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Title: Insert Clever Title Here
Author: Daffodil Bolger
Pairing: Frodo/Faramir
Rating: R
Summary: Shameless excuse for Frodo/Faramir porn
A/N - This was written as an inset for Claudia,
who threw me down and made me do this
hinted that she would like to have a missing chapter from
IN PLAIN SIGHT
for her very own. And since it was her birthday and I'm far too
accommodating for my own good...
The italics at the beginning and end are part of the original
fic. What’s in between is Claudia’s ‘missing chapter’ and comes somewhere in the
midst of chapter seven.
* * *
Frodo was just beginning to marvel that his legs were still pumping along
smoothly and his lungs weren’t threatening to seize when a large hand gripped
his collar and he was lifted unceremoniously off his feet and shoved back
against a stone wall. He opened his mouth to protest but then another hand
clamped over it and he found himself nearly nose-to-nose with the Steward.
“Hush!” Faramir hissed. “We’re being followed.”
****
Faramir had been a warrior for too many years not to sense that their steps were
dogged. And he had a fair idea of exactly who it was that followed them. He
espied an alleyway to their right and decided quickly. With one swift, fluid
motion, he snagged the back of Frodo’s collar, lifted him off his feet and flung
them both into the alley. He pressed his companion to the wall then lifted a
hand to cover his mouth, in anticipation of the indignant tongue-lashing he had
no doubt was already on its way up from Frodo’s throat.
“Hush!” he hissed. “We’re being followed.”
Frodo nodded slowly, eyes wide and Faramir knew he should tear his gaze away,
knew that to dawdle in the depths of those eyes was folly but could not seem to
force himself from their hold. They moved swiftly from surprise to confusion to
understanding then dipped maddeningly and bit by aching bit into knowledge. No
stranger to knowledge, these eyes, and Faramir wondered if they saw what lurked
behind his own, knew what he held secret in his heart… what moved through his
body, when they were trained upon him. He’d been held in these fathomless pools
before, had writhed in their heat and nearly wept when they had turned aside
from him, released him back into the chill of a much-changed but still mundane
life with a mere flick of soot-smoked lashes. And he had felt the absence
keenly, as a branch held out to a drowning man, only to be ripped away before
he’d gathered wits enough to make a grab for it.
Well, Faramir was no slow-witted man and he learned his lessons well. This time,
he would unveil his own eyes, make of them true windows to his own soul, to his
heart and strip himself bare to the fire that lit his skin in the wake of its
silken, feather-touch. He would demand that the knowledge in those eyes see
him, acknowledge him and everything he longed to offer. He would demand
acceptance.
He trained a naked gaze into the cool, misted flame before him and held his
ground, bared himself to the holocaust and dared Frodo to flinch, challenged him
to turn away. And when he didn’t, when he just looked back, all starlight and
wisdom and conflagration wrapped in a wheeling haze of blue, Faramir moved his
hand from Frodo’s mouth, leaned forward and kissed him.
Tender at first, soft and achingly sweet then the fire lit Faramir’s belly,
rolled beneath his skin, pounding out a path from his head to his toes. He pried
Frodo’s mouth open with his tongue, plunged it deep and Frodo moaned, moulded
himself to Faramir and pressed into him. Faramir pressed back, hard and he
should have spared a thought to how he was crushing Frodo to the wall behind him
but there was no such thing as thought in Faramir’s world anymore; all that
existed was the taste of apples, swirling about his tongue and the hard heat
that prodded into his hip.
Oh, he’d never believed, only dreamed and he almost wouldn’t believe it now,
save for the arms that twined as a wiry vise around him, pulling his breath from
his own chest and leaching it into Frodo’s. There was a needy groan and Faramir
guessed it was his because Frodo responded by tightening his hold and hooking
his leg up and around Faramir’s hip, pulling him close and closer still. A long,
slow, thorough grind and a thigh pressing into his own need and Faramir’s head
began to spin. He pushed harder, pressed Frodo more firmly into the stone behind
him then bucked and ground against him.
Frodo pulled back then, panted, “Faramir,” and he may have said more,
Faramir couldn’t tell because his head was whirling dizzily and fire burned
beneath his skin. Then a deft hand was working its way between them, making
nimble progress with the ties at his waist and everything else dropped away.
Nothing, nothing, nothing existed, save the cool touch to his skin and
the flame it engendered. Oh, he was hard, harder than he’d ever been and he
pried himself away, allowed room for Frodo’s fingers to do their work and then
moved his own hand to work the buttons of velvet trousers.
Frodo paused when Faramir’s fingers brushed the swell of him, hard as stone
beneath soft velvet and his hand clenched at the fabric of Faramir’s tunic, his
head tilting back to thump against granite. A long, low moan traveled up from
his chest and out through his open mouth. Faramir laid his mouth to Frodo’s,
took that moan and then provoked more as he flicked the buttons and dipped his
hand.
