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06 March 2009 | 6408 words
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Summary: One could argue that a new secretary was enough, but then the courier came.
Warnings: Slash (i.e. ‘The Usual’), AU
Disclaimer: Still not mine, still Tolkien’s. But please let me know if they become available!
A/N: This story exists because of three things: 1) Tolkien wrote LOTR, 2) Richard Shindell recorded a song called ‘The Courier’ (I doubt this was what he had in mind, though), 3) I have a huge problem with canonical accuracy. Some of you know that I like to stay fairly faithful to the books so I thought I’d challenge myself. This is the most AU fic I have ever written.
It was still raining. Well of course it was – it had been raining for the past two weeks and the skies remained hidden behind layers after layers of unmoving grey clouds. Roads had been reduced to slippery slopes of mud, and judging by the uninspired daylight that seemingly randomly replaced the night, it could just as well have been midwinter and not, as it really was, mid-autumn.
‘And damned cold too,’ King Elessar thought for the hundredth time that night, pulling the woollen cloak closer around him. The small office with all its wooden walls and the crackling fire was obviously incapable of keeping the chill out.
On top of all the misery, freezing winds, born somewhere far away, hauled themselves towards the Mouths of Anduin and chased each other all the way to Pelargir and beyond, probably. Unfortunately for Aragorn, he was in Pelargir.
Even in this weather, the harbour city was swarming with merchants: traders of all kinds simply swarmed a little bit faster to keep warm. If profit could be gained, then profit was sought. It was as simple as that. But the records were in order and the payrolls fair.
“Spectacular,” muttered Aragorn to himself for no particular reason.
The two, rather small, square-shaped windows faced the port and in the darkness glinted several lanterns and torches. There were still people out there, doing whatever merchants did after sundown – and in pouring rain. Aragorn was not very keen to find out.
There was a brisk knock at the door and it swung open. He turned around and was not at all surprised to see his secretary bustle inside beneath a load of files and documents.
“Evnin’ sire, sir!” called the muffled voice from behind the parchments.
“Good evening,” answered Aragorn politely, not minding to point out that they had spoken less than an hour ago. “What is all that you’re carrying?”
“‘Tis…” The secretary carefully trod over to the desk and dumped his burden on the worn wood. “‘Tis a whole of a lot, I’d say.” He swiped the dust off his hands on his trousers. “Mostly records, I reckon… ‘tis what you wanted, wasn’t it, sire”
“Yes, thank you.”
Aragorn smiled. He had bumped into this new secretary of his upon his arrival in Pelragir – literally. The short, blond and slightly tubby young man had been walking along, minding his own business, when he had slipped in the mud and crashed into Aragorn with some force. His apologies were so many, so longwinded and so heartfelt that Aragorn had become fascinated and employed him. For the record, that was not how he usually found his staff, but when the apologies had finally ceased to flow, he had discovered that the lad was actually both efficient and orderly. What was – almost – even better, he spoke his mind and deeply believed in justice for everyone. All in all, Aragorn was pleased with Samwise.
“All well then, sir?” Sam pushed his unruly locks from his forehead. “With all this rain you’d think the sea itself was invading, but from the heavens, if you take my meaning.”
“I sure hope that is not what’s going on,” said Aragorn, moving over to the desk.
“Well, no, it wouldn’t be, sire,” said Sam, looking a bit puzzled. “Seeing as the sea is out there and the heavens are above us. ‘Tis only rain after all.”
Aragorn opened his mouth but then closed it. “Right,” he said eventually.
Without much interest, he began leafing through the records while Sam went to stir the fire and add more wood to the flames. It was not particularly late, but the general lack of light and the chill faithlessly suggested to Aragorn that he really should forget all about work and simply settle down in front of a much larger fire-place. He heard Sam mutter something to his left, but it was not until the secretary raised his voice that he actually lifted his gaze.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting them cups o’ wine now, sire, sir?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Sam nodded to the windows. “Looks like there’s someone a-comin’.”
