Faramir Fiction Archive

The Visitor (NC-17)

Written by Minx

26 September 2008 | 3735 words

Characters: Aragorn/Faramir
Rating: PG15
Warnings: Slash
Disclaimer: All characters and places are Tolkien’s.
Summary: The steward has a visitor

For the “Anonymous” prompt on 50_darkfics

Many thanks to Iris for her help!!!!

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He slipped quietly into the Steward’s chambers, smirking thankfully at the lack of guards, due to the festival in the city. Far below, in the streets of the city, people continued to celebrate the festival, singing and dancing by the moonlight. The music and laughter could be heard faintly even this far above in the citadel.

All the better. He would not want anyone disturbing him right now. He stepped through the darkness of the outer room, carefully making his way past the desk and chairs, and quietly pushed open the door to the bedchamber. The drapes in the large windows were open, letting in the whiteness of the moon, bright enough for his needs. The room was large and sparsely furnished. The Prince of Ithilien had few needs for himself and his chambers reflected that. There was a table, a large chair, a small hearth, and a large bed, where the Steward lay asleep now. He could see the outline of his body under the bedclothes.

He walked up to the bed, and glanced down at the occupant of the bed. The sleeping man lay curled on his side, covered to his chin with the thick bedclothes. Wayward strands of hair obscured his face.

He moved the hair off his face first, and stood by again, watching the sharp contours of the lean face for a few moments, making sure that Faramir had not been disturbed by his movements. The Steward continued to sleep. Then he pushed away the bedcovers, exposing the Steward’s upper body. Faramir wore a loose nightrobe of a thin material. He gently grasped the Steward by his shoulders and rolled him over onto his back, straightening out his legs. He stood back again to watch the Steward, observing the rise and fall of his chest. It seemed a little more rapid, but that, he felt, was to be expected from the potion he had slipped into the Steward’s drink earlier that evening.

When Faramir had excused himself from the feast, pleading tiredness, it had surprised no one. The Steward was known to overwork.

The potion would make him sleep undisturbed for some time yet.

He smirked and ran his fingers lightly over Faramir’s face, feeling the softness of the cheeks give way to the roughness over the jaw and chin. He ran his fingers over the full lips, and pressed down gently on the lower lip, before slipping his fingers into Faramir’s mouth, and running them lightly over his teeth. Then he ran his hands over his throat, and pressed lightly down at the hollow at the base of the throat.

He loosened the bindings of the nightrobe and rested his fingers lightly over the sharp contours of the Steward’s collarbone, contemplatively.

“Where should I start from, beautiful one?” he whispered softly, bending towards Faramir’s ear. The Steward’s warm breath wafted over his face. It only served to excite him more.

He shifted, and climbed onto the bed. He straddled the Steward’s legs, and pushed the nightrobe up his thighs slowly, observing their well-muscled shape. He pushed the robe further up, and could not resist a moan at the sight of the Steward’s limp penis resting in a bed of raven curls. His hand hovered uncertainly over it before he clenched his fist. Sighing he opened his fingers and laid his palm down on the Steward’s abdomen. He splayed his fingers against the flat stomach before curling his thumb into the navel. He ran his thumb lightly around the depression before pressing into it, hard. The Steward shifted in his sleep. He pressed in harder, and cocked his head sideways as the Steward’s legs twitched, and he shifted again. He released the pressure suddenly pulling his thumb away.

He pushed the nightrobe further up now, easily raising the Steward’s limp body until the thin cloth lay bunched up under his armpits. He sat back and observed the near nakedness of the young man on the bed. He was truly beautiful, slimmer in build than most of the others in court, yet clearly no less a warrior.

He ran his hands all over the lean chest, feeling the firm muscles. He ran over the short coarse hair and found his mouth going dry as his fingers brushed the Steward’s nipples. Faramir’s breathing seemed to become the slightest bit more rapid. He raked over one nipple lightly with a fingernail, and then did it again harder. The Steward let out a small moan, and shifted his head sideways, but did not wake.

He felt his own arousal hardening, and grunted softly. Outside the music had lessened. He had little time, he realised, cursing softly. Moving, he wrapped his fingers around Faramir’s limp penis and stroked it gently.

The Steward moaned softly. He let go of the hardening flesh, and shifting, parted Faramir’s legs as wide as he could. He slipped his hands under the firm buttocks, and ran his finger between them. Faramir was tight and dry, he realised as he slipped his finger in. He was no virgin, he knew, though he wondered how long it might have been since the young man had had a lover. He knew he had shared his bed with another, during the councils with the Rohirrim some days prior, but for a night or two, no more. It was a shame that a body like this should go untouched by him for as long. He used his finger to gently massage the entrance a little before pushing in further.

