Faramir Fiction Archive

Always Welcome (NC-17)

Written by Khylea

02 January 2008 | 7871 words

Slashy Santa Fic: Always Welcome
Author: Khylea
Written For: Phyncke
Beta: Manon the Magnificent
Email: sl_chester@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Éomer/Faramir
Warnings: Slash, rimming, cheesy humor, taking some liberties with canon

Request: Pairing: I will give two: Éomer-Faramir or Gildor-Lindir/Rating: R to NC-17/Request/plot : Playfulness, flirting, a gathering or social occasion of some sort, for Lindir—music (writing of or playing of), romance, courtship. I want there to be a moment for one of the characters when it hits them they are in love. A stunned moment. :) Fun, eh?/Do not include: No drunken behavior, no rape, no bondage, no pain, no whips, no S&M, no blood play, no MPREG.

Summary: When Faramir travels to Rohan to get the signature of the new king on the renewed Oath of Eorl, a get-together to celebrate the new treaty ends in a way neither of them expected.

---

Faramir smoothed down his tunic, pulling self-consciously at the hem as he climbed the steps to the Great Hall in Edoras. His horse was being led to the stables to be taken care of, and normally he would have called upon the king after a short time to rest and refresh himself after the long ride from Minas Tirith. But the task he had been appointed was far too important to wait, not even for a few hours. He patted his pocket as he reached the top of the stairs, assuring himself that the rolled parchment was still safe and sound.

The guards looked at him curiously as he bowed slightly. “Faramir of Gondor requests an audience with the king. I am expected.” They nodded, stepping aside and allowing him to push open the large double doors and enter the room. He had been to Edoras once before, when Théoden was still firmly under Gríma’s control and was struck by how different the hall looked now. The walls were still covered by the elegant tapestries, the throne still looked much the same, and the mighty pillars were still of the same dark wood, a precious find indeed in a nearly treeless country. But the floors were now covered nearly wall to wall with thick furs, the tapestries shone with an unmatched brilliance, as if they had been freshly cleaned, and the room itself seemed far brighter, though the day was cloudy. Looking up, Faramir saw the reason why. The high windows, which had all been shuttered when he had been there last, blocking out the warm sun, were now thrown open, letting in what light they could. Faramir briefly wondered if the dreariness of the hall had been a deliberate action of Gríma. It was as if he had purposefully kept the hall as dim and gloomy as possible so any Rohirrim entering the room had lost hope for Rohan’s future even before their business with the king was completed.

Faramir returned his gaze to the dais at the far end of the hall, his step faltering a little as he saw the king was watching him. He strode briskly down the center of the room, and when he reached the stairs to the throne, bowed deeply, placing his hand over his heart. “Faramir, son of Denethor at your service, your highness.”

Éomer smiled broadly as Faramir straightened up, placing his own hand over his heart and bowing slightly from the neck. “Éomer, son of Éomund at yours. How fares Gondor these days?”

“There is much work yet in front of us, but I am certain that with time, she will once again regain her former splendor.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, not with such a formidable king and steward to care for her,” Éomer replied with a slight twinkle in his eyes.

Faramir’s eyes widened at the look in Éomer’s and decided to play along. “Nor with such formidable allies as Rohan and her king to assist us in our times of need.”

Éomer threw back his head and laughed out loud. “If you are intending on trying to convince me to sign that document in your pocket, there is no need, my friend. My decision was made years ago.”

“Then shall we? And make it official?”

“Indeed.” He motioned Faramir to a small table to the side of the throne which held a quill in an inkwell and the steward removed the parchment, handing it to the king. Éomer smiled slightly as he noticed the wax seal holding the paper closed. Two serpents crossing over a center gem, a near exact replica of the Ring of Barahir the king still wore. He broke the seal and smoothed out the paper, reading the document closely. It was not that he didn’t trust Aragorn, he simply wanted to make sure the provisions had been made that they had both agreed upon in the days after the battle at the Black Gate.

Unlike the original Oath of Eorl, which had bound Rohan to come to the aid of Gondor in times of need in exchange for being given the lands of Calenardhon, the new version placed the responsibility for assistance equally upon both kingdoms. Gondor would come to Rohan’s aid, and Rohan to Gondor’s. Neither king had wanted to repeat the mistakes of the past, when both kingdoms sat and did nothing while the other was attacked.

Faramir watched as the king closely read the document. He was not surprised; in fact he would have been surprised if Éomer had NOT read it. This document was meant to stand for hundreds of years. Better to find a mistake, to correct a point that had not been agreed upon now, rather than going back on it later. Finally satisfied that the document held what had been agreed upon, Éomer picked up the quill and signed his name in large, flowing script.