Inwardly Aragorn groaned. What madness drove anyone to his office, past hours, in this rain?
“Maybe if we do not open, they’ll think the office is empty?” he tried.
Sam frowned and put his hands on his hips. “Now that we can’t have! I’m not aidin’ in any royal conspiracy of yours, sir.” He shook his head violently, but calmed down equally quickly and winked. “Besides, they’ve already seen us through the windows, I gather. I’ll be bringin’ them cups in a moment!”
Sam disappeared through the door which obediently closed behind him. Leaning against the desk, Aragorn sighed. Granted, he was King and all that, but really it was past audience hours and most people in Pelargir knew that. He had only been here for a fortnight, but rules and regulations were rules and regulations after all. Most likely it would be another merchant, offering goods that the White City neither needed, nor wanted.
A sharp knock at the door and it swung open. Expecting Samwise, Aragorn did not even bother to straighten. He was momentarily taken aback when a much taller form, broad shouldered and swathed in a dark, dripping wet cloak stepped across the threshold without even a word.
It was a man, apparently, but that was all Aragorn could deduce. Stunned, he watched, as gloved hands reached for the hood that hid the face, but only pushed it back a little. Very rarely – if ever – anyone entered the King’s office as if they had the right to be there, and Aragorn was not sure he approved of this behaviour.
Nevertheless, he watched as the gloves were shed and carelessly dropped on the top of a small table near the doorway. He saw, and heard, heavy boots stamping – and he saw the mud sliding from them onto the floor. As the humble warmth in the office reached the cloak, steam began to rise from it eagerly.
Being ignored like this annoyed him, more than the mud and the hour ever could. He could remain quiet no longer and cleared his throat audibly. “Good evening,” he said dryly and completely without kindness.
The man stopped his moments briefly but then raised his hands again and this time, pushed the hood much further back. Aragorn stared straight into a pair of clear blue eyes.
“Evening, my lord.”
The voice was low but casual, and it stirred something deep within Aragorn. Shifting against the desk, he tried to look like someone who always received mysterious strangers who expertly ignored him.
When Aragorn did not speak, the man resumed his dealings with his clothes. The hood fell back some more and revealed wavy, copper coloured hair, somewhat dampened by the rain. The visitor had not shaved in some days it seemed so his chin and cheeks were stubbly. He unclasped his cloak and swung it off his shoulders, frowning at it as water fell to the floor in an intense shower of glistening droplets.
He looked in the direction of the fire and nodded towards one of the chairs at the desk. “Can I?”
Aragorn raised his eyebrows but made a remotely inviting gesture with one of his hands. “Of course.”
The man walked past him, holding his cloak away from himself. He draped it over the back of a chair and pulled his arrangement closer to the flames. As more steam filled the office, Aragorn found he had a hard time drawing his eyes away from the firm body that was obviously hiding beneath soiled leather breeches and a thick tunic and shirt.
He had to, though, when the door opened once more and Sam stepped through, carrying a tray with two earthenware cups and a carafe.
“There we are sire, sir,” he said to Aragorn as he put the tray down on the desk. “For you an’ master courier here. Was there anything else?”
Quickly covering up his surprise, Aragorn shook his head. “No, Sam. Thank you. I believe we’re all done for today.”
“Very well, then,” said Sam, giving a small informal bow. “I’ll leave the tray shall I? You give me shout if you think of anything. I’m no mile away.”
Aragorn nodded his thanks as his mind was busy examining the small piece of information he had received. The visitor had apparently introduced himself to Sam; it was highly unlikely that Sam would refer to the man as ‘master courier’ if they were old acquaintances.
He watched Sam leave and then turned to the ‘courier’.
The man was inspecting his boots, his hair falling before his face. Aragorn had a chance to eye him before he looked up. Tall and slim he was, but definitely strong. No warrior perhaps, but the hint of muscles beneath the fabric that clung to his body was enough for Aragorn. He had never much liked brutal soldiers anyway.
