented the issue, he felt inexplicably scared. He had not really considered how things would be done, simply wanted them to — happen.

“What do you say?” Aragorn lifted a hand and stroked Faramir’s cheek. “Will you do it?”

Faramir struggled for words. “I…” It felt weird, but underneath that feeling fluttered those butterflies Aragorn’s hand had brought to life earlier. And what about his decision? Yes, he wanted this… Although he had not expected things to turn out quite this way, he still wanted for it to take place.

“I will… try,” he replied meekly.

Aragorn’s thumb stroked his lower lip with loving grace.

“Then rise for me, Faramir,” he whispered.

He lay against Aragorn who was naked and who was kissing him deeply. Faramir had shed his own clothes which now rested in a heap on the floor. His hand was travelling over Aragorn’s chest, exploring every muscle, every bone, every hair it could find there. He found a nipple and rubbed it until it hardened beneath his fingers and its owner moaned in low tones.

They lay on the bed, pretty much as they had done the other night: Aragorn on his back and Faramir beside him, on his stomach. He leaned over Aragorn and was careful not to put too much weight on him even though the King insisted it was not a problem.

Faramir’s hair fell around his face as he kissed the man he had chosen so long ago, when the world was celebrating and the summer stars circled above them. Now, when the Snow Moon was sending its silver rays over Middle-earth and the winter winds chased each other around every tower and mountain top, he had pulled the covers over them to keep them from shuddering in the cold. Accepting Aragorn’s tongue into his mouth, he still shuddered, but for a very different reason.

“Touch me,” Aragorn groaned when their lips temporarily lost contact.

Faramir slid his hand down his chest, and then over his belly, until he reached the hard column that was Aragorn’s manhood. Reverently he did as he was asked. He sought out the lips beneath him and kissed again and again as he began stroking. A quiver raced through him and went straight for his groin.

Aragorn caressed him where he could reach, his hands discovering every bit of naked skin before him. When he succeeded in driving a hand between the mattress and Faramir’s body and placing his fingertips against the arousal he found there, a flood of lust washed over the younger man. More eagerly he stroked Aragorn, while turning onto his side. When he forced his eyes open he saw Aragorn flashing him a grin.

“So far so good,” he said in a voice overpowered with passion.

Faramir nodded dimly, giving a smile as well.

There were drops of liquid forming on Aragorn’s arousal now. He gave a growl as Faramir sent his thumb across the tip, smearing the wetness over him. He felt dizzy, giving his own body over to another and still being in control of what he was doing himself. He thrust awkwardly into Aragorn’s hand, groaning deeply.

“Faramir… will you take me?”

He met those eyes… grey silver, steel at times. Now they were like a shimmering stream in a winter forest. Alive, yet serious, knowing that colder weather might come, and ice and stillness might settle, making it impossible to move.

There was his decision: no more ice.

He cast off the covers and rose to his knees, helping Aragorn to spread his legs for him. The King made an enchanting picture: his dark hair spread out over his pillow, a broad and muscled chest, strong arms; and he was completely trusting. It was an — honour.

Faramir was hard and hot; Aragorn looked the same — his member twitching and desiring attention. From his bedside table, Aragorn retrieved a small vial which proved to contain sweet-smelling oil. Coating his fingers, he settled between Aragorn’s legs, fixing his gaze.

The King smiled. Faramir proceeded. One hand he wrapped around Aragorn’s erection and began to pleasure him. The other hand he moved closer to the dusky opening his fingers were to enter before long. Being this close to see it actually happening, Faramir was surprised to notice all fear had left him. He brushed over the sacs beneath the member, making Aragorn groan and thrust upwards.

Faramir’s own manhood was throbbing painfully, but he knew this waiting would be worth it. Or, at least, he hoped so. It had been Aragorn claming him the last time.

Carefully he slid one finger inside, shocked by the warmth that embraced him. Aragorn shifted on the bed but urged Faramir on by nodding vigorously. Soon, he slipped another finger inside, scissoring and stretching.

Aragorn was writhing more now and despite his own desire augmenting extremely quickly, Faramir held back.

“Aragorn?” he choked out.

