Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Twenty – Trust

Faramir stared at the mess of dark tresses that spilled over his chest. Mesmerised by them, he had to sternly tell his heart to not beat so madly. By some unspoken agreement they had moved over to the bed when the shadows had begun stretching and the last remnants of daylight had failed to pretend it was still too early for such choices. Faramir still wore his shirt, of course, and so did Aragorn; they had kicked off their boots but that was all. But right now it was – almost – enough for Faramir to have the other man’s head resting on his chest and his own arms wound around him. He had desired closeness and had been granted it – it was not fitting to wish for more so soon.

The small fire would soon need tending to and Faramir feared the moment when he would have to rise and let go. The raging winds, dark skies and pouring rain made it hard to tell the time: sunset had been fear and longing entwined, lost in its own essence, whereas night was calmer, steadily waxing, but impossible to melt into as dark, tousled locks spread out against well-worn linen. Aragorn’s breathing had evened out after a while and the King slept peacefully in his arms.

The golden glow of the fire skated across the dark strands of hair and some more wood crumbled in the heat in the hearth. With a heavy sigh, Faramir stroked the arm that encircled his waist.

“Aragorn?”

Love?

He swallowed and pushed back some of the hair that had fallen into the King’s face. “Aragorn…”

The older man gave a small groan and Faramir must ignore that too lest he should find himself far too affected by the circumstances than was appropriate. He needed not any powers providing him with suggestions and Aragorn’s body was already warm where it lay, moulded against his.

“Some more wood for the fire,” he mumbled as Aragorn shifted and pressed closer to him.

A dull aching burst through his defences and a new wave of rain pounded the windows.

But Aragorn obediently slid off him as he attempted to sit up. Before he knew what he was doing, Faramir bent down and placed a quick kiss on his forehead.

“Do not leave,” he whispered as he unsteadily rose to his feet.

He dared not look at the form on the bed as he fed more wood to the fire, drew the curtains shut and extinguished the few remaining lit candles. The room closed in on itself and the air grew heavier to breathe. Undecided, Faramir fingered his belt but in the end removed it; Aragorn’s soft breathing sifted out to him but he firmly quenched all his expectations. He bid a silent goodnight to the land he was set to protect and then approached the bed, his bare feet grateful for the rug.

The bed was large enough to allow them to sleep far apart and still be comfortable.

“My lord,” his croaked whisper bounced off the walls. He knelt on the edge. “We need to… the covers…”

Aragorn raised his head. His face was softened by sleep and the firelight held him in a warm embrace. He sat up slowly as if he did not truly trust his own body. While Faramir’s hands tugged and lifted, his eyes would not leave the King. Aragorn was not looking at him directly but for that he was grateful. Faramir’s heart picked up an unsteady rhythm as he realised there was nothing more for him to do but to lie down. He edged onto the bed cautiously but the other man did not flee.

“Faramir,” there was something in Aragorn’s voice that compelled the younger man to meet his eyes, “please take off your shirt.”

His throat suddenly gone dry, Faramir stared straight into the grey. The firelight gave it an even warmer glow but he numbly registered that was not really necessary: Aragorn was watching him with so much softness that it would have made tears sting his eyes had he not been so nervous.

“Please.”

His fingers trembled as he lifted the hem and pulled his shirt over his head. He hardly dared to breathe as Aragorn’s eyes swept over his bare chest. Frozen on the spot, Faramir stared as the older man mirrored his hesitant action and shed his own shirt.

Aragorn was thinner than Faramir remembered him from the days after the war. He had only seen the King bare-chested on a handful occasions but never had he felt like he did now. The muscles were still there, his chest was still dusted by that dark hair but his skin was pale even in the helpful glow of the fire. He saw his own hand reaching out and then his fingertips were trailing over unshielded skin and brushing against the exposed planes of Aragorn’s stomach.

He parted his lips to draw breath, to maybe say something, but he had no time before Aragorn’s lips crashed against his and the force of a desperate kiss almost knocked him over. Hands were mapping his shoulder blades and fingers dug into the small of his back as Aragorn’s tongue pushed into his mouth. When kneeling soon became impossible, Faramir dragged the other man down onto the mattress, eagerly kissing and stroking every little inch of naked skin he could find. He knew not if it was thunder or his own heartbeat that rang in his ears but when the ache in his body intensified and the instinctive push of his hips did not chase Aragorn away he dazedly decided that he would let Emyn Arnen drown if only Aragorn stayed where he was.

He left open-mouthed kisses along the older man’s neck and felt palms dragging up his sides. Aragorn lay partly on top of him now with one of his thighs pressing against Faramir’s groin and the heat grew close to unbearable. Faramir’s teeth grazed the tender skin just below the King’s ear and drew a long moan from him. His world swam when Aragorn pushed against him, his arousal evident. Faramir sought out his mouth again and heavy breathing was momentarily interfered with as he tasted his King once more.

Aragorn’s fingers tangled in his hair and held him so close that it was almost painful. The plea that pushed inside Faramir was enough to fuel his courage and unchecked his hand flew to the lacings of his leggings. Aragorn’s tongue was slick against his own and they simultaneously shifted, giving Faramir some space to work with. He quickly tore open his own lacings, hissing as the stormy night air touched his arousal. Aragorn moved against him, but his hands stayed in Faramir’s hair.

Riding the current of desire unleashed and unable to hold back, Faramir twisted backwards and reached for the drawer in the bedside table. In his awkward position it took him a little while to find the oil but Aragorn stayed and that was all that mattered. The windows shook as rain assailed them but Aragorn’s skin was hot against his and Faramir dropped the corked vial on the bed and kissed him deeply.