His pulse quickened just a little. He had been without lovers for a few months now and admittedly it was starting to get to him. Alright, that was not the entire truth perhaps. He was getting picky. Release he could find in his own hand even if it was not as good alone as with another. But then, he did not want just any man, did he? By the Gods, he was King – he could sweep into any tavern and find those who would willingly spend a night in his bed, but well… that was not his thing. Never had been. Never thought it would be.
But this man, this ‘courier’, was not unattractive. Far from it, actually. And one had to admire his courage.
The stranger’s eyes were raised and they settled on him. Aragorn drew himself up. At least he would attempt to treat this intrusion as something most inconvenient and unwished for.
“Shall I have to enquire about your errand?”
His words were met with a steady gaze. “If that pleases you, my lord.” He shrugged. “Or I could simply tell you that I carry some letters for you.”
Aragorn gave wry smile. “Are you not too old to be a courier boy?” Surely he was no less than thirty?
The man did not even blink. “Since you’ve surmised I am no boy, I take it you have already answered your own question, my liege.”
He waited for a reply but when Aragorn could think of none, he shrugged again and fished out a small stack of letters from an inner pocket in his cloak.
“They are from various, lesser noblemen in the Southwest, my father being one among them. They contain the usual pleadings for more money, I suppose.” He paused, but then added. “Their houses always seem too small for them.”
Aragorn looked at the letters and then at the man, curiously. He turned over some words in his mind, wondering what he could ask to not come across as prying. “You bring no word? Only these?”
“I suspect the letters speak well enough for themselves.” The man glanced at them with something akin to disgust in his blue eyes. “Well, if that’s all, I should be off. I need to find a room for the night.” He began fingering the cloak.
“Wait.” Aragorn thought fast. There was an eager voice in the back of his head hinting that if he let this man go now, he would never see him again. And he found that was not what he wanted. “What is your name?”
“Faramir son of Denethor, my lord.”
“Denethor? I do not believe I have heard of him?”
Faramir gave yet another small shrug as he ran his palm over the still soaked fabric. “No, I don’t think you would have.”
“And you are a courier?”
Again, the steady gaze settled on him. “I rode here with the letters. If that makes me a courier, then a courier I am.”
Fighting a sudden urge to scream, Aragorn exhaled slowly. His body clearly had other ideas though, for as the copper hair in front of him dried, it caught the light of the fire and glimmered, causing a thrill of excitement to chase down his spine. Wryly he thought to himself that if he had any say in this, there might be some screaming after all, later.
“So, Faramir son of Denethor, of whom I have heard nothing, which apparently is as it should be,” he mused, pleased to see a first twinkle in the blue. “Faramir the may be courier… My servant and secretary has brought us wine, and I think it would be a shame to waste it.”
“Can you not drink it all by yourself?”
Aragorn would not reply to that. He cast a doubtful look in Faramir’s direction and then proceeded to fill the cups.
The younger man’s hands left the cloak and accepted one of the cups, taking it by the rim and avoiding all physical contact with Aragorn. He did not drink, however. “Does a King know if there are any available rooms at the inn?”
“You are asking this King?”
“Since you are the only King around, yes my lord.”
Aragorn smiled against his will. “I do not know,” he admitted. “If you are denied, my seal on a piece of parchment should help you get one.”
‘Or you could stay with me,’ his mind charitably supplied.
Faramir raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead he drank slowly, his eyes never leaving Aragorn’s face.
The office was no longer as chilly as before. In fact, the steam still rising from the cloak helped to warm the air and the fire was crackling contentedly. Through the window-glass sifted the glows of the lanterns and the soft hues of torchlight seemed to help the temperature up too.
