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for reignfall | modern au
Faramir has established himself pretty thoroughly, without entirely meaning to, as a regular here. It's the kind of place, after all, where a man like him can easily spend hours, either browsing the second-hand bookshelves or just sipping at a hot drink and watching the world go by. It's good, he's decided, to have places like that. Peaceful places, where people know you, and nobody asks anything of you besides good manners and a decent tip - both of which he is more than happy to provide.
Over the past few months, he's got into the habit of spending his Saturday afternoons at the coffee shop, settled into the nook by the window with a latte and a notebook, where he can either read whatever catches his eye, or scribble down poetry of his own. His therapist encourages this, but that isn't why he does it; he does it because he always has, because it puts his mind at ease, and because when his time is his own, he may as well indulge in softer interests.
And because nobody remains to push him towards manlier occupations. There's that, too. He has nothing to prove, because with his father gone, he has nobody to prove it to; and sometimes he doubts whether that's a good enough reason, but it isn't as though he can go back to the Army. The shrapnel lodged under his rib has seen to that. So he's free to grow out his hair, which is now well past his shoulders and a far cry from the regulation cut he had a couple of years ago; he's free to shift his focus from strategy to literature; and he's free to sit in coffee shops with a notebook of poetry and a fairtrade latte, if that's what he wants to do.
He has, however, been away for a couple of weeks. There's something rather gratifying in finding that his absence has been noticed - the barista exclaims when he comes in, says they were starting to worry; and his table is, thankfully, free. He settles back into his usual place, smiling a little, and reaches into his tote for his notebook and pen. It's nice to belong somewhere, after all.
Over the past few months, he's got into the habit of spending his Saturday afternoons at the coffee shop, settled into the nook by the window with a latte and a notebook, where he can either read whatever catches his eye, or scribble down poetry of his own. His therapist encourages this, but that isn't why he does it; he does it because he always has, because it puts his mind at ease, and because when his time is his own, he may as well indulge in softer interests.
And because nobody remains to push him towards manlier occupations. There's that, too. He has nothing to prove, because with his father gone, he has nobody to prove it to; and sometimes he doubts whether that's a good enough reason, but it isn't as though he can go back to the Army. The shrapnel lodged under his rib has seen to that. So he's free to grow out his hair, which is now well past his shoulders and a far cry from the regulation cut he had a couple of years ago; he's free to shift his focus from strategy to literature; and he's free to sit in coffee shops with a notebook of poetry and a fairtrade latte, if that's what he wants to do.
He has, however, been away for a couple of weeks. There's something rather gratifying in finding that his absence has been noticed - the barista exclaims when he comes in, says they were starting to worry; and his table is, thankfully, free. He settles back into his usual place, smiling a little, and reaches into his tote for his notebook and pen. It's nice to belong somewhere, after all.
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Her hand is in his hair, all of a sudden. It is a tender touch, intimate in a way he is not entirely used to; and in unconscious mirroring of the cat between them, he leans a little into her hand. His hair has not always been long, and it occurs to him that this may be the first time anyone but himself has run their fingers through it at its current length. A strange thought to have, maybe.
"I will gladly take secure." He looks up at her, smiling, and reaches over in turn to brush a stray curl back from her cheek. "Thank you."
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Tybolt makes dismayed noise when she leans closer, but his hand so close to her cheek is all but an invitation to draw him into a kiss, and the cat will adjust. He does: he makes himself at home on Faramir's lap, evidently unwilling to let this whole scenario move even remotely toward the bedroom.
"I –" Her hand had fallen to his thigh, touching not the fabric of his trousers as expected, but the bare back of her cat, and suitably distracting her. "Should have raised him better." She means to lift him up, and he does not complain too soundly when he is placed upon the floor, and he wanders off with his tail held high – largely, and unbeknownst to her, so that he may consider a new angle of attack. "I also find you exceedingly, almost rudely attractive," she goes on with the previous thought.
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Still chuckling, he leans in, bringing his other hand to her cheek as well, to answer her first kiss with a second, chaste but lingering, his fingertips tracing against the edges of her hairline.
"If it counts for anything," he says, when at last he pulls away, "the feeling is entirely mutual."
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Her hand now does move to his thigh, properly de-catted as it is, and she strokes him there with enough suggestiveness to make a lasting point. His kiss is met with another, and another, this time deeper, her tongue an inquisitive thing set on getting drunk on him and nothing else that night.
"Let me show you the bedroom." Is she usually in so much a rush? With Robert she certainly would be, she would want it over with quick. This is different, though. This feels a bit as if she simply does not have enough time, or as if he might come to his senses if she does not strike lighting fast.
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And still, there is hesitation; there is doubt; there is the creeping fear that this is ignoble, that all her enthusiasm and all his desire do not justify moving so fast, when they barely know one another. They do, he must remember, barely know one another.
He nods dazedly, his eyes drifting between her startlingly green eyes and her kiss- and wine-darkened lips, and his hand comes up without thinking to trace the backs of his fingers lightly against her cheek. He is drunk, he thinks. He must be drunk, to feel so entirely beyond himself; but whether he is drunk on wine or on her company, he could not begin to guess. "Politeness," he says, after a moment's consideration, "suggests I ought to demur. But I would like little more."
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Not disinterested, she notes, from the way his eyes do not leave hers unless they must, or the way he has leaned in toward her. There is that gentle touch to her cheek and that hunger with which he'd answered her kisses. Why he must be so thoroughly impossible to read, she does not know.
"I want you." She presses against him, and in a quick and sudden shift, she's come to straddle him, so that her next kiss needs no fragile leaning, but can be offered with the whole of her body against his. "I want you a good deal more than I care for politeness."
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Nor, if he is honest, for her to put herself so closely in contact with him, where there is no question that she can feel the swell that might otherwise be disguised by the folds of his trousers, or that she hears how his breath catches in a short gasp. That gasp becomes a low laugh, though, at her unvarnished words, and he leans forward and against her as she kisses him, his fingers carding through her hair and his other hand instinctively coming up against the elegant arch of her side. Her body is flush against his then, her breasts pressing against his chest, and that sweet tension between his thighs rises, heat flowing into the pit of his belly.
"So I can see," he remarks drily, and his teeth flash for a moment in a smile that is almost giddy. His hand has found its place at the back of her neck, and he draws her in again, kissing her once more. "And I want you - more, I think, than I have ever wanted anyone before. But perhaps that much is already clear." Given, that is, how his cock is pressing insistently against the weight of her.