The Steward’s long legs twitched, and he let out a soft whimpering sound, eyes still closed. He smirked a little, and pushed his finger deeper into the Steward, working it through the tightness. He should have brought oil, he thought. This was bound to hurt. On the other hand, if it did hurt, the expression of pain mingled with embarrassment the steward would show each time he sat on the morrow ought to be amusing. He had seen him so earlier, those days prior. The Steward, he thought, could be needy enough at times, and if so, must be no stranger to rough lovemaking, especially of the kind Rohirric princes like to practise. He’d even seen him all those days ago, being taken over a stone table in his private gardens, long and hard. He’d hidden behind the trees and watched, and imagined himself in place of the Steward’s visiting lover, pounding harshly into the writhing body beneath.

He’d seen the glances the steward often gave him, when he thought he wasn’t looking, and the open want written in them never failed to stir his groin. It was unlikely though that Faramir would do anything about his need… he appeared to have a tendency to repress his own wants. All the better… he would wait longer, stoking that need, and then give the Steward what he wanted one day. And the Steward would finally be so pathetically grateful, he would do anything he was asked.

His finger was nearly up to the knuckle. The Steward shifted, splaying his legs further apart, bending one slightly at the knee. He smiled and slipped another finger in. He scissored the two fingers, widening the tightness, and grasped the Steward’s shaft with the other.

He felt himself harden almost uncontrollably at the feel of the warm hardness, and reminded himself with a groan that this was not the occasion. The potion had not been strong enough. The next time… he would make a stronger potion, have Faramir removed from the citadel, bind him and blindfold him. Then he would wait for him to wake, and then take him. He knew a wine cellar that would be perfect, the floor hard and cold. He could almost imagine how it would feel to thrust into the steward, filling up his tight, dry passage, pounding him into that hard floor.

He pulled his fingers roughly out of the steward and swiftly undoing his own robes grabbed his hardness. He leaned over Faramir and rubbed against him. It took little time.

When he was done, the Steward lay, still sleeping his shaft limp now and his lower body sticky with release. He pulled the nightrobe down and slipped out of the room.

At the council the next morning, Faramir tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, and winced as he shifted a little. The chairs in the council room had been changed and these were harder than the usual ones, he noted, groaning silently. He must still be little sore after his in the gardens the week before.

“Not enough sleep last night, eh?” The Haradric envoy next to him asked pleasantly, “Was it the music that kept you up, or a bad dream, or something else. Or perhaps I should say, someone else?” he smirked.

“No, I slept well enough,” Faramir muttered, “And dreamt well enough too.”

“If you’ve finished dreaming now, Lord Faramir, perhaps we can begin the council.”

Faramir turned, a little stiffly, to see his king walk in and sit on the chair next to his. Elessar glanced at him; his face expressionless, and then raised an eyebrow as though in question.

Faramir started a little and reddened the slightest bit, “Yes, Sire, “ he murmured, and clearing his throat, leant forward, but his lip slightly and began addressing the council. Aragorn leaned back in his large chair and watched as Faramir winced almost imperceptibly, while leaning forward. He observed the way the neck and back stiffened, and the slim fingers tightened just a little, and smirked inwardly.

Title: The Visitor Part 2
Author: Minx
Characters: Éomer/Faramir, Aragorn
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash
Disclaimer: Not mine at all
Summary: Aragorn watches Faramir and Éomer in the gardens

Author’s Notes: Written for the Writer’s Choice prompt on the 50_darkfics LJ Comunity. I chose Stone. This is a prequel to The Visitor, even if it’s titled Part 2:o

This is a much delayed birthday present for Iris She also betaed it! She’s pretty much the best!:) *huggles lady*

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Aragorn watched the king of Rohan rise from the dinner table, yawning in a manner that would seem exaggerated even to the most dull-witted observer. He saw too, the very brief glance that his Steward directed at the other man, a glance that would be visible only to the keenest of eyes.

He kept the Steward waiting after Éomer had left, querying him on insignificant matters, lingering over the papers he went through. He ignored Faramir’s sudden fidgetiness, and uncharacteristically short and brisk replies. His Steward was usually more loquacious and often prone to lingering after dinner, ready to make conversation with anyone he could find, rather than leave to his chambers. There had been times when Aragorn had literally had to order him away. That was before he’d discovered a few things about the younger man, though, or even really started to notice him.

