Faramir Fiction Archive

The Silver Crown's Temptation (NC-17)

Written by December

02 April 2018 | 2546 words

Title: The Silver Crown's Temptation
Author: December
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir

It was not his beauty that was Aragorn’s undoing.

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Why had no one thought to tell him.

Thengel, Ecthelion, Elrond, Galadriel, Gandalf, Thranduil.

He had had any number of misgivings, any number of what ifs that would queue through his mind as he sat on the edge of his vast bed in the still unfamiliar royal quarters, in those weeks preceding his coronation. They would not let him sleep till paid due attention.

What if his return were to bring discord to Gondor, what if the people had forgotten how to live under a king? What if he were to tire of the court and the city, and hunger to once again live in the glade and the hills? What if his subjects broke laws and he would have to sentence men to death in a time of peace?

Why had not one of his old teachers told him that these questions were not worth the wasted sleep, that all of them and more he would work through in due time and his own fashion. Why had they not told him to keep his eyes peeled for the real peril instead.

For the bearers of gifts that are not his to take. That are not anyone’s to offer.

Oh, how people love a saviour-king. How self-effacing some people can be in expressing their devotion. How unthinkable it is to accept some of this worship – how impossible to deny it.

He likes to think that if only he had been forewarned, then he would have known not to play with fire. Would have known to not invite in trouble, would have drawn harder the line between fantasy and reality.

As it were, he did not draw the line at all.

There was no need, for his fantasy would safely remain only that, always.

Aragorn knew by then that dreams could serve different purposes, and that coming true was not necessarily one of them. Some dreams were meant to inspire, to give sustenance and hope in the hour of darkness, then melt into thin air like night mist in the rays of morning. Others could be an innocent diversion, a defence against those dull periods when there seems to be nothing but mind-numbing routine and the slow killing of time.

Yet others are a bit of a mix of both, a sweet taste, a magical glimpse of some other world, so much like ours and yet truer, better, where joy runs like fountains in the halls of Elven-kings, where everything is possible if only the heart longs for it deeply enough.

It was not his beauty that was Aragorn’s undoing.

Because were it beauty alone, it would have been instant, like an arrow to the heart.

A quick way to fall, so much more merciful. Instead, he had set himself an elaborate trap, and tumbled into it with eyes wide shut, and ever since is clawing his way out.

There are many reasons to cherish him, Aragorn does not need to go through the list of Faramir’s merits. But if he were to try and put his finger on the one thing that allowed his kingly love to go one step beyond and transgress the definition of a proper bond between a higher lord and his vassal, it would have to be the knowledge in Faramir’s grey eyes. That look he has, so perceptive and direct that his gaze alone already feels like a physical touch. There sits unsettling wisdom in this gaze, not the wisdom of books, though he has read plenty of those – more like what Aragorn has seen in the eyes of the elder race. A resignation touched with gentle sadness, a profound inability to be shocked by anything any longer, this unfazed understanding of human nature, the unquestioning knowledge of what Men’s hearts ever hunger for.

It is so easy to desire him, for he as though expects it.

Not in the self-satisfied way that Boromir seemed to have seen adoration as his due. It was largely because of Boromir’s entitled manner that Aragorn had never found him nearly as alluring as his younger brother, despite how closely they resembled each other in looks. Faramir, on the other hand, appears to have no regard for his own person whatsoever – and whenever Aragorn compliments him on anything, although he will not argue so as to not disrespect his liege, nevertheless his eyes glaze over as though with discomfort. And in a strange way, it looks to Aragorn that Faramir’s awareness of his desirability comes not by recognition of his own inherent attractiveness, but is rather seen simply as a bizarre fact of life. A thing to look upon kindly but not make much of.

