Faramir Fiction Archive

The Strangest of Dances (NC-17)

Written by Eora

17 March 2013 | 19768 words

Author’s Note: Almost there, just the epilogue after this and we’re done; I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey! I’m moving abroad in just over a week so can make no guarantees as to when the last part will be posted, but it shouldn’t be too long a wait :)

This chapter is decidedly NC-17 ;) Also, I’m not sure ‘epiphanous’ is a real word, but it’s in there, somewhere, thanks to artistic liberty :P

Chapter 7.

Fireworks, feasting, festivities and Faramir. I liked this Midwinter, particularly because everyone was so distracted with all that was going on (or so drunk) that Faramir and I were able to be more tactile with one another than we would normally be in public (though this was the first time we had been in public together since… getting together). There was even a moment upon the great rampart, when everyone’s attention was well and truly diverted skywards by the firework displays, where we felt it safe enough to let our fingers interlock. It was exciting, and I turned my head from the glittering explosions above to say this to Faramir but he was gazing upwards, and I saw the reflections of the colourful paroxysms in his eyes, and I could think only of how he was the most handsome man I had ever known, and so kept my tongue stilled. His fingers tightened around mine, and so I think he knew something of my good cheer.

Later, on pretence of getting more wine (for the king himself must inspect the barrels, and of course he cannot read properly so his steward must accompany for the purposes of deciphering the vintages) I pulled Faramir into a nook on the way to the cellars and kissed him furiously (Nook, corner, awkward space behind a statue where one man might struggle to fit both of his shoulders and two would most definitely discover it impossible to conceal themselves, it‘s all the same). I think we were seen, but I’d had too much wine (and therefore didn‘t care), and it was darker in this hallway (and so as two long-haired and bearded men we might be any men in the whole of Gondor), and the king is allowed one passionate clinch with his rather male companion on a night such as this, isn’t he? (Why not! Scandal seemed low on my list of priorities on that evening.) That was my defence, anyway, should anyone come inquiring. Truth be told, I had missed Faramir just as much as I’d thought I would, and I’d reached the limit of my patience; I had to remind myself of him, here, now, intensely.

He pushed me away a little, mirthful eyes creasing. “You are impossible.”

“I want you,” I was slurring, and annoyingly Faramir kept batting away my attempts to kiss him again. “I want you in my bed, now.”

“One thing at a time, heart of mine,” he said, holding me still by the shoulders (I was swaying a bit, or the world was turning, one of the two). “You’ve still a speech to give.”

“Oh hell,” I fell against him, burying my face in his tunic. He held me and patted my back mock-soothingly. “Maybe the speech will be about how there is no speech because I’m in love with my steward and want to–”

“I think we will get you some water, my love.” And he bodily steered me back in the direction we had come, away, regrettably, from the cellars. I bemoaned this to him in a series of incoherent mumblings until at some point I was made to seat myself on a windowsill (I was probably too heavy to be carried, and also, it was probably, in hindsight, not a good idea for the populace to see their king quite so unsteady) while he went off in search of something sobering. I envied him his clear-headedness; his gait was steady and forthright, but the grin he threw over his shoulder was so full of humour I couldn’t help but smile to myself long after he’d rounded the corner out of sight. The last thing I wanted was to sober up, but some part of my mind, perhaps the only vestige still untouched by the wine, reminded me that our relationship was still so new as to barely earn the title of such, and so maybe, just maybe, it might behoove me to behave; he was my steward, but I’m sure that taking care of a tipsy king did not come under his duties, lover or no.

I rested my head back against the window and tried to focus. King and steward, lovers… I regretted my earlier show of affection; though Faramir hadn’t really objected, it had been foolish. Anyone could have seen us, and now, when I thought about it, I wasn’t really sure I could have convincingly excused my behaviour. When Faramir returned, carafe and goblet in hand, he found me frowning and murmuring under my breath.

“I hope you’ve not gone mad in my absence,” he said warmly, sitting beside me and offering the water.

I shook my head, and thankfully, the room stayed put. “Just trying to remember what I’m supposed to say in front of everyone in five minutes.” I poured myself the goblet, and drank it down, thankful.

