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.