Something in the way he carries himself, in the way he speaks, makes Aragorn burn with a need to hold him, and love him into believing that there is nothing at all bizarre and inexplicable about him being wanted. He had long told himself that it offends the steward’s dignity to be viewed so patronisingly by his king – Faramir is a capable leader, an accomplished warrior, much respected by all, he has no need of an older man’s lustful pity. Which did not at all stop Aragorn from nevertheless playing with the idea late at night, with no one around to witness how flushed, and breathless, and even more frustrated these explorations left him.

But Faramir, as is his wont, of course had perceived it.

They had been watching a dance at one of the summer festivals, and the Steward had leaned over to him sideways to point out something about an element of the performance. It had been a hot day and Aragorn had hiked up the sleeves of his regal tunic, still not fully used to all those velvets and fine wools – and Faramir reached to place a light touch on his bare forearm. Little more than a pat with his fingertips. Little more than a casual gesture to request his king’s attention. But a strange, sweet warmth had seeped into Aragorn’s very blood at the point of contact, and he felt at once his heart jump with merriment and his breath catch with apprehension.

Aragorn had glanced over at him, but Faramir’s clear eyes had not left the show as though his comment was made but in passing and he paid little mind to how he made it. The light breeze touched the short curtain of Faramir’s black hair, and Aragorn knew his glance lingered overlong on the young man’s white face, on his half-smiling lips – just as Faramir’s fingers lingered on his skin.

And so the seed was sown, and the doubt grew in him as to whether the impossibility of his desires was actually, indeed, impossible. He had not meant to in any way to act on them – and had not accounted for the fact that being King, he would not have to act, would not have to ask. Nor even play the hinting game.

An unwary wistful glance was all it took, and his undoing would be served to him on a silver platter.

Faramir, as is his wont, had made it so easy.

The autumn was still young, the evenings a titillating mixture of warmth and the promise of a chill to come, dark enough to light the hearth bright. Faramir often shared the king’s private supper, laid out without much pretence in Aragorn’s quarters, away from the bustle of his busy court.

And so one night, when the roast was gone and the wine was drunk, Faramir set down his goblet and looked him straight in the face with his unwavering open gaze, and asked as though confirming some previously made arrangement, “Would you like me to stay?”

As simple as that.

Except it was exactly because of how direct and perfectly innocent-sounding was his proposition, because of how easily it rolled off his lips, that Aragorn still erred on the side of caution.

“I… you mean…” He tried to match Faramir’s casual tone, but felt his face betray him, and could find no more words.

Faramir smiled, and there was nothing but warmth in his smile, as if he saw no need to even acknowledge his lord’s flustered state. “With you. Tonight.” He paused and his smile deepened, became more intimate. “I think you might like that.”

“I think I might,” Aragorn repeated, then blinked and hurried to correct himself. “I would.”

As though in a dream, he watched Faramir stand up and walk around the table – and then altogether move the table aside with an easy push of his hand, his warrior strength never showy but ever ready to come to service. In much the same way, he turned Aragorn’s chair with Aragorn in it to face him, and in a rather habitual manner straddled the king’s thighs and sat deep in his lap.

Aragorn’s hands spread open with the hunger to touch – all of him, everywhere, to drink in his warmth, to hold him close. But in a strange way he did not feel a complete permission to do so, for it seemed odd to him and did not quite add up.

“Faramir, I…” His fingers drew a cautious caress up Faramir’s spine, feeling the taut strength of his back through the fine fabric of the garment. “Are you… is this…” But Faramir responded eagerly to his touch, and pushed with his hips forward, grinding against his crotch, and it became quite difficult to breathe, let alone speak.

“Faramir, I…” he tried again, closing his eyes for better concentration, even as both his hands had settled on the man’s hips now.

Faramir leaned down to him, put his hands through his hair, slid them around, cupped the back of his head, guided him to look up.

Again, the Steward smiled. “My king, we do not have to talk.”

Then he too lowered his eyes and shut Aragorn’s mouth with his own.

