Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Alternative title of this chapter: ‘The very many chairs’ or ‘Why is there no good synonym for ‘chair’?’) After dinner comes dessert! If you prefer tea and cake, please skip this chapter.

Chapter 12 – Sitting

The sky had cleared and the moon was riding the dark heavens in the southeast, steadily climbing higher and higher. The winter stars, for once, were able to shine down without being covered up by snow-filled clouds. Fascinated, they now and then peered in through the windows, studying how the King and the Steward tried to move closer to each other while seated in different chairs.

Unaware of this, Aragorn, mesmerised, was watching how Faramir picked up a handful of dried cranberries and unhurriedly ate them one by one. Upon imagining how they would clash with the sweetness of his Steward’s mouth, Aragorn knew he was more than a little affected by the wine.

After their last visit, when they had brought some more wood for the fire and wine for the table, Aragorn had bid the servants withdraw for the night – if the delegation from Erelas had no more demands. Now they were alone, and the King found he appreciated that to such an extent, he almost began to wonder about his own, normally well grounded, sanity.

However, at seeing Faramir lick his lips after finishing off the berries, he happily let go of all such ponderings.

“You are eyeing me most intently, my lord,” Faramir smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Is there anything you wish to ask?”

He had shifted in his armchair, sitting diagonally in it so that he might face Aragorn a little easier. A small part of the King envied the ease with which he moved about – not mentioning the many ways in which he was able to place his legs – but the greater part of him had accepted his situation.

“Well?” Faramir persisted and leaned forward.

By the way his eyes had glazed over, Aragorn could tell the wine had some power over him as well.

“No,” he answered, “no questions.”

“No? I am disappointed,” Faramir stated, holding his gaze. “Nothing at all you wish to communicate?”

Aragorn returned his smile. “Now that you mention it,” he said, “there might be something we need to engage in. But you need to get over here.”

Promptly, Faramir shuffled closer and without waiting, Aragorn caught his lips in a possessive kiss.

They sat kissing for a while until Faramir cringed uneasily.

“I need to move,” he groaned into Aragorn’s mouth. “My back is telling me this is not an ideal position.”

The King reluctantly let him go and sank back into his armchair, watching the other man scan the room with a look of deep dissatisfaction.

“Only chairs,” Faramir concluded at last. “Makes things more complicated.”

Aragorn had trouble hiding his smile. Yet again, his lover managed to make a charming picture: his hair slightly dishevelled, and once more he wore one of those frowns that made him look years younger. However, this time, the undertone of pure lust was apparent, he saw as he studied Faramir’s face and movements. Aragorn had no complaints.

“Chairs…” he mused, “it might be a good thing, you know.”

“How is that?” Faramir shot him a quizzical glance.

“Well, if I remember correctly, we were… hrm, encouraged… to try that particular… arrangement,” he finished off rather lamely, remembering with embarrassment the Healer’s never-ending lesson on techniques and positions.

“Oh.”

Two hands went straight for the table and two cups of wine were lifted and brought to two separate mouths. Aragorn drank down most of the dark red liquid in a desperate attempt to forget what he had been forced to listen to that afternoon.

Naturally, a part of him was grateful that they had been provided with ideas on how to… proceed with matters, it was just the circumstances that bothered him – and maybe that the Healer so obviously enjoyed to see them blush and mutter incomprehensible curses. With a fatherly nod, he had, at long last, ended his sermon and with an expectant pat on Aragorn’s shoulder he had wished them good luck, and bid them seek him out if they experienced any ‘trouble’.

“So…” he said now, replacing his cup on the table.

“Right,” Faramir offered.

Then things seemed to shatter completely for him and Aragorn broke into sudden laughter.

“This is insane,” he panted between breaths.

Faramir sat watching him with an expression of amused bewilderment. He took another sip of wine but said nothing.

Aragorn collected himself enough to speak properly.

“I am sorry,” he smiled, shaking his head. “It has been a long day. Where were we?”

“In a chair,” Faramir winked at him. “Or rather, in separate ones, unfortunately.”

“You know that can be arranged.”

“Yes… that is true…” Faramir presented a serious face. “But you know, Aragorn…” He paused.

“What is it that I know?” Aragorn eyed him carefully, as if the answer would appear on his forehead, much like the script on the One Ring among flames.

“It means we will have to deal with what happened this afternoon. Can you handle that?”

