Faramir Fiction Archive

The Time to Rejoice (NC-17)

Written by Kissa

22 December 2006 | 11846 words

Chapter 4

A few more days passed, during which they both worked hard at preparing the celebration, meeting in the evening to cuddle on Aragorn’s sofa.

One evening, Aragorn gathered the nerve to kiss Faramir softly on his lips, and he became addicted. He had expected roughness, but he only encountered velvet softness. Kissing Faramir made all his other kisses seem rushed, sloppy and coarse. He caught himself thinking he wanted to learn better, more pleasurable ways to show his beloved a good time. The rough ways of a Ranger seemed the improper approach if he wanted to have Faramir and to hold him for longer than one night. But even under his awkward attempts in the beginning, the younger man would go pliant and soft under his touches, sighing happily every time his mouth was claimed.

Faramir desperately sought his King’s arms and the comfort they brought, as he had quickly figured out that Aragorn’s closeness chased his recurring nightmares away and silenced the infernal voices in his head.

Aragorn had sensed that Faramir was hiding something serious, something which placed a huge weight on his heart, but he was more than happy to oblige in Faramir’s wish for them to be close whenever time and duty allowed it. After all, knowing the young Gondorian, he would speak when he was ready.

And so, it came out one afternoon, as Aragorn sat in the library, reading a book in Elvish, with Faramir nestled near him and catching a cat nap. Aragorn put the book down and looked at the young man sleeping near him. Such a beauty, such a wise and capable creature, yet so cruelly tested by life in his very early years. The King leant down and kissed his Steward’s forehead, caressing his hair. It made Faramir stir and wake up.

“Aragorn. You are still here.” He said, in complete amazement, as if he had expected the King to leave him and feel offended at him having fallen asleep.

“Aye, I am, dear one. I have been watching over your sleep, as I know you cannot get any on your own.”

Faramir blushed and looked away.

“I am sorry for being weak. But the nightmares have not stopped haunting me.”

Aragorn knew what the young one was talking about. Faramir had seen the White City in ruin, had walked among piles of corpses, staring into empty eyes of men he had known as friends and who lay dead, crushed and burnt. Faramir had nearly burned to death himself, by the hand of his own father, and had lived to see Denethor’s tragic end.

Aragorn felt tears prick at his eyes, but held them back, not wanting to make Faramir think he was crying out of pity. Instead, and to prevent the lad from seeing the two tears which spilled quietly, he pulled him into his arms and held him close.

“Would you like to come and sleep with me tonight?” Aragorn found himself speaking. As Faramir twitched in shock and stiffened in his arms, he continued in the same casual, soothing voice: “I shall watch over your sleep and hold you close… nothing more, dear one.”

Faramir moved away a bit to be able to look Aragorn in the eyes when he nodded and said a faint aye. In reality, he did not care what the others might say or what the King’s intentions really were. All he cared about was that he would be allowed close to the man he loved.

When the evening came, Aragorn was already in bed, dressed only in a thin nightshirt, looking over some letters he had received from Elrond and Gandalf. When Faramir knocked shyly, he got out of bed and went to open the door himself.

Faramir was greeted with a hug and led into the room, where Aragorn held him some more and began to undress him, leaving him only in his breeches. Then he was taken to the bed and Aragorn waited for him to lie down under the covers and make himself comfortable before he joined him, taking him in his arms.

Faramir felt like he was living a dream… the King, Aragorn, the most wonderful man he had ever known, was offering to hold him through the night. He fell asleep to gentle words and endearments, safely held and feeling loved.

In the morning, the first ray of sunlight which entered the room tickled Faramir’s nose and he woke up huffing. Opening his eyes, he stared into deep grey-blue ones as Aragorn was propped up on an elbow, still holding him close and watching him.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Aragorn said and lowered his head to kiss Faramir hungrily.

The young man panicked at feeling his body stiffen and his male flesh harden in his thin breeches. Aragorn had a leg flung over his and their groins were touching, so his state would soon be known to the king. But then Aragorn moved and Faramir could feel he was not the only one hard, and it surprised him greatly that the King’s body reacted to his closeness. He had never known anyone who desired him and did not know how to handle this, what to do in order to avoid embarrassing Aragorn and himself. Mewling in distress, he tried to escape Aragorn’s grip and go to the bathroom to make the hardness go away, but the older man wrapped him even tighter into his embrace and lowered his mouth to Faramir’s neck.

Aragorn had never touched anyone like that, he had only ever been interested in Arwen while he was growing up and although the elves around him had the habit of a new sweetheart every week, be it male or female, he’d always been the “clumsy man” and he had never thought he might appeal to any of them enough to take part in their frolics. So he could very well understand how Faramir felt… He’d read the decree, hand-signed by Denethor himself, that no one was allowed to touch his second son unless he required life-saving attention. Why a father would want to isolate his son that way, Aragorn could not understand. Had it been because Denethor had been afraid Faramir might be quicker to provide him with an heir than Boromir, the favored son?

He did not find the touches vile or condemnable, all he knew was he wanted to make Faramir blossom into a happy being who lived for more than to do his work correctly, then retreat to his lonely, miserable hole. Aragorn couldn’t care less that there would be people talking, that it was not proper for two men to engage in romance…but he had to be honest and admit to himself that he loved Faramir as the young Steward awoke in him feelings richer and deeper than he had ever felt for Arwen.

That Faramir was male, just like him, was of little importance to his strongly burning love.

Kissing Faramir gently, while a hand caressed his hair away from his forehead, the other one slid between them to caress the hardened length trapped in the breeches.

“Aragorn… Please… I will make a mess…” Faramir begged, although silently he prayed the feeling of the older man’s hand stroking him so tenderly would last forever.

“You’re right, “Aragorn smiled, “These breeches are in the way.” He added as he moved off Faramir to start undressing him.

“Will you let me try to pleasure you, sweet Faramir?”

He is your King, it should not be like this… but he wishes to do so, let him! the thoughts dueled for a while in Faramir’s mind until he nodded, reluctantly.

“But only if later… maybe… you will let me do the same to you… Aragorn.” Faramir pleaded, gathering all his courage to at least try to sound bold in front of the most wonderful man on Arda, who had miraculously chosen him.

Aragorn rested his head in the curve of Faramir’s neck, breathing in his fresh scent, then he completely blocked out everything that wasn’t Faramir out of his system, looking down at his hand which glided easily over the young one’s lovely length. Had he seen this being done by others, he would have felt disgusted, but Faramir was so unlike anyone Aragorn had met, be it elf or man.

It wasn’t long before Faramir’s hips began to lift off the bed and push his shaft into Aragorn’s tight grip. Unexplainably, the King was feeling the tide of pleasure rise high in him, only from watching the young, slender body writhe under his touch. Although with Arwen it had always taken him a lot to let go and find his completion, Aragorn’s surprise was not small when he felt his body being taken over by the sweet madness, at the exact moment when Faramir yelped and spilled his seed into Aragorn’s fist.

Trying to recover from the intense experience, the older man reached under his pillow, where he had conveniently placed a soft cloth, which he used to clean Faramir and his own hand.

You have no idea how much I love you, Faramir! he thought, looking at Faramir, who was only then recovering from his daze.

Once his eyes came back into focus, Faramir contented himself to just look at his love’s reclining form, following his chest as it rose and fell in ample panting. Aragorn had never looked more beautiful than in those moments, thought Faramir while cuddling close to him for another hour of blissful sleep.

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