Faramir Fiction Archive

To See You Again (NC-17)

Written by December

31 July 2018 | 3656 words

Title: To See You Again
Author: December
With: Aragorn
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He had come to say goodbye, he had not expected to stay.
As the new King of Gondor is about to depart on his first military campaign, the Steward has a lot to come to terms with.

Disclaimer: The author claims no ownership whatsoever over the characters and settings of this story.

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He leans his forehead to the glass, imagines he can feel the rain splattering against the pane on the other side. Autumn cold breathes on him from the window, and as the grey skies darken above the woods of Ithilien, he sits deeper into the alcove and closes his eyes.

Minas Tirith lies in his care now, and it is not often he gets to come out here.

To be alone to think, to be free to remember.

As though in silent reproach, the tall door stood shut before him.

The summer warmth did not reach into this dim corridor, the passage left untrodden for so many centuries that it as though still carried the loneliness of the now past age.

For all anyone knew, those times could return, all too soon.

He cursed, yet again, the upcoming campaign. Wished he could have said something at the council that would render it unnecessary. Or at least something that would allow him to be a little more useful than this.

He fingered the silver chain held tight in his hand, looked at the dim glint of the gem, then back at the door.

They had spoken so many times, in public. It was easy, in public.

Taking one last heavy breath, he smoothed the front of his tunic, and knocked.

The first thing he saw as the door opened was great tiredness in the king’s lean face, and he knew he should not have come. But Aragorn’s gaze fell on him and the man’s eyes lit up with gladness, and as he smiled, it seemed to Faramir that it was indeed summer, and the night was warm.

“Faramir, what brings you?” Aragorn frowned. “You look troubled, is something the matter?”

“My lord, forgive me for disturbing your rest, ‘tis late, l know. But on the morrow there might not be time, and I…”

Aragorn shook his head, smiling again. “Don’t you worry about my rest. Tomorrow – and for many days after – there will be nothing but riding with the host at a snail’s pace, entertaining the country-folk. If I can doze off in the saddle, all the better. Why don’t you come in?”

Faramir inhaled.

“My lord, I truly do not wish to keep you. Here. I would that you have this – if it would please you.”

He handed over the pendant, mindful not to let their hands touch.

Aragorn held it up carefully by the chain, so the stone spun slowly and caught the light from the torches, flicking with scarlet in its blood-red depths.

“I remember Boromir wore one like this – but white,” he said thoughtfully.

“He did. Only in truth it was mine – we had exchanged them before he went. To keep each other safe.” Faramir pursed his lips. “Clearly, his worked better than mine. And so I thought… I thought that if as steward I must stay behind and cannot be by your side in battle, then at least perhaps you could take it, so it might aid keep you from harm.”

“That is a very generous gift, I understand how much it must mean to you, being a keepsake from Boromir.” Then Aragorn grinned, “Well, looks like now I will have to stay alive, so that I can look after it for you and bring it back.”

But Faramir did not laugh at his wry humour, and the king sighed.

“Your doomsday face will haunt me if this is the last I see of you before I go. Come, let us take a drink of wine, help you remember how to smile.” He looked at Faramir very seriously. “It is a royal decree, Lord Steward.”

Faramir chuckled then, and bowed his head in capitulation.

They sat across each other at the small table in Aragorn’s drawing room, and the wine was a bit too warm, but it did not matter, and the fruit in the bowl a bit too ripe, and that did not matter either. The liquor mixed with the sweetness on his tongue, and Faramir wished he did not need to watch so vigilantly over how he spoke. In the orange glow of the single candle Aragorn looked especially kingly, the ancient nobility of his carven features so stark, his easy smile so broad, so reassuring. The line of his jaw so strong, the tendons in his neck… Faramir looked away. What if he does not return. What if after tonight, there will be no more of him. What if this dream will be gone as if it had never been.

“Faramir.” The king’s voice was so soft, gentle. “Faramir, ‘tis all right, I will come back.”

“You cannot know that,” before he could stop himself. He inhaled sharply and made to get up. “I am sorry, my lord, I had not come to ruin your last evening in the City. I should let you rest.”

“You should sit down.”

Faramir stared into his goblet as the king walked around the table to stand behind his chair.