Setting the cup down upon the desk, Aragorn stepped back a little to allow his own cloak to flow more freely around him. He eased some of the heavy fabric off his shoulders, moving it to fall behind his back instead of covering him up. He stole a quick glance at his visitor and was able to confirm that eyes were intently following his every move.
No, this Faramir had not given any indications… Yet it was well worth a try.
“I must thank you for coming here in this dreadful weather. Will you not take a seat and relax while your clothes dry up a bit?” He waved in the direction of the chairs, which was absolutely needless since the office was small and the remaining three chairs plainly visible.
“I don’t wish to take up any more of your time, my lord,” said Faramir and lowered his cup as if meaning to put it down and taking his leave.
This time Aragorn’s smile was intentional. “Worry not. I won’t accomplish anything more tonight anyway. And frankly, I would like some company.”
“Then I must oblige.”
Aragorn was about to protest that the young man needed not to stay if he truly did not want to, but he immediately clamped his mouth shut when he saw the hint of a smile hover in the corners of Faramir’s lips.
In silence, they pushed two chairs nearer to the fire. Due to the fact that the size of the fire-place matched the size of the room, they ended up fairly close despite having arranged their seats opposite one another. Taking a long sip of his wine, Aragorn stared into the flames.
“So, my lord, what more can I do for you this evening?”
Aragorn carefully swallowed before he spoke, his mind happily providing several interesting options all at once. “Tell me about yourself.”
Faramir tilted his head to one side. “Tell you about myself?”
“Yes.” It was a safe way to enter into discussion, he figured.
His visitor stretched out his legs in front of him, brushing Aragorn’s as he moved. Ever so calmly, he smiled. “Forgive me, sire, but I hardly believe that’s what you want.”
Growing tense, Aragorn shifted uneasily. He made sure however, that he spoke coolly. “It is not?”
“No,” said Faramir, suddenly leaning forwards and causing a shiver of anticipation to race across Aragorn’s skin. “How about you tell me what you really want?”
He felt himself closing more of the distance. He let out a long breath and watched how it tickled that soft skin that he was so eager to kiss.
“You know,” murmured Faramir, “they say we have a King of steel. But I’ve seen passion burning in your eyes since I arrived.”
There was a melody in his low tones that Aragorn could not identify; it was different and it was alluring. He smiled a slow smile, increasingly drawn to the courage and the glowing gaze that rested on him. “Then I will not deny it.”
“What will you do, my lord?”
Aragorn felt the heat that flooded towards him, from the fire and from the man sitting in front of him. It was a heat that washed over him and through him; gradually his hold on reality seemed to slip away into the rain and the darkness outside. He breathed in that heat and desire flared through him.
“May I touch you?”Faramir inclined his head but his clear eyes were still trained on Aragorn’s face. “You may.”
He reached down and placed his cup on the floor, at a safe distance from their chairs. Without words, his guest did the same. Aragorn slid a hand along Faramir’s thigh, feeling the smooth leather that was slightly dampened by the rain. His fingers travelled further up and he sensed the curve of muscle underneath the fabric. He would take his time, this time, if he was allowed. A small, content sigh escaped Faramir as he continued his quest upwards. Halfway up, he began sliding his hand downwards again, circling the knee.
“Tease,” whispered Faramir. He leaned in and with a wet tongue tip he licked a single line along Aragorn’s lower lip.
Aragorn held back a tiny moan but sent his hand forth again, brushing the leather more firmly now. Instinctively Faramir parted his legs and Aragorn could not deny the invitation. His fingertips slid down lower and found the seam running along Faramir’s inner thigh. Holding his breath, he followed it nearly all the way up to the younger man’s groin and was rewarded with another sigh.
“Better?” he breathed against the mouth that was so close to his own.
His head swam as a second tentative swipe of Faramir’s tongue wet his lips. Needing more of that contact, Aragorn erased the distance between them and cautiously brushed against the full lips. Faramir did not pull away. His tongue searched for a way inside the King’s mouth and Aragorn slowly opened up. His hand stopped moving as he welcomed Faramir and tasted him for the first time. His own tongue slipped inside his visitor’s mouth and thousand sizzling sparks shot through him when Faramir sucked on it greedily.
