Faramir Fiction Archive

To Love a King (NC-17)

Written by Minx

05 April 2004 | 32130 words

Chapter 3

Faramir lay in stunned surprise and then found himself wincing belatedly at the annoyance he could read in Aragorn’s words. Still lying on the cold floor for a while, he thought over everything that had happened. But always, his thoughts returned to Aragorn. He could not get his lover out of his mind at all. Even as he worried over the consequences of what he had been told, he kept picturing Aragorn with him in bed. Just the thought of their countless hours together sent shivers up his spine. He moaned aloud, realising suddenly what had just transpired.

He had forced Aragorn to leave, unsatisfied. He sat up in alarm. In his worry and distress, he had neglected Aragorn! The thought served to distress him even more and he sunk his head in hands, moaning all the more. How could he have acted like this? How could he let himself be distracted like this when Aragorn had wanted to make love to him? He had to apologise, he decided, and to show Aragorn he was worthy of his love. Let anyone say what he or she liked!

He hastily pulled on his tunic and leggings, and snuck out of the room, through the long, draughty passageways hat led to Aragorn’s study. With most of the residents of the citadel having settled in for the night, he met none save Lord Ardamir at the head of the passage that led to the study. He found he was fidgeting anxiously as the other solicitously inquired after his well-being. He finally managed to make his excuses for not staying longer to talk and then turned towards the corridor, not missing the quiet, contemplative look Aradmir gave him. He ignored the implications of that look with alacrity and walked on, the nearness of the study giving him a surge of emotional strength. He wanted nothing more than to be with Aragorn this night. He paused at the door to Aragorn’s study, and listened carefully to see if Ardamir or anyone else was around. Hearing nothing but silence, he knocked softly.

“Enter!” Aragorn called out.

He entered, shutting the door softly behind him.

Aragorn was sitting at his desk, a large, bulky wooden thing that had been around for many years. He shuffled in quietly and stood in front of the desk, suddenly reminded of the days when he had stood there, nervous and frightened to face his father’s wrath.

Denethor would be seated in that same chair as Aragorn across the same wooden surface, demanding in his cold, hard voice an explanation for some deed or the other of Faramir’s that would have displeased him. Faramir often displeased his father, and the words he would have to hear on those occasions always stung hard. Once in a while, in his younger days, Denethor’s hand would sting him too. It was only as he had grown older that they had resorted to treating each other with cold silence and minimal interaction to avoid those disagreements.

He sighed unhappily at the onrush of memories, before looking up tentatively at Aragorn who in turn was waiting impatiently for him to react.

“Well?” his king shot out. “I – I came to . . . to . . . I’m sorry Aragorn,” he stammered out, “I was wrong to behave as I did. Please forgive me, please?” he begged, suddenly assailed by thoughts that Aragorn might not forgive him at all. They might never be as they were. He would never feel Aragorn’s body near his, the intense love radiating out on him, enveloping him in the warmth of their embrace.

“Please forgive me?” he begged yet again.

Aragorn shrugged and tapped his quill on the table thoughtfully.

“I don’t know if I should,” he said musingly.

Faramir rounded the desk and came up to Aragorn’s chair. Sinking to his knees on the floor, he placed his hands on Aragorn’s knees, and looked up into his eyes frantically, “I beg of you. I was wrong to be distracted like that. It shall never happen again. I have hurt you tremendously. If you never want me near you again, I shall understand, but please do forgive me for hurting you. It was never my intention. I was worried and I let that colour my behaviour.”

“Well, really, you were distracted weren’t you,” Aragorn continued seemingly unmoved, “You do that so often it seems. When you should be thinking, at the councils, you do not. You run your leg up mine. But when you should be running your leg up mine, you sit and think. Whatever should I do with you?”

“Anything you like,” Faramir responded not missing the teasing note in Aragorn’s voice. He wasn’t angry with him, he thought, relieved.

“I should punish you.”