In those early days, he had dismissed Faramir as a fairly uninteresting young man whose chief talent lay in taking on most of Aragorn’s paperwork. But their frequent interaction and Faramir’s almost pathetic reverence towards him had broken through his disinterest. He’d started noticing him. Faramir was attractive enough and young, and his attention were flattering, but what Aragorn noticed most was the constant need in the other man’s eyes and voice. He appeared to crave company and even more so, touch. He’d watched with increasing interest as the days passed and they settled into their routines, the restlessness the younger man seemed to feel and the brief looks he gave him, especially after Éowyn of Rohan, quite predictably turned down his hand.

He made no effort to indicate that he’d noticed those looks or the way Faramir stared at him out of the corner of his eyes in the practise ground, when he wore nothing but a thin pair of leggings. Or the shuttered look in his eyes when Aragorn leaned close to the Khandrim princess who had come as an envoy. Or that despite himself, he found the attention almost flattering, coming as it did from a man merely half his age.

Back then, it was apparent that the Steward had not acted upon his physical desires. He didn’t use the services of any of the brothels, not even the ones known to maintain anonymity.

As the summer returned though, and their councils with other lands began and a constant flow of visitors began streaming in, Faramir seemed to settle down a little. It soon seemed to Aragorn’s suddenly observant eyes that the younger man had no shortage of what started as acquaintances but soon turned to dear friends among their visitors, all as discreet as he was. Often, Aragorn, standing quietly at his terrace, would see Faramir creeping through the citadel grounds in the dark nights.

He felt strangely angered by the realisation that Faramir had found others, who were perhaps more receptive towards his desires. While Faramir’s eyes still appeared to be on him more than required, it was far less noticeable now. The Steward seemed to have found himself some distractions. Aragorn found he almost missed the near hungry look that was always bestowed on him; it left him feeling intensely displeased.

Days of careful observation had helped him pin down at least a few of Faramir’s more frequent lovers. He could hardly see any of them as worthy of replacing him in Faramir’s eyes. And particularly not Éomer!

He had guessed the king of Rohan must be one of Faramir’s new interests, having seen the two men talk together, and having noticed a nearness and a willingness to stand just that little bit closer. Perhaps tonight he could validate his guess.

It was much later in the evening that he finally let the younger man go. And then, quietly followed him out into the gardens. He was amused that Éomer had selected the gardens as a trysting area; perhaps it was a throwback to his days as a rider. He wondered interestedly if Faramir had heard the often lewd stories about riders and their horses. He probably had, he decided.

It was nearly dusk, and the Steward seemed to be smiling as he wound his way down the garden path towards a small bower surrounded by trees on three sides and the city wall on the fourth.

Éomer was waiting there for him, pacing impatiently up and down by the wall. Aragorn observed the younger man carefully. He moved forward quickly as Faramir entered the bower.

“What took you so long?” he asked, his tone annoyed.

“Elessar had some-”

Éomer groaned, “You and your king deserve each other!”

“Elessar -”

“Oh hush! Enough about him! One would think you hadn’t spent the entire day listening to him drone on about treaties.” Aragorn snorted silently. He had deliberately made it a point to be longwinded today, seeking to draw out their meetings as long as possible, amused by the way Éomer started fidgeting early in the evening.

Éomer pulled Faramir close now and tugged hurriedly at the sash of the long robe to undo it and let it fall open. Aragorn nearly gasped when he realised Faramir wore nothing underneath. And to think the Steward had been sitting next to him all day! Éomer made a satisfied noise.

“You’re full of surprises aren’t you?” Éomer grunted out, as he whipped the robe off the Steward’s body, “Going in to a council meeting naked!”

“I wore my robe,” Faramir stated, stepping out of the mass of cloth pooled around his naked frame.

“If I’d known,” Éomer grunted, as he undid his trousers, and dropped them to the ground, “I would have been tempted to throw you over the table and take you then and there.”

Aragorn clutched the tree next to him harder as his groin twitched. Faramir was completely naked now. He was well worth a glance, Aragorn decided, taking in the slender but firm frame, the lean muscles, and the obvious arousal.

“It would have given Aragorn something to look at,” Éomer continued, “Are you prepared?” he grunted out, grabbing Faramir’s elbow and tugging him towards the wall. He himself was completely hard, his arousal thick and leaking with need.

“Use the water if you want,” Faramir murmured, cocking his head towards an ornamental water tub, as he, placed his palms against the wall, and bent forward, giving Aragorn an excellent view of his firm buttocks.

Éomer dipped his fingers hurriedly into the water, then shoved the Steward forward onto the wall, spreading his legs wide apart by shoving his knees between them. Aragorn winced as he noted Faramir’s arousal press against the broken surface of the wall. Faramir let out a pained sound that the Rohirric king ignored.