“‘Tis fine, Faramir… continue… please.”

“I do not want to hurt you.”

At that, Aragorn raised his head and stared at him with eyes dimmed by yearning. “I will kill you if you do not continue now,” he stated.

The laugh that bubbled up within Faramir was quickly quenched as Aragorn’s body willingly received his third finger and he realised that it was time for the real test.

He let go of Aragorn who frowned at the loss of touch, and he withdrew his fingers. The King’s chest was heaving and sweat was pearling on his forehead. He was faintly reaching for Faramir with his hands, but he did not quite reach him. His throbbing flesh was weeping more now.

Faramir drew a long breath and then finally pulled Aragorn’s legs up so that his feet were positioned against the mattress. There were no immediate complaints so it could not be hurting him too much. Aragorn gave up his attempt to touch Faramir and instead he reached for a pillow they both slid in under his lower back, trying to raise him a little from the bed. With that in place, there was no more they could do but to begin.

Faramir used an excessive amount of oil on himself, not sure how much he needed. When he was done he locked eyes with Aragorn.

“I want this,” Aragorn said softly. “I want you.”

His jaw set, Faramir found he was suddenly so nervous he managed no words. He leaned over Aragorn, supporting himself with one arm, using his other hand to place the tip of his member at the opening. At least he did not tremble.

Telling himself that he was likely to survive — and that he had faced worse danger than this in his life (although in this moment he could not imagine what that might be) — he pushed inside.

The heat that engulfed him threatened to enflame him. Beneath him, Aragorn gave a loud moan and it wrapped around Faramir’s heart as they both stilled to wait for Aragorn’s body to adjust.

Faramir used both his arms to support him now, refusing to crash down upon his lover. It was hard resisting lowering his head to kiss his King, but a sober part of his mind assured him he could do so later.

When Aragorn reached up for him and tentatively placed a loose strand of hair behind his ear, Faramir began moving. He felt sparks all over. He was like the fire behind them, as burning hot and scorching as the flames, greedily feeding off the wood. He set a gentle pace, thrusting into Aragorn carefully. The King was groaning on the bed, tugging at Faramir’s hair, trying to pull him down.

“No,” Faramir grunted…“I cannot.”

“Faramir… I want you closer,” he begged.

“No, Aragorn.” Passion was washing over him forcefully and he only just found the words he needed. “You are not strong enough.”

A displeased growl was Aragorn’s response.

“Touch yourself,” Faramir asked, trying to focus on Aragorn taking himself in hand and begin stroking.

The vision of his own flesh sheathed deep within the other man as he brought himself to ecstasy urged him to move faster. When he found the angle that caused him to brush Aragorn’s sensitive spot he watched his lover shake and tremble, and toss his head from one side to the other.

“Faramir…”

Another thrust and Aragorn came forcefully, spilling his warm seed over his own skin. Faramir felt a strong current surge through him, and he emptied himself inside Aragorn’s body, almost screaming as he did so.

His last intelligent thought was to pull out as swiftly as he could, before his arms would bear him no longer and he collapsed on the bed beside Aragorn, shaking like never before.

Strong arms wrapped around him and held him so very close. He was sweaty, but so was Aragorn and he cared not at all. Keeping his eyes closed, he reached for the covers and pulled them over them both. It was warm and secure. Aragorn’s heart was beating steadily once more and he was whispering something Faramir did not understand. Elvish, it sounded like.

He placed his head on Aragorn’s shoulder, exhaling and calming down.

“Meleth nín…¹ We did it.”

Faramir smiled where he lay. “Aye, we did.”

Aragorn found his shoulder and arm and began running his fingertips over the skin, sending sweet sensations through Faramir’s body.

“Thank you for accepting me despite the limitations.” Aragorn spoke in a low voice.

“What is it we say around here,” Faramir said, “that there are no limits, only challenges that require creative solutions?”

“We say that?”

Faramir opened his eyes and glanced at him. “Well… maybe not. But it has a nice ring to it?”

He was met with the most brilliant smile in the world.

¹ Meleth-nin: ‘My love’

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

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/the-coldest-winter. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!