Frodo arched, swift and hard and there was a dull ‘thunk’ as his head
collided once more with stone. Faramir began to pull back, meaning to inquire
about the wisdom of knocking one’s head to granite with such frequency, when
Frodo yanked his mouth back to his own and plunged his hand down into Faramir’s
leggings.
And oh, but he was ablaze, burning to ash, his limbs turning to liquid steel,
while his head proceeded to empty itself of any and all thought. There was fire
in his belly, starlight in his hands and he bucked himself into that grip, felt
an answering push in his own hand and then fabric was pushed away and their
bodies were meshed into nothing but a blur of sweat and heat and frenzied,
driving thrusts. There might have been sound, he wasn’t sure and he thought he
heard his own name, sharp and hot in his ear but sensation was where he dwelled
now and he buried his face in the smooth ivory of Frodo’s throat, breathed deep
of rain-scented sable and lost himself in the crush and blinding pressure of
sweat-slicked heat.
There were fingers, pushing their way into his tunic, yanking at his hair and
Faramir suddenly realized that he had a few fingers of his own and he allowed
them to wander as they would, pushing aside fabric, running over ribs and a
peaked nipple, traveling over a sharp, bared hip and then moving over the
angular rise of an ankle, plunging into the thick, soft fur of Frodo’s foot. Oh,
and if Faramir had known the reaction this would bear…
Frodo’s entire body jolted and he arched with a cry, silver-sharp and desperate
and he bucked wildly, driving himself into Faramir and clutching at his back
with fingers that dug deep into his shoulder blades, his teeth sinking sharp
where Faramir’s neck joined his shoulder. Jagged cries slid smooth and resonant
into Faramir’s skin and he writhed in the pleasure of it, ground his hips
against fire come to glorious life and made bearable only by the quenching cool
of starlit smoke. Frodo moved against him, wild beauty and fluid grace and
Faramir refused to pause and wonder at how it was that he had the amazing good
fortune to hold the stars and sun both, living and twisting and burning in his
hands.
And then Frodo froze, slammed his head to the wall and howled and Faramir
watched as pleasure washed over his face, tremored through him. Faramir felt
liquid fire splash onto his groin and then he was burying his face in Frodo’s
throat, crushing him against the wall and a white-hot wave took him, shattered
him, tossed him to the flame and he crumbled to pieces in a raging storm of
searing heat and cool ivory.
It might have been hours before he had the strength to lift his lids again… or
days, for all he cared. He was content with these arms wrapped about him and his
face resting in a sweat-soaked nest of smoke and ivory. He lifted his head from
Frodo’s shoulder, brushed back the hair that had fallen into his eyes and Frodo
smiled a little, still panting. Frodo opened his eyes slowly, peered at Faramir
with a lift of an eyebrow and his smile widened to a grin.
“Well, now,” Frodo said breathlessly, “is this how all of your covert missions
work? Because, if it is, I may have to enlist in the service of Gondor and set
myself to spying.”
Faramir laughed, leaned forward and laid a kiss to Frodo’s mouth. Frodo reached
to his nape, drew him deeper before allowing Faramir to pull back a little.
“No, Frodo,” he chuckled. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a handkerchief
and set himself to cleaning them up. “If this were the way of things…” He
paused, laughed again. “Well, let us just say that I doubt much spying would get
done and I would be too exhausted to be of much use to Gondor.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Frodo returned as he adjusted his clothing and saw to his
buttons. “You rather seem up to any task to me.” He paused and slanted a smirk
to the Steward.
Faramir laced himself up, smiling. “Any task you’ll allow me to apply myself to,
Frodo,” he promised. “And for as long as you’ll have me.” Frodo’s brow quirked
in surprise. Faramir tilted his head, said, “What? You thought this was mere
lust? The release of curiosity, perhaps?”
“Well, no, I… well, perhaps… I don’t suppose I allowed myself to think on it
much,” Frodo confessed. “It was lovely but I certainly wouldn’t expect…” Frodo
reddened, shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, I do,” Faramir said firmly. “I expect much and want even more and I will
warn you now,” he stopped, gave Frodo a level stare. “I always get what I
want.”
Frodo lifted an eyebrow, a smirk of challenge writ large across his face. He
nodded. “So do I,” he said.
It wasn’t even a second later that Merry and Pippin bolted by, neither
sparing a glance sideways as they rushed after their cousin’s trail. Frodo
chuckled.
“Poor lads,” he murmured. “I hope their legs fall off.”
Faramir shot a querulous glance to his companion. Frodo shrugged.
“Well, they did leave me to your mercy.”
“Yes, but it isn’t as if you’re the worse for it.”
“Certainly not,” Frodo agreed.
* * *
A/N – And you wonder why Frodo has a headache in ‘A Little Indigestion Between
Friends’?
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