“Nothing about me, I pray.” He said it in jest, but I understood.

“I promise I’ll behave myself from this moment onward,” I looked at him; I think he must have been vaguely drunk too for his eyes were a little unfocused. I held out the carafe, raising my eyebrows and he laughed.

“I’m not as far gone as all that, though I will concede to this,” and he leant in, brushing the hair from my cheek, and kissed me, softly, on the corner of my mouth.

“I love you,” I said, looking at him squarely.

“I know.” The grin threatened to encroach again, but he straightened suddenly, shifting away as some merrymakers appeared at one end of the corridor. “Come now,” he said, standing. “Time for that speech.”

“Well, I should say someone’s keen.” Faramir was lying on my bed, mostly dressed (his shirt hung open, his belt flung into some unknown location), smirking at me, or rather, a certain part of me. We hadn’t gone anywhere near one another after my bedchamber door had closed behind us (he, rather cheekily, had claimed the bed, stretching out and losing his belt; I, meanwhile, had gotten busy with my own undressing, and I refused to so much as blush over my body’s reaction to the notion, and reality, of having Faramir in my chambers like this) but nevertheless when I had turned to him, still in my breeches, and without my surcoat for coverage it was more than plain that Faramir could see the shadow of my erection against my leg. Keen indeed.

“I’ll take care of this by myself, shall I?” I nodded toward my groin, and received a permissive hand wave.

“If you think my skills inadequate.”

Famous last words, I thought, as I raised my eyebrow and began palming myself through the cloth of my breeches. Faramir kept his expression neutral, but he was watching me intently; undoing the laces I was careful to keep any view of, well, anything, hidden from him as I slid my hand into my smallclothes and around myself. Was that the twitch of the corner of a mouth, the slightest frown? Were his fingers curling against the bedclothes slightly? I took myself in hand, and stroked, once, slowly, and made a soft ‘mmh’ just to be sure.

“Just–” Faramir looked conflicted, caught between wanting to be right and wanting to be the owner of the hand currently in my underclothes, the thought of which delighted me no end (it’s always nice to feel wanted). He half-sat up, then settled back. “You’ve made your point.” In his eyes was a fire, one that was beginning to blaze. Come here, it said, but I was not so ready to give in.

“Ah-ah,” I took a step back, though I was well out of reaching distance. “Lie in the bed you’ve made, Faramir.” And to further torment him, I brought myself out of my breeches, pushing them down over my hips so that the warm air of the room caressed my stiffened flesh. I was sure I looked ridiculous, standing there so, but Faramir’s humour had left him, and his hand was ghosting over his groin with growing frequency. I leant back against the desk, and widened my stance. I licked my palm, and wrapped my hand around myself anew, my eyes never leaving Faramir’s. I had him now, I thought.

Of course, the reality was that I was still a little drunk (and therefore overestimating my cleverness), and that Faramir was just as wily as I. Not to be outdone, he shook his head in resignation and pulled off his shirt. I stood resolved, I would not cave in; he might run his fingers over the wiry muscle of his chest as many times as he liked; I was not going to succumb. Even when he kicked off his own breeches (with no finesse, I might add) and I could see the arc of his hardening cock through his undergarments, I was resolute, a noble king, standing regally with his trousers around his knees and his manhood jutting from him in excitement, just barely able to stop from stroking himself into oblivion.

“I’m going to be naked in a moment,” Faramir said.

“I’m sure I will be able to resist.” What silly game was this, anyway?

Faramir extricated himself from his smallclothes with a wry glance in my direction. He lay back upon the pillows, and sent my blood pounding southwards as he parted his legs and began to fondle himself, massaging his balls and letting a fingertip trail downwards toward–

“I–” It was all I could manage. I know he saw me pinch the base of my erection between thumb and forefinger because he grinned at me, the fire in his eyes burning me from within. I was going to lose at my own game, and I was annoyed, but equally I wanted him so badly I didn’t care.

“As much fun as this is,” he said, looking up at me, leaving himself alone for a brief moment. “I’d really rather you were doing this, Aragorn.”