“Thank you, your highness. If I may take my leave of you, it has been a long journey and I would like to rest. I will return to Gondor tomorrow.”

“Of course. But I would ask you to delay your journey for a day or so. A celebration has been planned for tonight that I would ask you to attend.”

“Celebration? Of what kind?”

“To rejoice in re-affirming the bonds of friendship between our two lands, of course. I will make an official announcement about the renewed oath and read the full text of it to my people. A bond such as this is of little use if only the king knows its contents.”

Faramir nodded. It made perfect sense. “Very well. I will attend your celebration and return to Gondor the day after tomorrow.”

“Very good.” Éomer motioned to a nearby guard, who approached the throne and bowed. “Darvon, please see our guest to the quarters that have been prepared for him.”

Darvon bowed again. “This way please, my lord.” Faramir followed, not able to resist a look back over his shoulder as the doors closed behind him. The king was still watching him, a strange smile on his lips….

Éomer sighed tolerantly as his sister adjusted and readjusted the collar of his tunic, picking off a non-existent piece of lint and carefully rubbing the polished buckle of his belt, ensuring all the fingerprints she may have put on it were removed. Finally she stepped back and admired her work, nodding in approval at what she saw.

She had managed to talk her brother into an outfit a bit more elegant than the browns and greys he normally wore, though having spent his lifetime as a warrior, getting him out of the leather breastplate was a battle in itself. But she had to admit it was worth it. He looked striking.

His tunic was of a rich, deep green, ornamented at the collar and cuffs by swirling designs in gold and silver thread. The buttons were abstract horse heads in highly polished silver, though one would have to look closely to see that. He wore deep green leggings over long black highly polished boots with silver buckles.

He sighed again as she settled the velvet cloak over his shoulders, latching it at his throat and again wiping off the fingerprints. “Éowyn, it will be much too warm to wear this. I look fine.”

She captured his gaze with one of her own that was as powerful as the king’s. “This is your first official function as king. You must look far more than fine, Éomer. You must look confident and powerful and certain of yourself.” Her eyes twinkled. “Or at least you must look good enough to attract the gaze of the new Steward of Gondor.” Éomer blushed at those words. Clearly his sister had seen him gawking at Faramir. She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “He is a good man. He was invaluable to my recovery in the Houses of Healing.”

Éomer nodded and enfolded her hands in his. “Then if for no other reason, I must thank him. We were afraid you would pass.”

She nodded in return. “I may have. ‘Tis a great blow to find out one you thought could care for you never will. If Faramir had not been there for me, I do not know what I would have done.”

Éomer pulled his sister into a tight hug. “There will be someone for you, Éowyn.”

She nodded as she pulled away. “As there will be for you….perhaps even tonight,” she added with an impish grin, causing the king to blush once again.

He gently slapped her bottom as he pushed her from his rooms, earning a girlish giggle. “Get out of here before you start planning my wedding.” She stuck her tongue out at him before hurrying out.

He sighed as he looked at himself in the mirror and reached to pull off the cloak. But after a moment, he lowered his hand again. Éowyn was right. For too long the people of Rohan had floundered under a king whose mind had been enslaved. He had to reassure them that those days were over; that a time of peace and prosperity was ahead of them. And the best way to do that was to appear confident and powerful, to appear at the reception wearing the same cloak Théoden had often worn before Gríma took over his mind.

His fingers absently stroked the round clasp at his throat as his mind wandered, thinking of his uncle. He wondered if Aragorn felt the same as he did, overwhelmed and confused. But the King of Gondor was more than three times his age, not to mention with the wisdom and insight of the Dúnedain. Théoden would have known what to do, how to guide him. But Théoden was not there. He was alone.

No, not alone, he reminded himself. Many of the advisors and warriors that had served under his uncle had survived the war and continued their services under Rohan’s new king. He would never be alone, he reminded himself. Not while he had them.

But Éowyn had been right when she teased him about having his eye on Faramir. But little did she know that the many visits he had made to check on her in the Houses of Healing had also been an excuse to see the young ranger. Faramir had captured his heart years before when he traveled to Minas Tirith with his uncle. He had never heard what the ranger and the steward had been arguing about but when he and Théoden entered the throne room just in time to see Denethor slap his youngest son across the cheek, both Rohirrim had stared in shock. Violence between father and son was simply unheard of in Rohan. But what had most impressed Éomer was the look on Faramir’s face. Far from being embarrassed or angry at being seen in such a way, his expression was one of calm acceptance, and when he bowed to Denethor and excused himself, his voice and demeanor were polite and respectful.

The two men had talked that night in the library and Éomer had again been impressed with how Faramir spoke of his father, with quiet respect and love. Éomer vaguely wondered if he could have felt the same about his father if Éomund had ever treated him the way Denethor treated his youngest.

