Faramir Fiction Archive

Staying (R)

Written by Minx

01 August 2008 | 780 words

Title: Staying
Author: Minx
Characters: Aragorn/Faramir
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash
Feedback: Would be loved:)
Summary: Faramir is not stopped from leaving. Written for the ‘Chains’ prompt on the 50_darkfics LJ community, in response to Laurelote’s request – Chains – Aragorn again, but can I have mental chains as opposed to physical ones?
A/N: Many thanks to Iris for reading through :)

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“We mustn’t,” he murmurs desperately, trying not to react, as the hands wander over his body, slipping under his tunic, touching his bare skin. The hands slip around his waist, over his back, pushing down his pants to cup his backside, pulling him close, so that he has to lean against the board chest. He dips his head against it involuntarily, his own hands clutching at the other man’s tunic, as a hot breath wafts by his ear and neck.

“I’ll stop if you tell me to.”

“I must think of Éowyn,” he says instead, feeling the firm muscles through the fine cloth of the other man’s tunic.

“Think of her then.” There is a hint of boredom in the voice; they have spoken of this before.

“Please…”

“Will you think of her as I enter you?”

“Please…” he moans, as the hot wetness laps at his neck, behind his ear, and warm fingers part his unresisting legs, to enter places that Éowyn never will. He doesn’t know what he moans for.

“We mustn’t,” he tries again, lifting his head just barely.

And then it is all gone. The hands leave him, the wetness lets go of his neck, and he is no longer leaning against the king’s chest. The silk of the tunic slips through his fingers.

“Leave then,” Aragorn growls as he pushes him away.

His trembling legs cannot support him…he sinks to the ground, shaking, breathing heavily. His hands cling to the king’s legs for support.

“Leave,” Aragorn goads, and Faramir can hear the contempt in his voice and see the smirk he knows the lips would have twisted into, “When have I ever stopped you leaving?”

His arms cling around broad thighs. He leans his face forward, breathing in the scent of leather and an odd muskiness, familiarly heady, as it fills his mind with visions of furtive nights and disused hallways and hastily removed clothes.

Fingers curl into his hair, and play with the loose strands.

“She doesn’t love you,” Aragorn’s voice is soft and amused, “She doesn’t even pretend to love you. When have you last bedded her?”

He is pushed back against the floor, the cold of the stone seeps into his skin through the thinness of his half-undone clothes. The fingers run over his bare stomach and chest tracing complicated patterns. He feels the familiar burn in his lower body, and he arches up, seeking the fingers to move lower.

“She – she is my wife,” he tries weakly, as his pants are lowered further, exposing him to the cold floor and warm fingers.

“She married you so she would be free of her life in Rohan.”

He gasps as a callused hand wraps around his arousal, and parting his legs, raises his knees to allow the king to kneel between his legs.

“You can leave whenever you want to. I do not stop you.”

But where would he go? He craves this touch, the fingers that probe his entrance, the tongue that laves his stomach, the open want that he knows he’ll see in the other man’s eyes. Who else would it give to him? He has none in this world who would even hold him close, no brother or father. He is bound to a wife who does not understand his desire for such frequent intimacy. His constant need for nearness and his tactility only drive her further away. She has not loved him like that in so long that he wonders if he can still love her now.

He had once woken to this man’s touch and voice, pulled towards his call willingly. There are some who sneer that the Steward of Gondor is much like a tamed hound, ever willing to do the king’s bidding. They speak behind closed doors of how that bidding ends in the king’s bed.

“I do not hold you chained, or on a leash, no matter what others say,” come words in a voice that is enough to hold him back, soft and so sensuously persuasive, as he spreads his legs wider apart to take in the king’s length.

He would not dispute it. The king alone seeks him out, holds him, touches him, talks to him, when all others are lost in their own worlds. He would gladly be chained.

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