And that was that. I practically leapt at him, or would have, if my breeches had not restricted my movements somewhat; I half fell toward the bed, and he caught me by shoulders and pressed a laugh to my lips. I snorted, and finally rid myself of clothing, swinging my shirt from my arm and banishing all else with a violent kick. Faramir pulled me back until I straddled him on all fours, and he was smiling up at me, his hands tracing my ribs and waist on either side repeatedly.

We kissed, and kissed; I could barely get my jaw wide enough, pressing my nose into his cheek. His tongue was hot and his beard grazed my lips but I drove deeper until I lay upon him, unable to keep from rolling my hips against his. He held me there, arms across my back, a hand in my hair, moaning gently. Our cocks were rubbing together and I was afraid a repeat of our first night was soon to occur; I pulled away, breathless, before I lost control. I wanted to ask him something, but I didn’t know how.

“Faramir–”

He looked up at me, panting hard through his nose, but his expression was one of devotion and it completely diverted me. I keep saying it but he was so beautiful, all of him, every part, every line and freckle and auburn hair, every scar; I was drunk but I knew in one epiphanous moment that I’d never love another like this, never, and I sincerely hoped it would never come to it that I might have to.

Faramir was talking, and I wasn’t listening. He stroked my cheek, eyes roving over my face as our chests rose and fell together. “My love,” he was saying. “My love, my love.”

“Oh, Faramir.”

“My dear love,” he held my cheek with one hand and left the memory of a sweet kiss upon my mouth. “Lie with me.”

“What?”

He shifted beneath me, bending his knees, reaching down to run his thumb over the head of my cock. I shivered, this sensation of another man, of Faramir, doing such a thing so relatively nonchalantly still very much a delightful novelty to me. He drew me down with his other hand, and whispered in my ear; “I want you to make love to me.”

Was he sure? “Are you sure?” Was I sure?

He pulled back a little and stroked my hair. “Yes, but if you don’t want to, then I won’t mention it again.” He kept running his fingers through my hair; gone was the cheek, replaced by gentle, kind affection and comfort. If I didn’t already believe in his love I would have known it right then.

“Faramir…I probably won’t last five minutes if we do this.”

“But you want to?”

“Yes,” I said, earnestly. I could feel sweat pooling on my back; the heat between our hips was unbelievable. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been wanting to.” The notion was so potent that already I felt dampness weeping from my cock; it was going to be too much to bear in very short order. But I wanted him like nothing on the earth.

“I’ve a fair idea,” he said, and pulled me into a kiss that never actually ended; we shifted, we moved, limbs supported and braced as our tongues writhed. His hand was still between us, and I was thankful, for all my dreams and imagining and lusts I was nervous, and though I’d an idea of how to proceed when it came down to it, I wasn’t sure I’d summon the confidence to actually go through with it the first time. Faramir’s kisses became gentle and the hand he had between our bodies began spreading the moisture all over my cock, which somehow bolstered my courage. It occurred to me then, though I’d never thought to ask, that this didn’t seem to be the first time Faramir had done this; a strange bolt of jealousy shot through me before I forgot everything as he moved, and guided my cock so that the head was bumping against what I assumed was his opening, though the angle was such that I couldn’t really see much other than his fiery pubic hair and the length of his cock lying heavy and twitching on his stomach.

“There,” he said against my cheek. “Spit on your fingers and do this.” I glanced to the side as he made a slow scissoring motion with his free hand. It took a second for what he meant to dawn on me; he gave me a reassuring look. “I can do it if you’d rather, though it’s a little more awkward.”

“If I hurt you–” I began, but he only swept my hair from my face again and held me close.

“You won’t.”

I didn’t, and by the time I was hilt-deep within him all thoughts of his discomfort had quite rapidly disappeared because he’d pulled me so near (and our hips were moving together, so slowly, in rhythm, and I felt myself sliding in and out of him, in and out, again and again, past that guarding, velvety muscle and he was so hot and tight and I don’t know what else) and was murmuring things into my ear that were only partly nonsense and showed no signs of hurt, though the faces he was pulling at first led me to believe I was doing it all wrong.