“Please, let me,” he begged before some harsh reality of any kind broke through.

For the first time in many minutes did their eyes meet and Faramir felt almost nauseous. It was too easy to spot the immense fear that was barely held back by the shimmering lust so he reached out with all his being and tried to hold Aragorn as close as he might. There were so many conflicting emotions in the older man that they were uncountable, but he told himself he could sense hope and trust too. Aragorn nodded and the stubble on his chin rasped against Faramir’s shoulder.

The younger man closed his eyes and stroked Aragorn’s hip, his breathing picking up speed again now that he was given permission. Aragorn buried his face in the crook of his neck as Faramir’s fingers slipped lower towards the bulge in his leggings. Tracing a pattern on the strained fabric, Faramir drank down the small gasps that washed over his skin. As he began exploring the laces a kiss was pressed to his neck and he smiled.

It seemed like a year passed before the fabric fell away under his fingers and then he wished for some more time still. He tried not to tremble as he picked up the oil and managed to coat his palm. His own arousal twitched at the thought of touching Aragorn so intimately but the King lay mute beside him now, the apprehension mounting quickly in the room.

“Tell me…” he rasped out, trying to hold back for Aragorn sake.

All air left him as Aragorn hugged him closer and lifted his head, and he was so drained of confidence his eyes looked almost hollow. “Destroy the fear, Faramir,” he whispered, “kill it.”

For a moment Faramir could not move. Then he nodded faintly. “Kiss me.”

Something flashed across the other man’s face and then lips were pressed against his.

Refusing to think, and to the sound of the beating rain, Faramir encircled Aragorn’s hard flesh with an oil slicked hand and gently began to stroke. The older man froze, and so did the kiss, and the world turned upside down.

Faramir pushed through the thick fog, through the mist that invaded the room. Aragorn was warm and hard and heavy in his hand and he admitted to himself that he wanted this man more than he had ever wanted anyone before. The King did not respond to his initial strokes; Faramir felt the defences slam into place but he fought these too. With a twist of his fingers, with a tug, sliding his thumb over the slit, with some coaxing, his heart broke into pieces along with Aragorn’s as the first whimper touched the air.

Faramir kissed him over and over. He ignored his own aching flesh as he slid his hand up and down Aragorn’s swollen length. The moment the other man gave in, he silently rejoiced and deepened an already thorough kiss. Aragorn yielded under his ministrations with a drawn-out moan and Faramir increased the force of his strokes but not the pace. Then boldness came upon him and he ended the kiss by a final sweep of his tongue.

“Come closer,” he suggested and made a fairly successful attempt to shift partially onto his side.

He felt the tremors that chased each other through Aragorn’s body but he bit his lip and gambled. The feel of his hand finally encircling his own erection was a relief but it was not what he was after. He held his breath as he took Aragorn in his hand too, stroking them simultaneously with more audacity than he knew he possessed. Aragorn gasped and squeezed his eyes firmly shut. His arm tightened its hold on Faramir’s waist and his breathing grew ragged. Faramir saw stars in the darkness even as the firelight waned. His own flesh slid along Aragorn’s, trapped by his hand and the heat that spread in his body made his legs tingle. Without any warning Aragorn suddenly gave a pained cry and momentarily tensed before he climaxed with his seed spraying over Faramir’s hand.

He shook uncontrollably against the younger man who let him slip from his fingers and with a few well-known twists quickly brought himself over the edge too. His own climax, Faramir reflected as soon as the world stopped spinning and the immediate heat was washed away by a pleasant sensation of numbness, was perhaps not the most amazing one he had experienced, but his heart and soul were blasted completely open with the presence of Aragorn in his bed.

The King held onto him like they were adrift on a stormy sea. Faramir buried his nose in the dark tresses and breathed in the scent of frenzied love-making, shame and terror. But there were other scents beneath these and he filled his senses with what he hoped was pure Aragorn, not assaulted by shadow. The pace of their breathing gradually slowed and the chill of the evening swept back into the room.

There was activity in the corners, by the windows and near the fireplace where the dying fire now crackled audibly in a last display of passion. Faramir mentally shoved at the – for the moment – unwelcome company and did his best to ignore the snickers floating out to him.

He ran a hand down Aragorn’s back. The other man was not asleep, that much he could tell from the sound of his breathing.

“Cold?” he whispered.

Aragorn’s grip on him loosened a little and Faramir found himself looking into grey eyes. There were so many questions in them that Faramir momentarily felt overwhelmed.

“Stay,” he said and thus answered what he perceived was the first one. “Stay for as long as you wish.” Maybe that was the second.

Aragorn’s arms fell away as Faramir gingerly sat up and reached for the covers. He swallowed as he caught the next question in the grey gaze, wondering how many times his own eyes had held the same one. “Hold me again?” he suggested gently.

The smallest of smiles curved Aragorn’s lips and his arm came around Faramir’s waist once more. “I am still scared,” the King admitted while his cheeks gained some heat in the dark night, “but you are…” he visibly hesitated, weighing words. “This was…”

As he lost his words to the night, Faramir kissed his forehead and felt the dull ache rising anew. “I care greatly about you, Aragorn,” he sighed, somehow knowing that would end the conversation.

He lay awake and listened to the other man’s breathing grow softer and softer. Skin that he had never touched before lay pressed against his own. His heart was open wide and yet it hurt.

You love him.

Faramir stared into darkness.

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