“And you should also stop apologising to me,” Aragorn said as he laid both hands on Faramir’s shoulders. “It far from gladdens me to see you so downcast, but in its own way, it is a great comfort also, to know that… that someone cares so much to see me safe.”

Faramir frowned. “Of course we care, my lord. You are our… everything.”

“Well, you know what I mean. Don’t make this about everyone, to them any king would be precious – and rightly so. I should like to think that to you, with our friendship – that you see me maybe as just a man, too.”

Faramir hummed in a way that could be interpreted as agreement, so as not to have to put his voice to the test, talking about just how he saw his king.

He glanced down at Aragorn’s long fingers on his shoulders, so close. How could anyone have such beautiful hands? How could a man’s hands, so large, and strong, and battle-worn, be so aglow with warm gentleness, with this intelligent lightness? Be able to cure all of the world’s hurts.

As though through a fog, he became aware of the hands moving on him, subtly, rhythmically. Aragorn must be giving him a massage, to soothe his high-strung mind.

He breathed in, closed his eyes, told himself he would only allow a minute of this self-indulgence. A shimmer of gold seemed to trickle down his back from where Aragorn touched him, and he felt his muscles grow warm and soft with happiness. It was so much work to sit straight, and his head tilted back, and Aragorn slipped up under his hair to knead his neck, skin on skin now.

This was nothing, Boromir and he would rub each other’s backs all the time. After practice, after combat, after a night of bad sleeping on frosted ground. Forget that, with Boromir they would wash each other’s hair in the bath. He could do nothing of the like with Aragorn. Not just because they were not blood kin, and of unequal title. Boromir’s touch had made him feel hopeful and at peace – as did Aragorn’s, but with everything that Aragorn was and everything that Aragorn did, there was an undercurrent that he did not know what to do with. His blood ran hot, and his heart beat with ferocious joy, and he yearned, and longed, and knew not for what.

As his fingers tingled with the need to come up and slide over Aragorn’s hands on him, Faramir clasped his goblet tight, and without quite meaning to, downed the rest of his wine.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Aragorn murmured as his touch at last glided down Faramir’s neck to return onto his shoulders. It seemed to Faramir that in his agitation, compounded by the wine, even his king’s voice sounded strange in his ears. Husky and mellow at once. That the king’s hands lingered on him. Purposefully, wistfully.

He shut his eyes, tried to think in full sentences again.

“I thank you, my lord, and truly I should go now.”

Aragorn sighed. “As you wish.”

He stepped back to make room for his steward, and Faramir slid past, all too well aware that he should look up at his lord, but not trusting himself to do so. He had stared down many a fell beast, played the looking game with death too many times to care to count – but in this moment that could easily be their last one in private, he would not dare to face this man who was the best thing to ever happen to him, to all of them.

Aragorn stood still and silent, and although Faramir could feel that he was not looking at him either, a strange sense of expectancy hung over him. An urge to take a big breath and say – something, quickly, before it was too late. He swallowed it down, looked further away.

He cannot remember now, cannot quite grasp what it actually was – Aragorn did not exactly sigh, did not shift his weight, but it had felt as though some fragile balance tipped conclusively then. There was this empty, deflating sensation, like a soap bubble popping. He recalls becoming aware of a chill, too, as though he had let Aragorn down somehow and the king’s disappointment manifested itself in a physical drop in temperature.

Without another word, the king walked him back to the door.

“I shall wear the gem, Faramir,” he said quietly. But as he reached for the door-handle, Faramir reached for his hand, and pressed it tight to his lips.

“How I wish I could give you more, sire,” he whispered against Aragorn’s knuckles. “Would that I were sharpening my sword now with the rest of the men, to ride by you tomorrow. To shield and serve you as should be my duty, not sit idle while you risk life and limb.”

Aragorn moved his hand from Faramir’s lips, but lingered oddly to hold it as though cupping him on the face.

“You are already giving me more than you know. And as my finest warrior and wisest counsellor – I need you here, to protect Gondor in my absence.”

“What good is all of Gondor to me without you? Please, be safe. I could not…”

Aragorn then stepped up to him, and gathered him close.

“Oh Faramir, I wish I did not have to go,” he said, and planted a kiss of blessing on Faramir’s forehead, and hugged him even tighter.