He shook his head, pulling himself from his memories. For all he knew, Faramir preferred females. They had talked about many things that night in the library, but never anything so personal. With another sigh, he slid his ceremonial dagger into its belt sheath and left the room.

The great hall had been transformed from that morning with huge tables lining the walls, overflowing with all manner of the best food and drink that Rohan had to offer. Bright banners and streamers fell from the ceilings, and huge fires had been stoked in the firepits, adding light and warmth to the room. A large open area had been left in the center for mingling and dancing, or for the minstrels and jugglers to ply their trades.

A loud cheer went up from the assembled crowd when he entered the room. Tales had been told of his deeds during the war, and most of the assembled knew they owed their way of life, and perhaps their very lives, to the heroic actions of Théoden and the Riders of Rohan. Éomer bowed to his people, holding his hands up for silence.

“As you well know, a messenger from Gondor has been sent to us with a document, the reaffirming of the oath of protection between our two lands.” He paused for a moment, trying to pick out Faramir in the crowd, but not able to. “I will now read you the full text of the agreement. Any and all Rohirrim are expected to follow this oath unto his or her dying breath.” He unrolled the parchment and began to read. At first the assembled crowd appeared nervous, even frightened. But as he continued, it became clear that there was as much expectation upon Gondor’s citizens to uphold the oath as there was upon Rohan’s, and when he finished and looked up from the paper, a loud cheer went up from the crowd. After a moment, Éomer again held his hand up for silence. “And now, please enjoy yourselves. This is a day to remember.”

He sat down on the throne as the crowd began milling around, conversing with friends. A minstrel and a flutist started up with a cheery tune, and a few children began to dance. A servant, whose named escaped him, brought him a cup of mead with a respectful bow, which he took and began slowly sipping. He had never cared for these get-togethers, not as a child and not now. He would have much rather been out on the plains, patrolling with his Riders, cleansing Rohan of Orc. He sighed deeply and took another drink. That would never happen again. He was King of Rohan now, and he had to contribute to his people’s well-being in other ways.

He was so caught up in his musings he barely noticed when his sister perched next to him on the arm of the throne. “You should mingle,” she said without preamble.

He turned to glare at her, but she did not move. “Do not lecture me on court manners, sister. I received the same lessons you did.”

She stared back at him. “And yet you seem to find great joy in ignoring them. Do you not see the glances our people have been giving you? Some are unsure, some resentful…but all seem to think that the king feels he is too good to mingle with the commoners.”

His gaze darkened further, but to Éowyn’s credit, she did not look away. “That is untrue and you know it, sister.”

“Then show them, brother. Show them that you care for them as much as I know you do.” He looked uncertain, which she considered enough of a victory to not push him any further, instead leaning over and kissing his cheek. “Think about what I said,” she whispered, standing and striding down the stairs, returning to the festivities.

Éomer continued staring at the revelry for a bit longer, relieved Éowyn had not pressured him further. He hated these gatherings but was loathe to tell anyone exactly why. Théoden had mingled with his people with ease, telling a story or joke in just the right time to lighten the mood, seeming to know just when to tease a diplomat, when to offer words of comfort to a recent widow. He had been as much in his element in gatherings such as this as on the back of a horse, wielding sword or spear.

But Éomer had always had difficulty with small talk, preferring to speak with his sword and lance. He was not good at idle chatter, often had trouble remembering names, and sometimes felt he was being ridiculed when in fact others were merely trying to help him lighten up. He vaguely wondered how short a time he could stay here without being thought of as improper, or worse yet, having to listen to Éowyn’s lecture come morning.

An hour passed and he finally decided he did not care. He could not stand any more of this. He did not want to be here and decided better to leave than to be a grouchy host and disrupt everyone else’s enjoyment. He would mingle for a few minutes and then leave, letting the others have their fun without him.

He was just standing when a vision of beauty entering the hall took his breath away. Faramir had bathed and changed into clean clothes, his hair freshly brushed. His eyes were wide and looked a little dazed, as if he had just woken, which would explain the lateness of his arrival. Éomer could not take his eyes off the young Gondorian as Éowyn hugged him tightly, offering him a glass of mead, which he took with a bow and a smile. He was dressed in deep brown leggings and tunic, utterly unadorned except for the embroidery of the white tree on the chest of his tunic, though Éomer could see he too wore a ceremonial dagger at his hip. He smiled slightly at that. It seemed old habits died hard for warriors such as them.