“Is it presumptuous of me…” murmured Aragorn when they had drawn apart and he felt the tremors running through Faramir’s body, “to want you?” He focused his eyes with some difficulty and tried to breathe evenly. “Can I have you?”
Faramir gave a low chuckle. He lifted a hand and ran it through Aragorn’s dark hair. “You may have me in all ways but one tonight, my lord. I have ridden far in few hours and though I’m a good rider, I will be sore tomorrow.”
Aragorn nodded. He saw the sense in this, but he admitted to being a bit disappointed. However, it was impossible to give into that feeling when Faramir smiled suggestively.
“Tell me what you desire, King of Men.”
Aragorn’s eyes travelled down the young man’s slim body and made the decision for him. “Lean back and part your legs some more,” he instructed in a low voice, and as Faramir stared at him in shock, he sank to his knees before the young man. “I wish to taste you properly.”
Faramir fleetingly looked like he was about to protest, but when Aragorn’s fingers resumed their stroking of his inner thighs, he closed his mouth and did as he was bidden. As Aragorn slipped his hands underneath his tunic, though, he made an effort to speak his mind.
“My lord, should it not be I who–”
“No.” Aragorn cut him off, gently but effectively. He worked his hands underneath the tunic and found ways to push away the shirt as well. Soft, warm skin met his fingertips and he revelled in the touch, so nurturing and longed for. “You would object, seeing as I am King…” He probed the waistband of Faramir’s breeches, dipping beneath it and finding even warmer skin to explore. “But a King can give pleasure as well as taking it…” He winked. “Allow me to prove that.”
Faramir nodded. His blue eyes were wide and he did not let his head fall back.
Carefully Aragorn undid the laces, ever so often stopping to brush his palms against the growing bulge beneath the leather. It was a good long while ago that he had found an opportunity to switch positions; Faramir had presupposed, just like any lover of his automatically assumed, that Aragorn would be the one receiving this type of treatment.
“Watch me,” he said quietly, but one glance at Faramir’s face let him know that this suggestion was unnecessary. His new lover was indeed watching him, avidly, and with parted lips too. His breathing was shallow and almost inaudible. Aragorn could not help the smirk that settled on his lips. Yes, this was definitely a nice change.
He turned his attention back to the sweet task before him and slipped his hand inside the open breeches. A surge of lust took hold of him as he circled the semi-hard member and extracted it. He swiftly decided that if Faramir refused to give in to pleasure just because he thought their positions ought to be reversed, some persuasion was undeniably in order.
He heard the surprised gasp when he licked a wet line along the length. Utterly pleased with himself, he repeated the action, letting his tongue slide against the skin that was rapidly warming. He recognised the scent of wilderness that always clung to those who crossed the lands. He drank it in even as he dragged his tongue up and down the member that was now quickly swelling in his loose grip. A soft moan escaped his visitor and Aragorn’s confidence grew even greater.
Pulling back a little, he stroked the heated flesh and revealed the satin head. With the tip of his tongue, he gently massaged the dark slit at the top and was rewarded with a low groan. Faramir shifted in his seat and his hands found their way into Aragorn’s dark hair.
“Go on… please…” Faramir’s voice was husky but yet he did not sound completely convinced.
Aragorn would have snickered, but he did not. Instead, he bowed his head and opened his mouth, taking the slick head in his mouth. He firmly sucked as Faramir began responding in earnest, his hips thrusting upwards without much restraint. Desperate fingers tugged at his hair as he swallowed more and more of the throbbing length and skilfully pressed his tongue against it. He would not take it all inside his mouth right now as he knew he wanted Faramir hovering on the edge when that happened. Then something else occurred to him, another possibility, and he briefly slowed his movements.