Most of the time, he leaves once the king is sated. Aragorn knows this is out of consideration and respect, so as not to disturb his royal sleep. Even though he would prefer Faramir to stay, somehow it feels not fully appropriate to ask, he senses it would stir confusion and embarrassment. But there are times when the young man is so spent pleasuring his lord that inadvertently he drifts off.

And as he lies there, breathing deeply, Aragorn watches his sleep, strokes his hair gently, and a sense of cold unease settles on him, like a winter’s first snow on a harvested field.

Where did you learn to be this way, my young captain?

Why do you know how to drive a man to ecstasy, why do you bend every intention of your mind and every part of your body to this task? Why do you wear not a shred of self-consciousness as you throw open to me your most intimate angles? Where are your boundaries, what happened to your vulnerability? Why do you act as though you are incapable of feeling pain?

Do you know that it is not your duty to do this for me? Do you enjoy my pleasure because of your devotion to me as your king, or in its own right? If I were but a ranger in the woods, would you still come to me?

Like a dark eel slithering in the cool silt at the bottom of a deep river, there lurks in the corners of his mind the knowledge that this is wrong, that he is taking advantage.

That something in Faramir is so vastly, so permanently broken, that the steward himself is incapable of seeing what the king sees. That it is up to Aragorn to do the decent thing and put an end to this.

But…

But.

But what would that fix, exactly?

If he is not able to get Faramir to believe that it is for his benefit that they are stopping, what is the point of stopping? And even if Faramir did believe it, it would be unlikely he would agree – if anything, he would only accept if Aragorn convinced him that it is for Aragorn’s wellbeing that they should not lie together anymore.

But what would that achieve other than hurting Faramir, telling him that somehow his affections were unwelcome and harmful to his king?

Perhaps he need not end it formally at all, perhaps he can just steer it – gradually, tactfully – into a more appropriate avenue. Redirect his steward’s eager attention, walk them slowly out of the thickets of lust into a clearing where there is only friendship, and companionship devoid of sensuality.

And he tries. Oh Valar, he does try.

He builds his resolve, talks to himself. Then the evening comes, and draws to an end, and he is full of determination – and then Faramir wishes him good night and leaves. And Aragorn stands alone in his empty rooms, and his disappointment is so bitter and sharp, whom is he fooling.

It is as if Faramir knows. As if he has some inbuilt compass telling him precisely which night to choose to invite himself for dessert. To walk up to Aragorn and place his white hand on the king’s hip. To familiarly tuck Aragorn’s hair behind his ear so it would not get in the way of their kisses. It is always the hour that Aragorn is the weakest, when his need gets the better of him, when he only sees Faramir’s eyes darken, and already the floor is turning to marshland beneath his feet, already he is sinking, drowning. Still, he puts up a fight. Places a staying hand over Faramir’s hold on his hip, cups Faramir on the cheek to prevent him from leaning in for his mouth.

A cloud passes over Faramir’s face, a memory of some unhappy place, an unspoken question how he has displeased his king.

It is so easy to reassure him.

In fact, it would require quite a bit of physical resistance to not reassure him. Anything that could possibly be interpreted as a cooling of interest on the king’s behalf drives Faramir to throw himself at him with fey abandon. To demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt just how much he desires to touch every inch of his lord’s skin, to lick, and rub, and suck on every sensitive spot, to offer for the taking every part of his body, whether hot and tight or soft and wet.

And before Aragorn knows it, Faramir’s hands are already gripping his bare buttocks, and his own hands are cradling the back of Faramir’s dark head. Those lips on him are so hungry, and he has no control over the frightening pace of his hips, over his hoarse open-mouthed breathing, over the last drop of his resolve trickling right down his steward’s throat.

When the tremors of release unshackle him from their clutch, when he can speak again, oh how he yearns to fall to his knees beside Faramir, and bring him close, hold him tenderly, as more than a lover. Put a warm blanket over his bare shoulders, wipe his mouth and kiss him softly, gently. Tell him he loves him, more than Faramir will ever know, more than he himself will ever understand.

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