He sat back down on the throne, content merely to watch for a moment, but then Faramir caught his eye and bowed respectfully, and he inclined his head in return. Éomer suddenly decided he was much too far away from such a vision of loveliness and that mingling was perhaps not so horrible an idea after all. Setting his glass aside, he rose, adjusting his crown on his head and striding down the steps to join in the revelry.

He gradually made his way through the crowd, stopping now and then to engage in some small talk, taking a plate that was offered him and sampling the delicacies the cooks had concocted. Nevertheless, he never lost sight of his goal, and was pleased to see Faramir was watching him as well. Finally he reached the young man’s side, and noticing his glass was empty, motioned to a servant to refill it. “I trust you found your room acceptable?”

“Most acceptable…and the bed was far too comfortable. Hence the lateness of my arrival. Forgive me.” He looked away and blushed, and in that moment, Éomer knew his heart was lost. No one else would ever hold the place in his heart this young Gondorian would. He would marry, he would produce heirs and fulfill his obligation to his lineage, but he would never love another as he loved Faramir.

“It….it is of no concern,” he managed to choke out, his throat clenched as he considered the possibility Faramir would not return his feelings. “The revelries will go all night; everyone comes and goes as they please.”

“Ah good. I was horrified when I realized how badly I had overslept.” Faramir looked down at his plain tunic. “I suppose my dress is rather inappropriate but I did not bring anything else.”

“You look lovely,” Éomer whispered before he could stop himself. He met the surprised eyes of the Gondorian and suddenly the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. Though the celebration continued unabated around them, he neither heard nor saw it. And by the look on Faramir’s face, neither did he.

“As do you,” Faramir replied once the shock had worn off. “Green is very becoming on you, your highness.”

Éomer said nothing for a very long time, not sure which he was more surprised at, his own boldness at expressing his attraction, or Faramir at seeming to return his feelings. Finally he found his voice. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Faramir shrugged, not taking his gaze away from the king’s. “I have never been fond of formal gatherings. I was always more comfortable slaying Orc than trying to be polite to diplomats and scholars who never seemed to remember, or care, who I was.”

Éomer nodded in understanding, hearing what Faramir had not said, but was surely thinking. He had attended a gathering with his uncle when they had visited Minas Tirith, that day when they had stumbled upon Denethor berating and slapping his youngest, and the steward’s behavior toward Faramir had been downright cruel. He had linked arms with Boromir and weaved through the crowd with him, introducing him to all manner of guests while Faramir stood alone in a corner, sipping his wine.

But what had shocked Éomer more than anything was the way Boromir had been introduced. ‘My son, Boromir’ is how Denethor had phrased it. Not ‘my oldest son’ but simply ‘my son’. It was as if Faramir had not even existed in his father’s eyes. Éomer could not help but feel sad at that. Though his own father had been taken from him far sooner than he would have wished, he had never doubted Éomund’s love. Nor had he doubted his uncle’s, who had taken him and his sister in upon their parents’ deaths.

He knew Faramir’s mother had died when he was just a young child and could not imagine what the young man must have gone through. Had he practically raised himself? Had he been brought up by servants and nurses who were obligated to care for him, but had no real love for him? What kind of pain must he have suffered to have his mother taken from him at such a young age, and a father that resented and hated him? How had he become such a strong, confident young man? One who refused, even now that his father was dead, to speak ill about the man who must have caused him such pain? He could not help but admire that.

“Nor have I,” Éomer agreed. “I have never quite understood the purpose of them, to be honest.”

Faramir nodded, taking another sip of his mead. “Personally I believe it to be a conspiracy,” he whispered, leaning his head closer to Éomer’s as if sharing some great secret.

“Conspiracy?”

“Aye…..ages ago, some king or lord enjoyed these and subjected his children to them. The children therefore subjected their own children to them, and so on. Over time it came to be known as ‘tradition’, which as you know, is nearly impossible to go against. Our fathers and grandfathers hated being forced to go to them when they were children, so they forced us to go to them as well.” He grinned. “And when we have children, we will force our children to endure what we did as well.”

Éomer stared at him for a moment. Faramir’s expression seemed completely serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes, and after a moment Éomer broke out into a grin, causing Faramir to grin as well. “That must be it my friend. Conspiracy indeed.”

Faramir reached over and patted the king’s shoulder. “And unfortunately the king is NEVER exempt from them.” Éomer froze, his body responding immediately to the touch of the Gondorian. Faramir met the king’s eyes, surprised at his reaction. But he was not blind to the effects of his touch, and when he saw no one was looking their way, allowed his hand to travel slowly down Éomer’s back. A slight shiver went through the king’s powerful frame as the gentle fingers traced the line of his spine.

“What are you doing?” Éomer whispered, causing Faramir to smile.