The sacs beneath the young man’s erection were already heavy and with one hand he covered them and squeezed gently. Faramir gave another gasp and his hips flexed, serving Aragorn more of the delicious treasure that he was devouring. Caught up in the idea that had presented itself to him, Aragorn instinctively swallowed all he could get. This time, Faramir’s groan reverberated in the steamy air around them.
Aragorn’s head sank and rose, rose and sank as he sucked. He tasted the salty tang and licked it away, wishing to reach the flavour that was pure Faramir. Again, he teased the slit at the top and then bent down to take the full length in his mouth, easily forgetting his earlier intentions. Soft whimpers echoed in his ears and he realised he might be pushing too far too fast.
Letting the wet length slide from his lips, Aragorn replaced his mouth with his hand. He made sure he did not lose contact with his lover, but nevertheless he felt Faramir tense before him.
Aragorn pressed a kiss into the coarse hair that encircled the base of the straining erection.
“I wish to ask something of you.”
He looked up and was almost tempted to take his words back and resume his sucking. Faramir’s copper locks framed his flushed and painfully handsome face. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and there was a shine in them that nearly crushed Aragorn. He smiled, catching his breath.
“I would like you to do something.”
Faramir seemed to struggle for words as Aragorn licked his lips, tasting his lover again on himself.
“What, my lord?”
“I wish for you to feel me.”
Wording his thoughts, sent flashes of desire coursing through him and Aragorn suddenly noticed his own arousal, almost for the first time that night. He released Faramir’s manhood and rose to his feet, managing not to stagger as the hard wooden floor let him go.
His visitor made an enticing picture, fully clothed but for his erection that proudly arched out from his body. Aragorn stooped and caught the mouth before him with his teeth, alternately biting and tugging, reddening the flesh. Faramir’s hands had fallen to his waist but they did not draw him closer.
“Will you do that for me?” asked Aragorn against the swollen lips, desiring nothing else than an affirmative answer and the younger man’s hands on his groin.
“I will, my lord.”
More confidence than he had expected; he smiled. “‘Aragorn’ will do just fine,” he whispered hoarsely and flicked his tongue over Faramir’s lips.
Faramir broke the kiss and tilted his head backwards. His blue eyes were twinkling as they narrowed. “Yes, my lord Aragorn,” he smirked.
Aragorn meant to object but he was given no chance. A wet tongue delved deep into his mouth just as inquisitive hands left his waist and fearlessly pressed down hard on the bulge in his breeches.
Closing his eyes, he sharply exhaled, momentarily unable to kiss back. His breath was eagerly swallowed by Faramir. He steadied himself by placing both of his hands on his lover’s shoulders, feverishly wondering why he had not thought of cramming a bed into the office.
His laces were conquered and warm hands soon touched his arousal. Fingers explored the skin, fingertips teasingly drew patterns on the hot flesh and if this was enough to set his body aflame, Aragorn was afraid to think of what would happen when his body was breeched. He desperately kissed the lips before him and lost himself in that wet cavern that was Faramir’s mouth.
“Is this to your liking, lord Aragorn?” murmured Faramir as he pushed down Aragorn’s breeches further. He ran his hand over thighs and groin, fully exploring what was on display.
Aragorn’s eyes briefly fluttered open and he happened to glance downwards. Faramir’s own erection lay heavily upon his belly, a pale essence leaking from the top and wetting the tunic. “More,” he pleaded, but in a rough voice, fighting his eyes that wanted to drift shut once more.
He was not sure what Faramir was asking, but he did not care. As long as he was given more of this, he would never wish for anything else ever again. A jolt of pleasure shook him as the fingers left his hard length and slid lower. They paused to circle his globes and roll them experimentally before they continued their quest. When they brushed against the furled entrance to Aragorn’s body, he was ready to offer his soul to the Valar if they made sure nothing interfered with Faramir’s plans.