Faramir might just as well have undressed right there, right then. A tingle of excitement ran through Aragorn as he returned the challenging look the other man sent him.

“Indeed, I can,” he said. “And I will prove it.”

He watched as Faramir, a little unsteady, got up, lifted the small table – along with its contents – from its place in front of the fire, and set it down where it would not be in their way. Then he positioned his own chair in front of Aragorn’s so they could face each other.

Sitting down again, he gave an awkward smile. “I am drunk,” he admitted.

Aragorn leaned forward so their knees touched, and placed a hand on each of Faramir’s thighs. “And so am I.”

He had never before been kissed by Faramir in such a fashion; up until this point their kisses had, with a few exceptions, mostly been tentative, sweet and lingering. It was still sweet, but much bolder and far more daring.

Faramir’s lips crashed against his own and almost immediately, his tongue swept inside Aragorn’s mouth. One hand wove into his hair and drew him even closer, while the other snaked around his waist and savagely tugged at his tunic. When pulling at it resulted in nothing particular, Faramir abandoned this mode of procedure and instead worked his way underneath the material.

Aragorn was so taken aback by this new attitude, that for a couple of seconds, he barely knew how to respond. Even if it was all due to the wine, he was certain he liked it. Soon, he found his wits and had the decency to moan appreciatively as determined fingers brushed over his nipples. He heard the rasp of the other chair against the floor as Faramir tried to eliminate the remaining distance between them.

“Closer,” he groaned when Faramir let him go long enough to catch his breath.

“Cannot – too many chairs.”

He found Faramir’s lower lip and caught it between his teeth. Sucking on it, he drew a long, low sigh from its owner. Satisfied with the reaction, Aragorn released him.

“Too many?”

Faramir was seated on the very edge of his armchair and his hands were still moving across Aragorn’s chest underneath the tunic. They slowed down as he fixed the King with a firm stare.

“I think so,” he stated. “One has to go.”

“Time for some reminiscing, then.”

Under normal circumstances (less wine), Aragorn might have been nervous – and he was quite sure Faramir would have been so as well. They would have discussed it; every possible problem and difficulty would have been brought up, examined and dealt with. That was probably a good thing, given that this situation was still new to them. The thing was, Aragorn realised, that right now, he cared nothing for precautions of that type.

Managing to push the image of the Healer to the very back of his mind, without forgetting his advice, he slid down lower in his armchair. Faramir, who interpreted his movements correctly, withdrew his hands from underneath the tunic, got to his feet and fetched a fairly large cushion that belonged to one of the other chairs. On his way back, he took the opportunity to add some wood to the fire which merrily sprung up in the fireplace.

Stooping over him, Faramir bent down and placed a kiss on Aragorn’s lips, while handing him the cushion. The King slipped it behind his back, and gratefully rested against it.

Responding to the kiss, he felt Faramir’s hands beginning to tug at his clothing once more, but this time he stopped him. Soon enough they would undress, but there was something he wanted to try with his lover before that.

Letting go of the Steward’s lips, and feeling very bold indeed, he raised his hands and caught hold of the laces that held Faramir’s leggings together. Slowly he untied them, but it was not until he actually revealed, and touched, the half-awakened arousal he found there, that Faramir drew a sharp breath.

Bringing his mouth very close to the flesh, he spoke in a voice that was low enough to match his mood, but loud enough to be heard:

“I want to do this for you, since you will be doing very much for me.”

Without waiting for a response, he tenderly placed a kiss on the skin before him, not failing to notice the tremor that ran through Faramir, and not being able to ignore the hands that took a firm grip on his shoulders. It had been long since Aragorn pleased a man in this way, but he doubted he had forgotten how it was done.

Faramir’s manhood lay embedded in soft, curly hair; in the firelight it glowed with the same copper tone as the hair on his head did. Another kiss he placed there, and then another. He planted a series of kisses along the shaft that hardened visibly at the touch.

It sounded almost as if Faramir was holding his breath above him, and Aragorn chanced a peek at him. Faramir was standing with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted.

If it had not happened earlier, the full potential of this night suddenly hit Aragorn.

“Open your eyes,” he said softly, “I want you to see everything. How beautiful you are.”

Faramir slowly did as he requested. And even slower he lowered his gaze. His eyes widened as he registered the image of Aragorn’s lips so close to his arousal.