“What I have wanted to do for a very long time, but thought would not be desired,” he whispered back. “Éowyn was not the only one who looked forward to your visits to the Houses of Healing.” Éomer looked uncertain, a far cry from the normally confident, almost arrogant warrior he normally appeared as. “Is there somewhere more private where we can talk?”

Éomer nodded, stepping away with an effort. “This way.” He strode quickly around the side of the hall, quickly ducking out of a rear entrance. The party was well enough underway that he knew the risk of anyone seeing them leaving was almost nil. Faramir smiled as he followed the king through some close passageways, up stairs, until finally they reached a protected area on the roof of the Great Hall. Faramir was struck by how calm it was here. Rohan, and Edoras in particular, was horribly windy, but the barriers around this part of the roof broke the wind, making it pleasant, and quite warm.

Éomer locked the door behind them and sat down on one of the padded benches near the edge of the roof. “No one will disturb us here.”

Faramir moved closer. “And are we going to be doing anything that we would not want to be disturbed from?” he asked with a smirk.

Éomer nodded, though he couldn’t help but smile also, his unease dissipating at the teasing words. “Of course. I would not want to be disturbed discussing…horses, or perhaps how lovely a night it is, or how your journey here was, or such things.”

“Ah no…certainly not. But I certainly would prefer not to be disturbed as I tell you about how soft your hair looks, or how I long to run my fingers through it.” Faramir’s stare was intense, holding the king captive under his spell.

“Then perhaps instead of telling me about it, you should do it,” Éomer whispered, leaning closer on the bench.

“I do believe I will do just that,” Faramir whispered back, reaching up and slowly tracing the design on the king’s crown before letting his fingers travel lower, stroking Éomer’s hair softly before threading it through his fingers. “And I do believe I will also test these lovely lips.” He leaned closer yet, gently brushing his lips against Éomer’s before deepening the kiss. The moan he heard from the king encouraged him on, and soon his free hand was wrapped around Éomer’s waist, pulling him closer.

When they finally broke apart, they continued staring into each other’s eyes for a very long time, oblivious to all around them. “I have desired you for a long time, Éomer, son of Éomund. You think I did not notice you that day you came to visit us with your uncle. But I did. I did very much. You were beautiful even then, and as you have matured, your beauty has only grown. You have acquired the best of your people; you are kind without weakness, strong without arrogance, brave without foolhardiness. You have grown into a man your father would have been proud of.”

“I would say the same of you, but…” His voice trailed off in embarrassment.

Faramir nodded. “Perhaps if we meet again in the afterlife, he will have learned to appreciate both his sons.”

“Forgive me, I did not mean…”

“I know you did not,” Faramir interrupted. “He is gone now, and I refuse to let him continue to hurt me now. What happened is in the past, and that is where it will stay.” He reached up to stroke Éomer’s hair again. “And I believe we were talking about the present,” he said softly, his voice gentling.

“I do believe we were,” Éomer returned, hesitantly reaching to lay a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, trailing his fingers down his arm. After a moment, he leaned in to capture Faramir’s lips in a kiss.

This time it lasted much longer, both men touching and caressing, exploring whatever skin they could touch, feeling hard muscles under soft garments, and by the time it ended they were both panting slightly, and more than a little aroused.

With a slight smile, Faramir made the first move, reaching for the buttons on Éomer’s tunic. He kept his gaze on the king’s, waiting for any sign that this was not what was wanted. His fingers lingered a little on each button, appreciating the beauty of the horse-head design. But Éomer did not object, and before long, his tunic was open all down the front. He reached inside the opened tunic, exploring warm skin with gentle fingers, smiling when Éomer moaned softly. Leaning forward, he kissed and tasted, flicking his tongue across each nipple in turn.

“Please…” Éomer moaned softly.

Faramir looked up at him, his eyes dilated in lust. “Please what?”

“More…please more.”

“As his highness wishes,” Faramir whispered, reaching up to pull the tunic off Éomer’s shoulders. The king lowered his arms, allowing the garment to drop to the floor. Faramir resumed his exploration of Éomer’s powerful chest and shoulders, softly kissing and licking the many scars. Éomer shuddered more with each touch, each caress, his shaft swelling until he thought it might burst.

“Let…let me touch you,” he finally managed to gasp out, reaching for Faramir. Faramir nodded and sat back, letting the Rohirrim unbutton his tunic and slide it off his shoulders. Éomer gasped and sat back, staring at the criss-cross of marks across Faramir’s chest. Though there was little dishonesty in Rohan, occasionally a law-breaker would have to be punished with a whipping, and Éomer knew what the scars from such a punishment looked like. He traced one of the scars with a fingertip, looking up into Faramir’s eyes. “He hurt you in so many ways,” he whispered.