His pounding member was leaking also, aching to be touched. As if Faramir had read his mind, his fingers travelled back and with one hand he scooped up the liquid. He placed his other one securely on Aragorn’s hip and then he proceeded to increase the pleasure.
“Or maybe like this?”
Slick fingers slid between Aragorn’s rounded cheeks and found the opening again. The King of Men gasped as the first finger slid inside, expertly resisting the protest of muscle.
Aragorn’s head swam again and he was sure he swayed for Faramir’s hand on his hip strengthened its grip. Distantly he was aware of his back complaining, wanting to stretch and straighten, but he shoved the thought aside as he rocked backwards to impale himself on the single digit.
The slight burn accompanied the second finger but having been through this before, Aragorn dismissed that sensation also. Faramir leaned forwards, placing kisses wherever he could reach, biting and licking at any naked skin. The fingers twisted and stretched, slowly relaxing the muscles.
The throaty whisper sent a shiver across Aragorn’s skin.
Forcing himself to surface enough to think, Aragorn drew a long breath. The Pelargir office did not offer many alternatives.
“Against the desk.”
Faramir nodded and was about to enter a third finger, but Aragorn shook his head. “‘Tis enough. I want you.”
They rose unsteadily. A stray thought crossed Aragorn’s dizzied mind and he smiled weakly. They were almost the same height. He liked that. Faramir’s breathing was slow and deep and his eyes glazed. Feeling that he had somewhat neglected his lover needs, Aragorn embraced him and held him close for a moment, nearly managing to ignore the sizzling sensation that sped through him as their naked arousals pressed together.
Faramir wound an arm around him and returned the gesture. Rather quickly he stepped back though, his eyes seeking out the desk. A sudden sense of loss filled Aragorn but he shook it off and grinned as Faramir raised an eyebrow and smiled wickedly.
“After you, my lord Aragorn.”
Aragorn had never been filled so completely. When Faramir’s thick length slid past the first ring of muscle he involuntarily tensed. After all, it had been a while since he had let anyone take him – or since anyone had dared to ask, for that matter.
The younger man’s chest was draped across his back and strong arms held him securely. Aragorn’s cloak lay on the floor but they had not taken the time to divest themselves of any other garments. But he suspected that he would have been no cooler had he been undressed.
Faramir’s warm breath wafted across his neck. He arched backwards, seeking more contact, but his lover was being cautious: his erection slowly sheathing itself deep inside Aragorn’s body. A tremble shot through Faramir as he finally buried himself to the hilt within the hot darkness and Aragorn clearly felt it, shared it. Faramir slumped against him and left erratic kisses on his still clothed shoulder.
Aragorn tried to remember to breathe but it was not easy. His legs were quivering and he would not trust his arms for many minutes. Mindless of the stacks of documents on the desk, he held himself upright.
“Move…” he dazedly murmured, “please, Faramir, move…”
“I’ll not last… long,” Faramir pulled back a little, but drove back inside almost immediately. He buried his face in Aragorn’s hair as he began thrusting.
He plunged far into the channel and gave a strained chuckle as Aragorn gasped and then groaned as the head of Faramir’s length brushed his sensitive spot. It was a sensation that he had not experienced for far too long.
“Touch yourself,” begged Faramir as he once more drove into the willing body. “Aragorn, lord,” he added and placed one of his own hands on the desk for support.
Aragorn grasped his over-sensitised member, more than willing to do whatever Faramir asked of him. He did not know whether or not his lover could see him, but he imagined it to be so and he pleasured himself in front of beautiful blue eyes.
Faramir picked up speed and pushed forcefully into Aragorn. Already taut muscles tensed and Aragorn’s straining length pushed through his fingers rapidly in time with Faramir’s thrusts. He was leaking copiously, his body begging for release and he knew he would have to give in soon. He meant to meet every thrust but was far gone and Faramir himself seemed too lost in pleasure to keep a steady rhythm. Hips slammed against him, irregularly, but creating an oh so amazing feeling within Aragorn that all he could do was to give whatever he had. He heard groans falling from his own lips and he twisted his head to place kisses on Faramir’s stubbly cheek. Over and over again he was being filled, to the point where he actually thought he could take no more.
