Faramir Fiction Archive

The Strangest of Dances (NC-17)

Written by Eora

17 March 2013 | 19768 words

Author’s Note: Oh dear, have I kept you on a knife’s-edge? ;) Okay, I don’t believe it was that big of a cliffhanger, but rest easy now, for now you get to find out what happens next…

Chapter 5.

I think I meant, somehow, to say that I had done so much to forget, to make it as it was between us, as friends only. To prove to him that I was not some heartsick pest. But the damage was done. His face crumpled for just an instant, but I caught it and it tore through my heart like a knife. He turned from me, and though I’ll never know I pray to all the gods there are that I did not bring him to weep.

“We should be getting back,” he said, and didn’t look at me as he passed me, walking back the way we had come. Why am I such a damnable fool? I looked at the empty clearing and felt sick; he had probably wanted to kiss me here, in this secret, wintery place. I wanted to shake myself, kick my own backside, and probably would have attempted it but I had to get to Faramir and make him see that I was as great an idiot as I’ve always secretly assumed he thought I was. (Make no mistake, my thoughts at this time were about as clear as that last sentence.) I ran after him, crashing through the trees, so un-rangerly.

“Faramir!” He didn’t stop. I slowed to a walk, unwilling to catch up to him completely. “Faramir!” I called again, but he took no notice. I set my jaw. “Good gods Faramir, as your king I command you to halt and listen to me.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn. I suppose I deserved as much and so I set about explaining myself to the back of his head.

“Faramir,” I said, and was immediately at a loss. “I don’t even know how to-…look. You’ve been saying it for a long time but you’re right, you’re always right. I do need all the help I can get. I need your help Faramir. I need you.”

He shifted, I could tell he was looking up at the treetops. “That’s fine, Aragorn. I’ll always be here.” His voice was so devoid of emotion, defeated. “I know how you feel, now, and that’s fine too.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, knowing of no way to make him understand either. I ran my hands over my face. “Since that day in my study I’ve spent every spare moment trying to forget you, trying to put from my mind your image, trying to distract myself with work and weapons-practise and the gods know what else so that I wouldn’t dream of you.”

“I commend your dedication, my king.” The title sat ill with me, but it was no time for corrections.

“I told myself over and over, I didn’t love you. I didn’t love you. I told myself enough times that I started to believe it.” Exhausted all of a sudden, I leant against a tree, dislodging snow from the branches that fell in clumps around my feet. “I told myself I didn’t love you, but the thing is, all of those attempts at forgetting you failed.” He had half-turned, and I know he could see me in his peripheral vision but I didn’t draw notice to it. “Faramir, I love you desperately.”

He looked up at me with an expression I couldn’t read. “You’re just an idiot?”

“Yes!” I practically shouted. “Yes,” I repeated, mastering myself. “Gods, Faramir, please don’t say I’ve ruined this again. I can’t believe I could have had you all those months ago and here I am again, letting what brains I have rule my heart.”

In a moment, what brains I had would alert me to the inexplicable truth that Faramir, by his own admission, returned my affections, but right now all I could focus on was Faramir himself, a streak of golden flame walking toward me through the whiteness of the winter wood. He came very close, so close that I could feel his breath on my face, warm as the longed-for summer. He was beautiful.

“I forgive you,” he said in a low voice. And then, he kissed me.

All I remember is that his lips and tongue were cold, that his fingers were like icicles where they framed my face and yet my innards were on fire and that I kissed him back with my eyes open. It was over so fast; a brief confirmation, lingering long enough to shatter any illusions of chastity, just a promise, but it was enough. I shivered as he withdrew, and he reached up again, running the backs of his fingers over the side of my neck.

“Is this happening?” I breathed, and I remember expecting some snide remark, an ‘of course this is happening, you stupid oaf!’ or some such. But Faramir, he looked at me–and I told myself we were on uneven ground, for I was sure he was looking down at me, though only by the smallest degree–he looked at me, and he smiled the widest smile I think I‘ve ever seen upon his face.

“Yes,” he said, and we walked back to the house hand in hand.

The winter nights in Ithilien set in early and lasted long; but despite mutually unacknowledged but rather obvious attempts at prolonging supper for as long as possible, there were only so many ways one could play with the crumbs on one’s plate before one must give up, have the servant clear the table and direct one’s thoughts to bed.

You’d be forgiven for assuming that we were all over one another the moment we set foot over the threshold to Faramir’s home, but we weren’t. Surprising, perhaps, given my deranged longing and Faramir’s newly confessed ardour, but when we’d taken off our cloaks and stamped the snow from our boots and Faramir turned to me and said “Hungry?”, I could only nod with enthusiasm. It felt to me like Faramir was nervous about this small change in our dealings with one another; I know I was terrified, so why wouldn’t he be apprehensive, and putting dinner in the way of intimacy? My stomach wasn’t going to hold it against him.

When the plates had been taken away Faramir took a long time to get to his feet. It was his house, I thought, so let him lead the way. He stood, and glanced at me, and then smiled shyly, picking at a knot in the wood of the table with a fingertip.