“Faramir…Faramir is it alright?” I’d made love before, but not like this; I must admit I was panicking just a little even as my climax slowly gained fuel (and I thanked the gods endlessly for my unexpected stamina).

“Oh…” Faramir had let his head fall back, though his arms still held me trapped against him. His eyes were closed, his nostrils flaring as he panted. “You’re good, you’re so good…” And that was all I got for the rest of our lovemaking in regards to coherency. He rocked his pelvis against mine, and soon I felt the weight of his interlocked ankles on the small of my back, pushing me deeper; we maintained this harmony for a long time. Despite his iron grip I arched my back, chancing a glance downwards along our bodies in time to see his stomach muscles tensing as I (must have) hit that place within all men (I think you know of which I speak) and I heard him cry out, and run his hands into my hair, and when I hit it again his fingers tangled almost painfully there and he shuddered and exploded against me, sudden and scalding. Not to be outdone I drove into him once again, and as his arms fell away as his orgasm made him insensible I straightened and sat up a little, enough to be able to see myself disappearing into his heat time and again. It wasn’t long before I followed him into that blinding light, spending myself within him and collapsing forward, breathless, bewildered, euphoric, cradled by a loose but loving grasp.

“Do you still love me even though I am an old man?”

“I knew you were old when I fell for you; I hardly think I’m like to let your crow’s feet dissuade me now.”

I had been expecting at least a little pity, but I think I was becoming too trusting in my old (middle) age. We lay upon the bed, facing one another with the bedclothes pulled up a little to cover us. Our foreheads were but an inch apart; the only contact between us were my fingers in Faramir’s hair, and his hand on my waist, his thumb slowly circling a freckle on my hip.

“Speaking of such…” I trailed a fingertip across his cheek near the outer corner of his eye and received a light slap on the thigh for my impertinence. Perhaps he felt bad for such a reaction, for he kissed the bridge of my nose shortly after.

“If you’d rather I not smile for the rest of my life then I shall see what I can do.” This was delivered with what I assume was meant to be a straight face but he was fighting a losing battle; I smiled in turn when I saw that it was merely happiness that bade his laughter lines deepen, happiness that did not let indignation nor pride quash it.

“I’d rather not try that idea; you are most handsome when you smile.” He smiled at that (and I actually think he was blushing), and I laughed aloud.

“And you,” he said after he had composed himself, running his hand over my waist again, “must keep up this ‘weapons-practise‘ you spoke of; I see a marked improvement.” His eyes darted to my midsection and back again. “Though which weapon you are practising with I’ve yet to ascertain.”

I opened my mouth to answer, then paused as what he actually meant filtered through the fog of my post-coital wits. “Are you saying I was out of condition?”

“Maybe–“ His eyes widened and his grin became an open-mouthed guffaw as I stared at him in (possibly) mock-hurt. “Oh, I jest. I wouldn’t think it’s possible for you to be particularly unattractive.”

“I’m too tired to decipher your blatherings, dear heart.” And to punctuate that, I yawned noisily. I closed my eyes, and felt Faramir’s lips press between my eyebrows. “C’mere,” I said, shifting onto my back; he settled himself against me, cheek on my shoulder and arm slung across my chest. I held him there loosely, slowly fading from conscious thought.

“I can’t believe I just slept with the king,” he said softly, and it really only dawned on me at that moment that yes, the king and steward were now quite royally entangled as far as politics went. The gods forbid anyone really find out how deep our friendship dared delve. A thought that had assailed me before our lovemaking occurred to me again.

“You have slept with others?”

“Not kings, no.”

“I meant men.”

I counted the heartbeats between my question and his answer. “Yes. And you have not?”

“Was it that obvious?”

He ran his fingers over my upper arm slowly. “You were very good. Very…satisfying.” I wasn’t quite sure whether or not to take offence at that, but I let it go. “You have slept with women, though?”

I frowned. “I am not that inexperienced!”

“The implication was not intentional.” He sighed, but it smacked of contentment rather than exasperation. “You’re a funny one.”

My eyes slid shut. “You’ve said that before.”

A scrape of stubble against my flesh told me of the curling upwards of his mouth.

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