He had no warning other than a violent shudder. Faramir bit his shoulder hard to stifle the cry that wanted to escape his throat. His body shook behind Aragorn as he sent his release forth, forever marking the King’s insides with his essence.
Aragorn fervently wanted to kiss him, needed to kiss him full on the mouth, but he could not. He felt his own muscles contract and he too came, shooting creamy liquid through his fingers and staggering against the desk. He bit back a shout. Faramir was still inside him and Aragorn refused to move. He clung to the desk, his legs traitorously giving way and his lover sagged with him.
“Don’t,” he panted, fearing it was already too late.
Faramir’s harsh breathing was interrupted as he tried to speak. “What?”
Aragorn hung his head, forcing air into his lungs. “Leave.”
He felt the body above him stiffen and he already mourned the loss he knew would come. Faramir pushed himself upright and withdrew from Aragorn’s body.
“My lord?” He stepped away, his energy seeping back into his form.
With an enormous effort, Aragorn turned around. Not even for a split second did he consider covering himself up. There was but one burning notion in his mind.
Faramir was lacing up his breeches, his hair wild but he wore a guarded expression.
“I cannot issue an order,” Aragorn said quietly. “I cannot force you… but I do have sleeping quarters here and I wish you would stay with me.”
Gradually he became aware of his surroundings once more. The fire had died down a little but the rain and the winds were still assaulting the window-glass. Other than that, it was quiet.
Faramir’s gaze did not fall, but he turned away and walked over to the windows. He stood quiet for a while, appearing lost in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed to come from far away.
“I always meant to leave my home. Only… I never imagined I’d find myself in a position such as this one.” He paused. “I have no more business in the South,” he said at last.
Aragorn dared to speak. “Your father..?”
Faramir shook his head. “Nah, my father and I had a… falling out, shall we say. I no more wish to see him than he wishes to see me. It’s quite simple, really.”
Well, Aragorn knew all about complicated family relations; some of them were better off left in the past. “In three weeks, my secretary and I will return to Minas Tirith,” he said slowly, not sure how far he could push his luck. “You are welcome to join us.”
Faramir did not reply. He stood staring out the window while the fire cast waves of light on his fair hair. Aragorn swallowed, suddenly aware of the state he was in, but unable to reach for either breeches or cloak. He nervously watched the man across the room, glad that his tunic fell down far enough to at least cover his groin.
“You need a courier?” Faramir queried at last, finally breaking his stance and sending a questioning glance over his shoulder.
Aragorn gave a weak smile. “Not really. But then I am under the impression that maybe you aren’t one.”
It could have been a question. Faramir watched him intently. “Are you sure?”
Shaking his head, Aragorn shrugged. “I don’t really care, I think.”
Suddenly a grin was painted across Faramir’s features. “Then I won’t tell you. You shall have to figure it out.”
A spark of hope illuminated Aragorn’s heart at the words. “So you will stay?”
Now it was Faramir who shrugged, but much more carelessly. “Sure, I’ve always wanted to see the White City.”
Before Aragorn could word the disappointment that flooded through him, Faramir crossed the floor and came to stand very close. His blue eyes glittered and he gave a low laugh. One of his hands landed at Aragorn’s temple and he gently brushed away a stray strand of hair. “I will come with you to the City,” he murmured, placing a kiss on Aragorn’s lips. “I will come with you in the City, if you please…” Another kiss. “I’ll deliver as many letters as you wish… or not, as it may be.” A third kiss that turned into something more as Aragorn finally found his wits and responded to the touch.
“I quite like you…” Faramir smiled as the King wrapped his arms around him. “My lord, liege, sire, sir… Aragorn.”
The End (most likely)
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Laurel , name