“Yes. Oh, yes,” he had often wanted Aragorn to get rough with him, but his lover had demurred so far.

“Good. Take off those ugly clothes, and bend over that desk.”

Faramir obeyed ensuring that he took the robe off slowly. He leaned forward across the table; quelling the memory of the last time he had done this. He couldn’t help but remember leaning like this a few times as a child. But on those occasions, he had had his leggings on, and instead of a hand descending on his buttocks; it had been five strokes of a cane. He bit his lip at the unbidden, unwanted memory, and thrusting his backside up at Aragorn’s disposal, steeled himself.

Aragorn grasped his hips and adjusted the angle accordingly. He let his hands wander for a few brief seconds over the pale skin. Faramir sighed silently, the movement relaxing his tense muscles. He loved Aragorn’s hands on him. Then the hand was moved away, and he knew without having to turn around that it was raised in the air. What followed was a heightening experience for Faramir.

Aragorn’s hand descended on him sharply. It stung, but Faramir did not react. He leaned forward a little more and placed his palms on the wood for support. The hand descended again. The fourth time it fell, he cried out softly. The force pushed him against the table, pressing his semi-erect shaft into the hard table. The blows rained down at the same pace, some ten of them in total, leaving a heated, stinging sensation across the swollen flesh, and he knew his skin would have turned red with the imprints of Aragorn’s hands marking it all over. But unlike the past experiences, this one left him incredibly aroused. He doubted he’d ever see the table the same way again.

Aragorn stared in fascination at the way his palm left streaks of red across the pale softness of Faramir’s backside. The legs were stretched apart and quivering slightly from the impact of the stinging blows he had been delivering. He ran a finger tenderly down one of the marks and then lowered his head and lovingly ran his tongue over it.

When Faramir felt something cool and wet descend on the smarting skin, he knew he’d never see the table that way again. Aragorn’s tongue flicked all over his backside, finally slipping into the crevice. He promptly spread his legs some more, allowing access to his entrance. The tongue lapped over the sensitive skin, causing him to release a strangled whimper. Then a finger entered him slowly, lubricated with nothing more than saliva, scissoring its way into his passage. He gasped at the painful intrusion but then his muscles adjusted themselves, and when the finger pulled out he let loose a needy whine.

He heard Aragorn spit into his hands, and waited breathlessly. He found himself being pushed against the hard, unyielding wood of the desk with the entry of Aragorn’s member inside him, the spit proving little help in easing the way.

Aragorn’s hands wandered up and down his torso, pinching at his nipples roughly. His own arousal pressed painfully against the smooth, polished surface, even as his hips rocked into the edge at regular intervals. He would have an array of bruises to show for this on the morrow. But he didn’t care. He groaned ecstatically as Aragorn sheathed himself completely inside him and began thrusting hard and fast, his hand wrapping around Faramir’s swollen shaft. He could not help but grin inwardly at the thought of doing this upon his father’s desk.

Aragorn’s hands clenched around his waist as the older man came inside him. He too, came almost immediately after that, his release spurting out onto the wooden surface, pooling under his now limp body, as it sagged onto the tabletop. He could feel Aragorn’s release trickling down his inside thighs, as his lover too sagged on top of him. His throat felt sore and he suddenly realised that he had been screaming his pleasure out wantonly.

They rose after a while, Aragorn pulling out gently, yet causing Faramir to hiss a little. He felt himself being lifted off the table equally gently, and deposited on the large chair in front of the fireplace. He gazed into the beautiful grey eyes of his king and lover and smiled at him. Aragorn pulled him into a loving embrace and kissed him all over his face.

They cleaned each other up slowly, Faramir trying his best not to let his soreness show. But Aragorn must have realised it, for he helped Faramir get up, and then held on to him as they walked back to the desk.

The sight of the mess on the table sent Faramir into a sudden spate of giggles, causing Aragorn to lift his eyebrows in question.