“In the past, Éomer,” Faramir reminded gently. “Let it stay there.” Éomer nodded, running his hands slowly up and down the steward’s sides, loving the feel of the soft skin under his fingertips. After a moment, he smiled and leaned forward, tracing each scar with his tongue, grinning when Faramir shuddered and gasped with each touch. When the reactions to his tentative touches were positive, he became bolder, one hand traveling lower, brushing against the front of Faramir’s leggings, delighted to feel the hardness within.

Faramir moaned and pressed into Éomer’s touch, his shaft jerking in sudden need. “Again…” he moaned, and Éomer nodded and started slowly caressing him through his leggings. Faramir moaned again, gripping the king’s shoulders and thrusting into each touch.

When Éomer finally stopped and pulled the Gondorian into a bruising kiss, both men were gasping and panting in need. “Here, or in my quarters? The bed is soft.”

Faramir grinned. “‘Tis up to you, my friend. Which would you prefer to be bent over? The railing, or your soft bed?”

Éomer grinned back. “And who is to say it is I who will be bent over anything?”

“I do. Because I know it is what you want, whether you will admit it or not.” Éomer looked away, his body flushing in need as he thought about taking Faramir inside of him.

“I have never…been the sheath,” he whispered, looking up and meeting Faramir’s eyes, nearly drowning in the caring and compassion he saw in those blue depths.

“I suspected as much, my friend. You do not seem the type to submit.” He gently stroked Éomer’s cheek. “I would give you what you wish, if indeed you wish it to be with me. Likewise, if you would prefer to be the sword tonight, I would happily be the sheath.”

“You have been both?” Éomer asked tentatively.

“Indeed.”

“And do you prefer one over the other?” Faramir smiled at the questions. Though he was nearly a decade older than Éomer, somehow he had expected the Rohirrim to be more experienced. But his questions, much like an unseasoned youth would ask, showed he did not have the experience that would be expected.

“No, I do not. I enjoy both. They are both pleasurable, in different ways.” His voice lowered. “But if you are asking me which I would like to be right now, I would answer the sword. Because I would like to show you the pleasure you have been denied.”

“Then if I am to be the sheath, take me right here. I am no maiden, I do not need sweet words or the comfort of a soft bed.”

“No?” Faramir leaned closer, nibbling on Éomer’s earlobe, which caused the king to shiver. “Then you would object to me telling you how desirable I find you?” He reached between their bodies, squeezing each of Éomer’s nipples. “Or how soft your hair is? Or how much I hope this is not the last time we do this?”

Éomer groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as Faramir’s touches brought him to an almost painful ecstasy. Was the Gondorian going to tease him all night? Already he was so hard he ached. How much more could he stand? He shivered as Faramir slid off the bench, kissing his stomach and then sliding in between his thighs. The steward continued softly speaking as he unlaced Éomer’s leggings and pulled them down. “Or how beautiful this is to me? How beautiful all of you is to me?” Éomer groaned again and spread his thighs further. “No, I can see my words mean little to you. Surely you do not need them.”

Faramir scooted closer, gently grasping Éomer’s shaft in his hands. “Aye…most lovely indeed.” He slowly lowered his mouth over the hard flesh, his gaze never leaving Éomer’s. “Mmmm. And so delicious as well.” Éomer groaned and tipped his head back on the wall, gripping the bench tightly to try to keep himself from thrusting into Faramir’s mouth.

For a long time Faramir teased the king’s shaft, licking and sucking on him, occasionally moving lower to caress or lick his soft sacs. He brought Éomer close to the edge, then backed off, doing it over and over until the king thought he might go mad with pleasure. Finally he stood up and captured Éomer’s lips in a searing kiss. “On your knees.”

Éomer flushed a little as he turned around and kneeled on the bench, and flushed more when Faramir spread his legs further and kneeled behind him, spreading his cheeks and taking a long taste of him. A loud squeal emitted from him as Faramir kissed and licked his clenching opening. He gripped the wall so hard his fingers went white as Faramir curled his tongue into a point and speared him with it, sampling his musky taste.

Faramir groaned as Éomer did, shifting position on the ground to try to find a comfortable position for his aching shaft. Finally he could stand no more and found his discarded tunic, pulling out the vial of whetting oil he always kept there and coating his fingers with it. He slowly stroked Éomer’s lower back as he started ever so carefully pressing one oiled finger inside. Almost immediately Éomer tensed and clamped down on the invasion.

“You must try to relax my friend. It will be painful if you are tense.”

“I have been the sword before, Faramir, I know what to do,” Éomer ground out through gritted teeth.

Faramir smiled at his tone and kissed his back. “Then do it.”