“That is it,” whispered Aragorn , “keep watching.”

With those words he set to work.

With one hand he held on to Faramir’s hips, and he used his other to extract the full length of his arousal from underneath the fabric. He licked the member from the base and up, eliciting a moan and a shudder from the other man. Gently, he pushed back the skin that hid the swollen head and circled it with the tip of his tongue. Faramir’s fingers increased their grip on his shoulders.

“Do you like it?” Aragorn asked, forcing himself to hold back. He was feeling the force of his own arousal plainly, but he wanted to prolong the night as much as possible.

“Yes,” Faramir answered him in a voice gone hoarse from unexpected stimulation.

This time, after one more stroke of his tongue, Aragorn took the hard shaft in his mouth and sucked carefully. A gasp told him at least he had accomplished something, and seconds later, a hand in his hair, urging him on, let him know he was doing well.

He sucked harder then, and was pleased to notice how Faramir began to respond. The hips Aragorn still held on to mimicked his mouth’s movements, and even though the thrusts were small, they were there. His breathing, albeit heavy, was steadier and more regular.

Releasing his hips, Aragorn’s hand began to explore the skin underneath the tunic Faramir wore. He could feel both of the Steward’s hands in his hair now.

The swollen shaft was throbbing as Aragorn stroked it, rather forcefully, with his tongue. Faramir let out a deep groan and abruptly removed one of his hands from among Aragorn’s tresses. Swiftly, he pulled out a little from the wet cavern of the King’s mouth, and pinched the base of his length hard.

As Aragorn looked up on him, he could see that his chest was heaving, and there were pearls of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were slightly unfocused, but on his lips had formed a sweet smile.

“Not yet,” Faramir said hoarsely, “I believe there is more to come.”

He shrugged out of his leggings that slid to the floor and landed around his boots in a heap. Kicking them off, he also got rid of the leggings, and seconds later he had pulled off his tunic as well. Still very much aroused, he fell to his knees between Aragorn’s legs, his back to the fire.

“Are you cold?” he asked, making an odd picture as he himself was completely undressed.

Aragorn smiled, shaking his head. The flames in the fireplace spread their warmth generously – for once he had no need of a blanket wrapped around him. “No.”

As Faramir pulled off his boots, Aragorn undid the laces on his own leggings. He waited until the Steward was done with his feet before he attempted to undress any more.

When Faramir’s eyes landed on Aragorn’s groin he raised an eyebrow and flashed a grin.

“Good to see I am not the only one…” he said, helping his King out of the unnecessary constraints, including his tunic.

Aragorn watched as the warm, orange light skidded across his lover’s skin as he moved. It highlighted his muscles where it reached, and created a stunning backdrop to the scene that was played out before him.

Faramir, still on his knees, placed a palm against Aragorn’s chest, and ran it down his upper body. He followed his own progress intently as his hand slid lower and came to a rest on Aragorn’s bare stomach.

Silently, Aragorn willed it lower. He wanted to be touched, wanted that hand around his arousal which twitched as the image appeared in his mind.

“You know…” he said, not knowing how to word his thoughts, “we have made love… I would like to…” He made a vague gesture with his hand and tried to look as comfortable and sure of himself as he had been only moments ago.

Faramir raised his eyes to meet him. “You mean…” Traces of his former grin were still on his lips. “You mean that you simply want to…” He inclined his head in an agreeing sort of way.

“Some of that bravery and boldness would do,” Aragorn suggested, relaxing a little.

A light appeared in the younger man’s eyes at the words – a light that went right to Aragorn’s stomach and there transformed into a small firework.

“Boldness…” Faramir mused, “yes, I think we can have some of that…” He let his hand travel further down. “Now, what was it that we were told today? That first of all, we should be comfortable. Are you comfortable, Aragorn?” he asked as his fingers encircled the risen royal member.

A wave of pleasure and satisfaction washed over Aragorn as the man in front of him began stroking. “Yes, definitely comfortable,” he sighed, raising his hips a little as to underline his statement.

The King felt himself swell in Faramir’s hand; heat streamed through his body and pooled in his groin.

“And you?” he asked.

“I am very comfortable,” Faramir assured him, voice slightly raspy. “Which leads us to the next question: are we aroused enough?” He brushed his thumb across the sensitive tip of the heated flesh in his hand.