“My father used to sit at that desk,’ Faramir said, still laughing, finding that he no longer needed to worry about the memories of arguing with the erstwhile Steward across this very table. It was immediately replaced by the thought of being taken over it by Aragorn.

Aragorn threw his head back and laughed too, and they both stood there in each others arms giggling softly for a while, before they could finally clean up the desk and retire to Aragorn’s chambers to sleep, Aragorn having discerned that Faramir would be aching a little. He carried him there and deposited him on the cool sheets and even rubbed a little slave on his still reddened backside before pulling him close under the covers. Faramir looked tired and while the satisfaction and contentment resulting from their lovemaking was clear on his face, the features were still drawn and a little pale. He knew the younger man had been worried about the events that had been happening.

They woke just before dawn, and Faramir quietly slipped away to his own chambers after exchanging a prolonged kiss with his lover, who had no desire to let go of his warm body. Aragorn finally released him with a dramatic sigh. He watched with narrowed eyes as the Steward stood gingerly, pulling on his clothes, suddenly made aware of the tiny aches in his lower back from the previous night’s bout of lovemaking.

“Does it -, “ he began.

“No,” Faramir interrupted him promptly not wishing to see guilt on Aragorn’s features, for he had truly enjoyed the previous night, “It was wonderful. *You* were wonderful.” He bent down to kiss his lover on his lips.

“Will you not punish me again?” “I think you’ve learnt your lesson,” Aragorn replied smiling widely, as Faramir pouted a little.

Faramir left reluctantly, walking slowly back to his chamber, wishing he’d remembered to wear his boots, as he the cold seeped through the floor into his feet. His gait was a little unsteady, but his heart satisfied. He opened the door and paused, a movement at the end of the passage catching his eye. He wondered briefly about it, but then remembered that the next passage contained the guest rooms housing Legolas, Gimli, Lord Ardamir, and Lord Dervorin while they were visiting for the meetings, and that it would merely be an early riser among them.

Entering he promptly threw himself into his bed, crawling under the covers, wincing slightly at how cold it felt without Aragorn’s arms wrapped around him. He woke an hour later, as the sun crossed the horizon, and sent for hot water.

He had it poured into a large tub that was placed on his hearth. He had decided that a soak in warm water would help the stiffness in his muscles, and began taking off his clothes. He had just peeled his shirt off when a knock sounded on his door.

“Who is it?” he asked, pausing in the act of untying the ties on his leggings.

“Legolas,” came the Elf’s voice. Faramir pulled the door open, and ushered his friend in.

“Legolas,’ he said pleasantly, “what brings you here this early?”

The elven prince was busy taking in his appearance, and Faramir realised with a start that his chest was bare, and the love bites Aragorn had marked him with last night were openly visibly. His leggings too were half-undone and had slipped down his hips. The bruises left by Aragorn’s hands had already begun to form. He shrugged mentally.

Legolas sighed, “You two do not take my words seriously, do you? I hope you enjoyed the night!”

Wondering if Legolas had been the person he’d heard under his terrace or whether he’d been the one in the passageway earlier in the morning, Faramir groaned silently. He was tired and sore and the water would be getting cold. He crossed his arms over his chest feeling a little chilly.

“I appreciate your concern,” he began formally, only to be cut off abruptly.

Legolas had noted his disinterested tone, and his blue eyes glinted as he stepped forward and responded coldly, “My concern is less for you and more for those impacted by your indiscreet activities!”

“You seem to know a lot about my activities,” Faramir sneered.

“Can you not keep your hands off him at all? There are guests all over the citadel!” the elf responded exasperatedly.

His words stung Faramir a little, “No I can’t keep my hands off him, and he can’t keep his off me either,” he said calmly.

“I can see that!”

“What did you wish for Legolas? I would like to bathe and the water goes cold.”

“Merely to repeat what I said to you earlier.”

“Then why repeat it?”