“I’m fair tired,” he said.

“Me too,” I said, for lack of anything useful. I yawned. “I suppose–,” I continued, when the silence stretched. “–that we might as well go to bed.” Oops. “I mean, turn in. To our beds. Separately, maybe. If you want.” I’ll warrant my rallying speech at the Black Gate could hardly rival that for eloquence.

“Let’s decide when we get to the top of the stairs?” A genius, that man. I nodded again, and rose, head spinning as the blood rushed from my feet. I followed Faramir in silence, climbing the stairs without incident. It was dark at the top, and I walked immediately into the back of him when he stopped at the crossroads. Ahead were two doors; on the right, my bed chamber; on the left, Faramir’s.

“I don’t want to rush this, Faramir. I can wait, if you’d rather we…didn’t…” I made a face; I made it sound as if I was desperate to lie beside him, which, of course, I was. But I didn’t want a quick fumble ‘neath the sheets, a riotous rutting with no foundation. I wanted him, I wanted life with him. And for that I would wait forever.

Faramir’s tone was thoughtful, his voice quiet. “It’s cold in my room, even with the fire.” I could see what he was doing, and warmed to it. Start small, nothing too frightening. “We might just…cuddle, for a while.”

We both laughed at the same moment, which was a relief. “Cuddle? That sounds like something hobbits might do.”

“I have little knowledge of the bed-habits of hobbits,” Faramir said, and I actually, almost, hand on heart, giggled. (Hobbit habits. The tension was making me giddy, that was all.)

“Well, I would hate for you to be cold, Faramir.” And that seemed to settle it.

Inside the bedroom, Faramir bent to the fireplace, lighting candles from the grate. I walked slowly about the room; it was large, and a door off to one side promised the bath chamber I‘d made use of the previous day. In the centre stood a sturdy wooden bed frame, almost bowing beneath the heap of furs and blankets piled upon it (he’d be hard pressed to feel a chill under all of that, I thought with a smirk). A wide bay window opened out from the east of the room; though the curtains were now drawn, I imagined Faramir in the morning pulling them open, the new sun lighting faerie-beacons in his eyes. A noise distracted me. I turned; Faramir stood by the fire, his hand on the mantel.

“Will you come here?”

There were candles all about him and his hair seemed alight. I approached, my hand meeting his as he reached out to me. I was very aware of my own breathing. In, out. Just keep doing that and you’ll be fine. The heat from the fire was burning me up inside. We faced one another. (He was taller than me, but I didn’t care about something so silly as a half-inch any more.) When I kissed him, (and of course I kissed him; how could I not? You have no idea how beautiful he was in that moment, with the candles creating a halo about him, his shirt collar sitting just-so, the shadow of his beard upon his chin and throat, the slope of his nose…) it wasn’t like it had been in the woods. His tongue wasn’t cold, his lips not icy, and his stance now wasn’t so dominant; instead of cradling my face this time I felt his hands sneak around my waist, holding me there gently. I tried to tell him how much I loved him through that kiss; my tongue was light, tenderly seeking his. I closed my eyes this time, though I could still see him before me as clear as day.

We were standing apart; I let him pull me closer (or rather, I stepped forward and his hands stayed on my hips) and I wrapped my arms around him, pressing our bodies together. He murmured, and I broke from the kiss, resting my forehead against his. I liked this, I liked this a lot.

“Shall we…?” he asked, and his eyes darted in the direction of the bed and then back to mine. I nodded, and we melted apart, and what followed was the most awkward ritual of undressing I have ever experienced (awkward for me in any case). I let Faramir lead, for I didn’t want to usurp his side of the bed unintentionally (though I doubt he was that fussy). He rounded the bed, and we came to stand on either side of it; without much ado, he threw me a smile and began unlacing his shirt. My cue to begin hurriedly shedding clothing, but halfway out of my shirt I had a horrible quandary; exactly how unclothed should I become? In my own bed I slept in the nude, but this was not my own bed. I snuck a glimpse at Faramir through the collar of my shirt (it was still mostly over my head; I was feigning an entanglement that bought valuable moments in which to reassess the situation). He was so nonchalant, the way he elbowed his way out of his shirt and began wriggling out of his breeches. Soon, he stood but in smallclothes and undershirt and he made quick work of the latter, flinging it over the back of a nearby chair before raising his head to look at me.

“Are you quite alright in there?” Gruffly, I nodded, and then realised he could not see me through my linen prison. I threw off the shirt.

“I’m just…sort of-”

He looked at me kindly. “You have nothing I’ve not seen before.”

He wasn’t standing there without confidence, but neither was he showing himself off, he just stood there, unconcerned with his lack of apparel (though he was wearing an undergarment, and, gods he wasn’t yet aroused but I could see the impression of his manhood against the cloth and I thought I might expire from a combination of fear, lust and longing); he didn’t care, I noticed, what I (or anyone) might think of him beneath his garb. And of course, truthfully I didn’t really care what he thought of me but the fact that I was admittedly a lot older than he kept niggling at the back of my mind, and I became rather privately (and sillily) concerned of what wrinkles he might find in what undignified places and what he would think about them which only added to my hesitation.