Faramir did not know what to do with his arms hanging by his sides, so he returned the embrace – and even though he stood tense and on guard, it felt too good to let go. The warmth of Aragorn’s back, its lean strength under Faramir’s cautious hands, the shape of his taut muscles through the thin velvet…

“My lord,” he laughed helplessly. “I have forgotten all my manners. Please, make me leave already.”

He heard Aragorn grin. “Maybe I don’t want you to leave.”

He had never been held this close by a man, other than Boromir. But with Boromir, they had been of a height and equally broad in the shoulders. He had gotten so used to that as the only possible fit, that now with Aragorn taller and leaner than him, there did not seem to be a natural way to stand. He shifted around awkwardly, and somehow ended up with the bridge of his nose pressed into the other man’s neck, below the place where the stubble of his beard began.

How impossibly soft was the king’s skin in this spot.

Would it be just as soft on his lower belly, that flat space below the navel? Or what about the upper inside of his thighs, just where the legs open from the hip? Would the scent be the same, or even sharper, muskier?

Faramir’s breath grew close and heavy inside his chest, and he struggled to keep it in, to prevent hot air from puffing at Aragorn’s throat. To his horror, unfathomably his lips brushed against his king’s skin.

He knew that it had not gone unnoticed by Aragorn’s sharp intake of breath.

A gasp of embarrassment, distaste, what else would it be – but his disobedient ear decided to hear it as pleasure.

Of all times, oh please not now. His heart sank as he felt himself grow hard, and he knew his summer attire would do nothing to hide it. But as he tried to turn his body aside, Aragorn pulled him in even closer.

Faramir stood frozen as a matching hardness pressed with hopeful insistence against his hip, trapped sideways in Aragorn’s breeches.

Aragorn’s hands curled into fists on his back, pulling at the fabric of his tunic.

How disgraceful, to provoke this reflexive response in his lord.

He had to assure his king that he understood it was naught, only a bodily reaction, the fault was fully his. Just as he raised his face to say something to the effect, Aragorn leant in to him, and their mouths sealed together, lip to lip.

They stood locked to each other at the mouth, at once in a kiss and in avoidance of one, as though if they did not move, did not breathe, then it was not real.

Aragorn’s lips held his hard and dry, but this was Aragorn, the very shape of whose mouth was so full of wonder, made of nothing but the promise of softness, the promise of sweet gliding heat. As Faramir tried to remember his oaths of fealty and pull away, his own lips softened and opened, and flat out refused to leave Aragorn’s, so he had to drag them sideways against the king’s mouth.

Valar, they were really not very good at this. As Aragorn did his own part to break out of their accidental entanglement, he happened to tilt his face in just such a way that not only cut off Faramir’s trajectory of retreat, but spread the steward’s mouth further open.

At last he willed himself to look up at the king, to help them coordinate out of this hot mess – only to see that Aragorn’s eyes were shut, his eyebrows tilted, as though in bliss or pain. In that exact moment Aragorn’s hands dropped to his waist, and he probed into Faramir’s mouth with his tongue.

Before Faramir could note to himself that it was almost as if his lord was doing this intentionally, his whole body jolted into Aragorn, who had to grip him hard on the waist to keep their balance. It seemed impossible to rein in his hips from pressing up to Aragorn’s, hypnotised by the obvious length and girth of the royal manhood. Equally impossible to keep his tongue from darting at the king’s, and when Aragorn did not withdraw but only pushed for more, from pushing boldly back so that it was now his tongue in his liege’s mouth.

It was when he not so much heard as rather felt the other man moan into his mouth, that suddenly Aragorn tore himself away – and as though to put further temptation at a distance, promptly tucked Faramir’s head under his chin.

“Oh, Elbereth, help us. Faramir, I… you… You are distraught tonight, the prospect of loss may drive you to things you may later regret. I could not avail myself… I cannot exploit you…”

“My lord…” Faramir said into the hollow dent where the king’s collarbones met. “Is that how it is for you then, driven by fear? Do you want me only now that you are about to leave?”

Aragorn snorted. “If only. Oh, if only, Faramir. I have loved you since the day you had first looked upon me.”

There was a long moment when he could not reply, for it felt too much like a dream. Surely he had not drunk enough to be hearing things? He stood only staring at his own hand planted on the king’s rising chest, his fingers on the fine velvet of Aragorn’s actual raiment, the small male nipple tangible against the centre of his palm. He had not dared even wish for this and yet it was true – his until the morning only.