“I…am…trying…” he growled, trying to force himself to relax, to concentrate on that part of his body. Finally he was able to relax a bit and Faramir carefully pressed in a little further. Éomer immediately tensed again, but this time, he was able to relax more quickly, and when the Gondorian started slowly stroking his finger in and out, it actually began to feel good. He moaned softly as Faramir added another finger, spreading the oil deep inside. After a while, the fingers withdrew, and he whimpered softly, feeling strangely empty.

“Are you ready?” Faramir whispered, liberally coating his arousal in oil and moving closer. Éomer nodded, concentrating on forcing himself to relax as he felt the hot hardness slowly pushing inside of him. His body shuddered as he felt Faramir entering him, inch by inch and fought not to tense up as fullness and pressure began to become slight pain. He sighed in relief as he felt Faramir press up against him. “That is all, my friend. Now just allow your body to relax. Let yourself feel the sensations. I promise it will get better.”

Éomer nodded, his breath coming in quick pants as he waited for the pain to diminish. After a short while it did, and he looked over his shoulder and nodded. Faramir nodded back and began slowly thrusting, shallow strokes at first, growing deeper and firmer as Éomer’s pained gasps gave way to cries of pleasure and need. Faramir groaned, feeling his own climax fast approaching…but there was one more thing he wanted to show the Rohirrim before they were done. Shifting position on the bench, he reached around and grasped Éomer’s shaft, stroking it quickly. Éomer cried out and Faramir grinned, withdrawing almost fully and then thrusting in almost brutally.

Éomer howled and spilled himself almost instantly as Faramir’s shaft suddenly brushed against the pleasure spot deep within him. He gripped the edge of the wall tightly as it seemed every ounce of strength was being drained from his body. Faramir reached his climax a moment later, crying out his own release to the stars as he emptied himself into the straining body of the man underneath him. He held on tightly to Éomer for a few moments before sitting down heavily on the bench. Éomer was still kneeling on the upholstery, his head hanging down, gasping and shivering, and Faramir gently pulled him to a sitting position. The king sighed softly, leaning against Faramir’s shoulder, turning his face upward to watch a shooting star.

“Did you like that?” Faramir finally whispered, stroking the damp locks of the king.

“Mmmm, I did. Very much.” He snuggled closer. “I do believe that I will not hesitate to be the sheath in the future. I am not sure why I have refused it before now.”

“It is difficult to trust another enough to receive. If the person receiving is not sufficiently prepared, the pain can be very great.” His face darkened a little at that, but Éomer did not ask. Something told him Faramir’s initiation to sex had been less than pleasurable, but if the Gondorian wished to keep those experiences in the past, he would respect that.

“Aye, perhaps that is it….or I was afraid of looking foolish by submitting to one of lower rank.”

Faramir smiled and stroked the king’s cheek. “But you are King of Rohan now, Éomer. Everyone is of lower rank now. If you wish to experience that again, it cannot be with an equal.”

“Aye, I suppose you are right.” They fell silent again, each lost in his own thoughts. After a while a light shiver went through Faramir’s body and the king looked up at him. “Cold?”

“Getting that way, yes.”

Éomer stood, pulling on his clothes and handing Faramir’s to him. “Then come…we can spend the rest of the night in a nice warm bed.” Faramir grinned, quickly pulling on his clothes, and holding his boots, followed Éomer back inside.

Again they traced a confusing path through hallways and doors, up and down stairs, until at last they came to a spacious room with a large window looking out over the city, and beyond that, the valley. Faramir smiled appreciatively at the beauty of the room, the colorful tapestries, the thick furs on the floors, the bookshelves lining one wall. Éomer noticed the appreciative gaze and looked a little embarrassed.

“This was my uncle’s room. It is still much how he left it the day he rode to war. I was not sure if I should keep it as he had it or not. If he would feel I was honoring him by keeping it the same or if he would want me to change it to suit my tastes.”

Faramir nodded. Denethor’s quarters had not been touched since the former Steward’s death, and he was faced with much the same dilemma. However, unlike Éomer, he would never have lived in the same quarters his father had. He preferred something smaller and less lavish, but with a lovely view of the valley. Not that he was going to be in Minas Tirith much longer anyways. As soon as he returned with the signed treaty, he had already asked the king’s permission to fulfill his duty as Steward from Ithilien. Aragorn had happily given it, and within a few months, Faramir would resume the duties he knew so well; commanding troops and cleansing the lands east of Gondor from the remnants of Sauron’s forces.

Faramir yawned slightly and headed toward the four-poster bed at the center of the room. When he reached it, he let his fingers travel appreciatively over the designs on the massive timbers at each corner. Éomer joined him, smiling at the Gondorian’s appreciation. “It is lovely, is it not?”