He wasn’t perfect either, mind you. But I think I only grew fonder of him because of that.

I hurled off my undershirt and rid myself of my own breeches in short order but my worries were groundless; Faramir wasn’t even looking, busying himself with the removal of roughly forty-seven layers of bedclothes. I laughed.

“If you find any mithril in your excavations I know a dwarf who’ll gladly take it off your hands.” I could tell he was smiling even though he faced away, my stomach turned over in delight. I moved to the side of the bed, lifting the last (or so I hoped) blanket in order to climb beneath it although I only managed as far as sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“What will the servants think?” I said jokingly, though there was no way Faramir missed the nervousness in my voice I so gaily tried to mask. This was supposed to be romantic, I kept remembering, at least fake some seductive tones.

“I dare say I don’t pay them to think about the implications of discovering us in bed together.” Gruffness, and a wry glance. I relaxed a little; if he wasn’t bothered, then neither was I (in theory). “Anyway,” he continued, “everyone in the realm knows I’m your favourite.” He clambered into the bed, pulling his side of the blanket up over his lap.

Worried for a moment, I paused in my following him. “What if people think I coerced you? You know, ‘you’re my favourite so I took what I wanted because I’m the king,’ that sort of thing.”

He reached for me, pulling me by the hand into the bed. “Then I shall stand up before the court and set them straight.” We were sitting beside one another now, and he slid closer, his warm thigh against mine. “Time for bed, Aragorn.” And he drew me down, down, until we lay facing one another. I could feel the heat of him radiating; I decided to be bold and slung my arm over his waist. He liked that, moving closer so that our chests and bellies aligned. Our legs tangled, and our foreheads came together once again.

“Cuddling…” I smiled and so did he, and then we were smiling against one another, a joyful kiss. I was fully hard, and suddenly I didn’t even care if he discovered it (which I‘ll say was fairly inevitable). I wanted him, I wanted him to touch me. I moved my arm, running my hand up and down the valley of his lower back, and then, in a fit of boldness, reached down and found out just how firm his backside was (quite).

He liked that too because he made a pretty little noise of encouragement and moved his lower body closer, close enough now that my cock, still trapped beneath my smallclothes, was pressed up against some angle of him that I could not identify and oh gods, oh gods, I must be crude and tell you he felt damn good against me.

It was a bit of a blur after that; our kiss never ended, but we gave up on any pretence of cuddling rather quickly in lieu of a bordering-on-desperate embrace, grinding hips and pliant bodies. I was on top of him somehow, kissing, kissing until my lips and tongue were raw, his bent knees colliding with my hips. He reached up and began pushing my underclothes down; suddenly I was afraid, what if he found me after all of this… inadequate? Unattractive, incompatible? But it was too late, there was a slight breeze around my nether-regions. I crawled out of my smallclothes and had little chance to think about the situation before Faramir’s fingers encircled me.

We had stopped kissing and I was panting, looking down at him (I dared not look at his hand). My hair was damp with sweat, and batted my cheeks as it hung down on either side; Faramir’s was a tumult beneath his head, drawn back from his high forehead by quick fingers, those same fingers that were now between my legs. A moment passed between us, and then he began to stroke me as I lowered my face to his and left a very shaky kiss upon his lips. I thought of reaching down and sliding my hand into his smallclothes but I was getting too excited (and the thought of taking him in my hand only excited me further), I needed him to slow down, to wait, Faramir!, wait!, but suddenly all I seemed fit to do was ram my face into the pillow and pray Faramir wouldn’t be disappointed in me as I came all over his belly and hand with a shout and a violent shudder.

Mortified, I collapsed on top of him and just lay there, face hidden. Only now did I feel his own manhood pressing up into my stomach, stiff and waiting. It was awful, and the receding waves of a rather intense orgasm weren’t helping anything at all. I felt Faramir’s arms loop around my middle, and the kiss pressed into my ear.

“Are you alright?” he asked after an excruciatingly long moment.

“I’m so sorry,” I said into the pillow, then turned my face to his, cheeks burning. “I don’t usually…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence out of embarrassment.

He was smiling kindly, bless him, though a sheen of sweat coated his forehead and I felt even worse for his missing out. “Happens to us all, don’t worry about it.”

“I want to die,” I said.

“Was it that bad?”

I thought for a moment. “I’ve not come that hard in a long time.”

“Well, then?” Faramir was still smiling, and one of his hands tousled my hair. “Think how terrible this relationship would be if it began with no chemistry whatsoever beneath the sheets.” He showed me his teeth in a grin. “I’m a bit flattered, actually, that I elicit such a reaction in you.”

“I promise it won’t happen again.” Propping myself up on one elbow, I reached down. “Let me make it up to you.” I ran my palm over his stomach; it was fingers slicked with my seed that gripped Faramir now, and I swear I felt the heat rise in me once again when I touched him; he was gifted, and the encouraging noises he was making soothed my rather bruised self-image. I made it up to him, and then, about an hour later when I realised there was no way on the earth I was going to be able to fall asleep, I kept that promise.

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