“As have I,” he said at last.

A sense of fey freedom swept through them both as a wild wind, and from that point on he remembers things out of sequence, as visions from someone else’s life.

With a grunt Aragorn hoisted him up, and Faramir wrapped his legs around him as Aragorn held him by the arse. He was higher than the king then, and he took his lord on the face with both hands, and leant in down to him, and kissed him as deep as he could reach while Aragorn carried him through one dark room after another.

He remembers the weight of Aragorn’s body on him as they toppled onto the vast bed. Thin curtains were billowing softly in the breeze of the open balcony, the fabric a milky-blue in the moonlight. Some vision from Elven memories, not a blessing meant for mortal Men.

He remembers how hard, and hot, and alive Aragorn’s cock had felt in his mouth. How it seemed to need more room than he possibly had to offer, and accommodating it had taken careful thought and a bit of dexterity, and how wonderful that had been, how much he had wanted it.

Was that before or after Aragorn rolled him onto his front, and climbed on top of him, spreading Faramir’s legs apart with his knees? Faramir had misplaced his breath, more than a little uncertain how exactly he was meant to fit all of the royal glory up his backside. But Aragorn instead kissed him on the upper back – then slowly made his way down.

He remembers gasping, and crying out as his king worked his tongue into him from behind. Remembers hearing Aragorn hum and moan softly as he would lick up and down between his steward’s buttocks, before once again probing, and prodding, and shoving wetly into him.

Just when it had seemed to Faramir that he could bear no more, Aragorn’s mouth was joined by his fingers. First one, then two.

He made Faramir writhe on the mattress, push back into his face, onto his hand, spread for him, and demand in some rather coarse language that it not be forgotten that they had cocks on them, and that Aragorn ought to put his where it belonged.

Aragorn then said he wanted to see his face, and lay on his back, and pulled Faramir to him.

It seems strange now that he still had some scraps of modesty left at that point, and it was difficult to lift his eyes that first time, as he straddled his king’s hips, and sat stark naked atop him. To acknowledge this new intimacy, all they had just done for one another, and all yet to come.

Propped on the pile of cushions at the head of his royal bed, Aragorn watched him from the shadows. His eyes did not leave Faramir’s as slowly he ran his hands, so full of heat, up Faramir’s thighs, over his stomach and chest, traced down the muscular curves of his arms.

“How strong you are, my steward,” he murmured. “How beautiful. Why should I be this fortunate?”

Faramir did not know what to say, so bent down to kiss him instead. He took him on the face with both hands, and pressed his mouth hotly against Aragorn’s, and felt Aragorn’s lips curve into a smile against his before the king returned his kiss.

After this, he remembers only the hypnotic rhythm, the rapture of Aragorn’s presence inside him, the thrill of hearing the pleasure in Aragorn’s sighs against his face. Aragorn rolling them over, grinding Faramir into the bed with such desperate hunger, then jerking uncontrollably as release overwhelmed him. That sound his king had made, that roaring cry, as a warrior wounded in battle.

He remembers lying spread open on his back, breathless and steaming, so happy, so fearful, so dazed. Aragorn lying on top of him, in him, at once so awkward and so natural, so unbelievable and real.

Then slipping out of him, slowly, gently, to move down along his body. He was certainly dreaming by then, for how could it be, but he could not have imagined that sweet heat, that insane bliss of the king’s mouth on him. Aragorn guiding him to put his hand on the back of his head, grip his king by the hair, rock with his hips to push deeper into his throat as Aragorn…

Was the mortal body even designed to withstand so much joy? How was such glory even possible outside the Undying Realm.

He had meant to keep vigil all night, but his consciousness was sinking into the dark warmth of the night, overladen and drowning in Aragorn’s scent. Was it not equally a gift to sleep this once in Aragorn’s arms, wrapped in the safety of his love?

Faramir did not notice how his hold slipped, and all his thoughts spun out and dissolved, and the sweetness of Aragorn’s sleeping breath on his cheek was the last thing he had managed to grasp.

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Author’s note: I live to bring joy to my readers. If you liked this story or have any thoughts on it, please do let me know. Thank you so much!

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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