At the touch, Aragorn groaned, and felt the rest of his body quickly melting away. “Can you not feel that,” he grunted, closing his eyes to concentrate on the feeling.

“True, I can. But we are supposed to make sure.”

“Then I need to feel you.”

The stroking ceased and something shifted around him. When Aragorn opened his eyes, he found that Faramir was standing on his feet, leaning over him, hands on the armrests of Aragorn’s chair. His hardened member arched out from his body.

“Question number three,” Aragorn murmured, “will you manage this position?”

Faramir let go of one of the armrests and held out his hand in which lay a small vial of oil.

“There is only one way to find out,” he smirked. “But you have not yet made absolutely sure I am aroused enough.”

Aragorn took the oil and coated his fingers, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

Oh, yes, he would make sure.

He leaned forward, but contrary to what Faramir had meant, he slid his hand around his backside and instantly searched for the opening that would take them to the next stage.

Faramir inhaled sharply when he realised what Aragorn was doing. “You are not following protocol!” he hissed as Aragorn’s fingertips brushed his orifice. Nonetheless, he spread his legs a little wider.

“I got carried away,” Aragorn smiled and raised himself up further so his lips came close to Faramir’s bobbing manhood.

As he slid one finger inside his lover’s body he simultaneously kissed the flesh presented to him. Faramir moaned deeply above him.

Aragorn knew the importance of this hour. The last time he had done this, things had been profoundly different. Casting away all thoughts on doubt and insecurity, which proved to be surprisingly easy once he had made the decision, he thanked the Valar for wine, and then slid a second finger inside the tight channel he was about to breach.

He scissored and stretched, eliciting groans from Faramir as his muscles reacted to the intrusion and then gradually relaxed. Adding one more finger, Aragorn began to feel very hot and ready himself. Faramir swayed backwards in the only motion that enabled him to stay in his pose and also bring Aragorn’s fingers deeper into him.

Kissing the head of Faramir’s engorged shaft, he asked, “Ready?”

Faramir nodded vigorously. “Yes… yes.”

“I want you.” Aragorn’s body was screaming, the tip of his member leaking already.

Briefly letting go of Faramir, he used some more oil to, as quickly as his mind might work his hands, slick himself to further ease the way.

“Tell me if I hurt you.”

Aragorn met the eyes of his love. “If you hurt me?”

He smiled. He knew it was a silly smile: a blend of excitement, lust, possessiveness and love. Nevertheless, he smiled – as Faramir stepped back and he slid down even lower in his armchair. As Faramir placed one foot on either side of his legs, leaned forward and supported himself by holding on to the armrests. As he lowered himself down onto Aragorn’s throbbing arousal. He smiled all along.

They moved together; the heat that surrounded the King wrapped around his Steward as well and he was breathing deeply. Faramir did his best to use his strength not to crash down on Aragorn too hard, and Aragorn held back, not wanting to thrust too wildly.

Now it was Faramir who was leaking; pearly drops formed on the tip of his shaft, wetting Aragorn’s skin.

Summoning his last shreds of intelligence, Aragorn placed a hand over his lover’s hardness and caressed it in any way he could manage. It was not very elegantly done, he supposed, since he was too focused on his presence inside Faramir, but at least it was something.

To Faramir it did not seem to matter in which way he did it. The Steward let out a loud moan and desperately tried to reach Aragorn’s mouth with his lips. It proved impossible as Aragorn’s thrusts increased at the sight of his lover responding to him so. He heard himself groan as he rode the same waves of pleasure.

Brushing against the tight bundle of nerves somewhere inside that heat, Aragorn felt Faramir shudder and tremble against him. A few more strokes and Faramir came with a growl and a cry, his seed shooting over Aragorn’s stomach.

His ecstasy had Aragorn almost falling off the edge as well. Faramir was panting and shaking before him, eyes closed and with hair that was one great mess of sweaty curls.

“Come for me, Aragorn,” he asked hoarsely.

Tightness exploded into a cascade of sparks. Crying out, Aragorn spent himself deep within Faramir who finally collapsed against him.

Not minding to pull out of his lover, Aragorn wrapped his arms around him and together they rocked, experiencing the beautiful, shaky aftermath.

The person who had been standing outside the room had not missed the cries of ecstasy that seeped through the closed door.

Eyes narrowed and a plan began to take form.

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