Faramir Fiction Archive

The Cure (NC-17)

Written by Minx

29 March 2004 | 13289 words

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Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Warnings: Explicit slash
Notes: For Anne Robbins who wished to see dear Faramir tied to the bed;-)
Summary: A sequel to The Cure – Aragorn wishes to wait for Faramir to recover completely from his illness. Faramir is tired of waiting. And an herb from Khand seems a good solution. PWP

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.

 

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