“It is…there is little doubt of the importance of horses to your people. It seems nearly everything you craft pays homage to them in some way.”

Éomer nodded, wrapping his arms around Faramir from behind. “Lay with me, Son of Gondor.”

Faramir turned in his arms, blinking back tears. “My father always called Boromir that. But never me.”

Éomer’s eyes clouded over in anger. “You are no less a Son of Gondor than he was. ‘Tis unfortunate your father never understood that.” He started slowly removing Faramir’s clothes, softly caressing his body as he did so. Once he was finished, he stepped back, allowing Faramir to do the same to him. Soon the two men were naked and briefly embraced before lying down together on the bed. Éomer lay on his side and Faramir snuggled close to him, his arm wrapped around Éomer’s waist, gently kissing the back of his neck until they both fell asleep.

Éomer woke a few hours later. They had shifted position as they slept and Faramir was now sprawled on his stomach, one arm tucked underneath the pillow. The covers were pooled around his waist and Éomer found himself staring at the scars on the Gondorian’s back. He knew some of them were from the funeral pyre when Denethor had tried to burn them both alive, but many others were much older. Éomer started slowly tracing them with his fingertips, shaking his head at the evidence of how much pain this beautiful young man had to endure over the years. Some were new, others so old as to nearly have faded away. His back clearly bespoke the evidence of abuse that had gone on for many years, perhaps since he was just a small boy. Had Denethor been so angry and resentful at the loss of his beloved wife that he took out his resentment on an innocent child?

Faramir shifted position and sighed softly at the gentle touches and suddenly Éomer’s line of thought changed. He continued his gentle exploration of Faramir’s back, but his touches became a little firmer, occasionally traveling down to gently explore the cleft between firm buttocks. After a short while, he coated his hands with oil and started his erotic massage in earnest. Faramir still slept, but his body unconsciously moved into the touches, and when Éomer gently pressed an oiled finger inside of him, he groaned, his eyes fluttering open.

“Éomer, what…what are you doing?”

“Shhhh. Just feel…” He carefully added another slick finger, causing Faramir to groan and press back against him. Éomer shifted position on the bed as he moved his fingers in and out, after a while adding a third. The steward was clearly more used to this role than he had been, as Faramir was able to relax almost immediately after each new intrusion. Before long, he had risen up to his knees and was rocking back and forth on the invading fingers.

“Take me…” he whispered, “please…”

“Yes…” Éomer whispered back. “But not like this. Turn over. I want to see your eyes, I want to see the pleasure I give you reflected in them.”

Faramir nodded and rolled to his back, lifting his knees to his chest. Éomer’s shaft gave a hard throb as he looked at the willing opening, just waiting for him to fill it. He quickly coated himself in oil and holding Faramir’s thighs in his large hands, slowly pushed inside. Faramir groaned and tipped his head back, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure as Éomer filled him.

“No…” Éomer whispered, gently tipping the steward’s chin back down. “Open them…I want to see your pleasure.”

Faramir nodded, shuddering hard as Éomer started to thrust, slowly at first, trying to be careful of his partner’s comfort, but quickly increasing as he could tell Faramir was relaxed and was not being hurt.

It was not long before they were both crying out in the midst of explosive climaxes, and when Éomer finally collapsed on his partner, they were both well and truly drained. They lay together for a long time, softly caressing and kissing as they regained their breath. Finally Faramir spoke.

“Éomer?”

“Hmmm?” The king was nearly asleep and with an effort, he forced himself to pay attention to what Faramir was saying.

“Thank you.”

Éomer smiled and kissed his forehead. “Likewise.” After a moment, he chuckled. “What do you think your king would say if he knew you were in bed with the King of Rohan at the moment?”

Faramir grinned. “If there is one thing I have learned about His Highness is that he sees far more than he lets on. I do not believe it was a random choice that he sent me here with the treaty.”

Éomer’s smile turned wicked. “Hmmm, if that is so, precisely what were his reasons? To make his steward happy, or to make his ally happy?”

Faramir laughed. “Probably both. He has rather interesting ways of rewarding loyal friends and comrades.”

The king sighed softly, pulling Faramir closer. “Remind me to thank him the next time I see him.”

“I will…” he closed his eyes, purring softly as Éomer’s hand traveled slowly up and down his back. “Thank you for having me as your guest.”

“You are always welcome here.”

“In your kingdom or in your bed?”

Éomer chuckled. “Both.”

“Mmmm. And you are always welcome in my bed.” He closed his eyes and before long was dozing off. Éomer kissed his forehead once before closing his eyes. Perhaps get-togethers were not so bad after all. Not if he ended them in such a delightful way….

END

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/always-welcome. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!