“Because you do not listen, do you? You two are getting too public in your affection.”

“We are not,” Faramir informed him, “Anything we do between us is restricted to our chambers.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow, and Faramir reddened slightly as he thought of the times in the stables, on the terrace, in one of the gardens.

“People see small things and they talk. And when they talk, they talk of big things, like the throne and of heirs.”

“I do not want the throne,” Faramir said, a pleading note in his voice. He was confused by all he kept hearing of, “Why would I?”

“I don’t know!” Legolas said morosely, “Why would you not? To rule Gondor is to hold great power in your hand.”

“I have no desire for such power!” Faramir retorted.

“Your father was not of like mind,” Legolas said pertly.

Faramir felt a rise of anger. He knew the Elf was annoyed with his attitude and was therefore baiting him, he knew Legolas had known of the uneasy relationship between Denethor and Aragorn when the latter had served in Gondor as Thorongil under his grandfather’s Stewardship. Legolas had little reason to respect Denethor having heard much of him from Aragorn and others over the years. But Faramir had had enough of the veiled references that the Elf constantly threw at him out of disapproval of what lay between him and his King.

“You know nothing of my father,” he shot out, “I would ask you to leave him out of this discussion.”

Legolas snorted, “I merely tell you the sort of talk that is now happening in small circles behind closed doors. But when it starts out in the open, none can help you, either of you. And you do not aid matters by throwing caution to the winds!”

“If you must ‘serve’ your liege lord with such a vulgar display of ‘devotion’ My Lord Steward, perhaps you would consider not doing so in public!”

“You think I am vulgar because I sleep with my King?” Faramir hissed out, “you think I do this out of gratitude to the fact that one such as him would deign to spare me a second glance -,” he broke off suddenly, confused. Part of him had always wondered how Aragorn could indeed spare him that second glance, much less lie with him.

Legolas looked at him thoughtfully, and then abruptly asked, “Do you truly love him?”

“Are you calling me a whore?”

“No, I wished to know if you loved him,” Legolas repeated patiently, unmoved by Faramir’s increasing anger and distress.

“Why else would I lie with him?”

“You said so yourself – gratitude!” Legolas pointed out reasonably.

“I think you should leave now,” Faramir said ominously.

“Not until you answer my question.”

“I do not have to!” Faramir whipped around to turning his back to the Elf. He had had enough of all this. He needed to think. Of course, he loved Aragorn! Oh, he was grateful all right, but the gratitude was entirely for the fact that Aragorn returned that love. Gondor and her politics had never been a consideration in that love. But it seemed that was not to be so. He was truly confused now. He irrationally wondered whether Legolas had had this little ‘talk’ with Aragorn too.

His musings were rudely interrupted when he suddenly found himself being whirled around and pushed against the wall. Legolas’ arm was held against the base of his throat, pinning his bare back against the stone wall of the battlement.

“What are you doing? Leave me be!” he shouted out, trying to release himself from the grip.

But Legolas was stronger than he seemed. His lithe body hid the fact that he was in fact a great warrior and a very strong one. Faramir’s struggles to make him let go were just that – struggles. He swatted away the scrabbling hands as though dealing with an annoying fly, and bore down on the Steward.

“I warn you, Faramir. If you ever hurt Aragorn, you shall have me to answer to.”

“Why would I hurt him?” Faramir squeaked out angrily, his voice affected by the hand across his throat.

“If you do not love Aragorn, put an end to this immediately,” Legolas said ominously, “He is one of my closest friends. I will not stand by quietly. And remember, you hurt others when you hurt him.”

“Let go of me,” Faramir said, “I do not have to prove anything to you.”

And surprisingly enough, Legolas did let go of him, as suddenly as he had grabbed him. He shoved him back against the wall and stalked out, leaving Faramir to sink back against the wall and slide down to the floor dazed and surprised to find himself blinking back tears.

When he finally heaved himself off the cold floor, his bath water had gone tepid.

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