“Missed you,” the lad muttered, his large hands parting the Steward’s buttocks and exposing his tiny entrance completely, to the watching king’s keen eyes, “Gods, how I’ve missed you.,” he continued as hastily pushed two wet fingers into the Steward.

Faramir gasped softly as Éomer’s hands worked into him for a few seconds, before pulling out again. Éomer then grabbed Faramir’s hips and positioned his erect shaft between his legs.

Aragorn watched with aching interest, his own arousal making itself felt even more painfully, as the young king entered his Steward hurriedly, his usually ruddy face reddened further by the exertion. Short, loud grunts accompanied his rapid thrusts. His large hands rested on Faramir’s waist and even from the distance Aragorn could see they were digging painfully into the soft flesh of the Steward’s belly. He wondered how the soft looking skin would feel under his own fingers, as his hand crept into his robes towards his hardened flesh.

Faramir was responding with pained grunts, and would occasionally screw his eyes shut and wriggle his body in an attempt to shift from the uncomfortable position. Aragorn could see him thrust his hips back against Éomer’s body attempting to prevent his hardening shaft from being trapped against the wall and failing.

“Gods, you’re so tight,” Éomer muttered in between his thrusts, his bare buttocks clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he moved, “I love that you keep yourself for me like this.”

Aragorn snorted at that. If Éomer only knew what he did of the number of lovers his steward had picked up of late among the various dignitaries who had been visiting Minas Tirith.

Éomer let out a larger grunt and then pulling back, thrust in more forcefully, at the same time pulling the Steward’s hips up against his body. Faramir let out an indistinct noise, and clutched at the surface of the walls with his fingers. Éomer’s grip around the slender waist loosened a little, and the two men soon began moving in unison, Faramir slight figure almost dwarfed by the Rohirric king’s bulk.

Aragorn watched as Éomer rocked into the Steward, his own hardness pumping into his hands. Faramir’s hips were pressing against the hardness of the stone.

And then Éomer tugged him against him. The rider’s strong muscles bulged, sweat laden and sinewy, as he threw his head back, golden hair flying wild and let out a loud sound, pumping faster into the slimmer body below. Aragorn watched as the rider’s body slowly began to relax as he emptied himself into the steward, his release trickling down Faramir’s thighs. The large hands moved low, awkwardly fumblingly, lifting Faramir off, reaching for his arousal and gripped hard. And then Faramir moaned, a high-pitched, sweet sound that made Aragorn come, spilling onto his hands.

The Steward looked exhausted by the time they were done, and Éomer had to actually lift him off the wall and help the slumping figure sit down.

The Steward’s exposed body allowed Aragorn to observe the bits of mud, grass and gravel stuck all over him, particularly over the wet and sticky lower body. Éomer’s huge hands were all over there, brushing it off.

“You were wonderful as ever,” he said and kissed the Steward quickly and roughly.

Éomer’s release coated the Steward’s legs, mingling with his own fluids. He looked messy and flushed, but still quite delectable.

Éomer clearly thought so as well. “You are so beautiful,” the king whispered roughly.

Faramir moved closer to the young king, resting a hand on his chest, before sliding it lower down his body. Éomer seemed to move back a little. Faramir moved forward to kiss him, and Aragorn noted interestedly that the Rohirric king very deftly moved his face away so that Faramir’s lips brushed only his jaw.

“Stay with me tonight. Make love to me again,” the Steward whispered, and Aragorn though that almost pathetically needy tone could make even the most hardened of men stay back. He himself almost felt like walking out of his hiding place, to throw Faramir over the stone wall and take him again then and there, slipping into the already wet passage and thrusting into him against the stone wall.

“No, I must return to Lothiriel,” Éomer said, “You were wonderful,” he repeated.

“I can be even more wonderful,” Faramir said huskily.

“No, you’re tired already. Perhaps tomorrow.”

Faramir made a small, impatient sound.

Éomer rose and straightened his robes, and said, “I shall meet with you on the morrow here.”

He left without waiting for Faramir to answer.

Aragorn watched as his Steward slumped back exhaustedly against the wall. He could see the loneliness radiating from his tired, sunken frame. Every bit of the unhappy posture radiated an almost pathetic need to be held in someone else’s arms. It was obvious he would be waiting for Éomer on the morrow as well. Aragorn wondered what else it was Faramir would do, if someone displayed just the slightest affection.

Straightening his own robes over his sticky body, Aragorn moved away from the trees, and walked quietly back to his own chambers. He would a few more weeks, allow for more occasions for Faramir to be left by his lovers, until he would ache for even the slightest affection. And then he would come in, ready to give Faramir just that little bit more, in return for much, much more. And there was so much more that most desireable body could offer.

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