Faramir Fiction Archive

Negotiation (R)

Written by Minx

11 October 2007 | 2181 words

Title: Negotiation
Author: Minx
Pairing: Faramir/OMC, Aragorn
Rating: R
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters and places are Tolkien’s
A/N: Many thanks to Iris for her help!

Written for the ‘Gleam’ prompt on 50_darkfics

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“You have come here to ask me to reconsider?” the older man said, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair. He sighed and continued after the briefest of pauses, “On such a fine day as this while others revel in the pleasant weather, only you would come by to talk of such matters as work or politics.”

His eyes gleamed almost unpleasantly as his gaze raked the young Steward’s lean frame from head to toe.

Faramir gave him a stony look. He’d remained standing, near the open window, and so he found himself glancing away, out into the open courtyard below, discomfited by the intrusive look.

The older man sighed again, and putting away the document he’d been reading, rose.

“I could reconsider I suppose,” he said thoughtfully.

Faramir turned back towards him, his surprise at such an easy capitulation clearly evident on his face, despite his efforts to school his features into indifference. If the councillor were to reconsider it would resolve so many problems. He opened his mouth to speak, wondering if he had wronged the older man in his judgement, for perhaps the war had changed him too, but he was interrupted.

“For a price, of course.”

Faramir shook his head slightly. No, he had not wronged the older man, who had clearly not changed at all, unless for the worse. Surely even he could not expect to be rewarded for reconsidering a decision he ought never to have taken.

“Yes, I know you will tell me there is no price. But… I wonder…” the older councillor started softly, his gaze cool and appraising, as he moved closer to Faramir, “I could reconsider and that will bode very well for your king, I feel, will it not? If I do not, the king’s situation can only be described as troublesome.”

The uneasiness was clear on Faramir’s face.

“So let me ask you this… what would you , Lord Steward, do for your king?” the tone was soft yet loaded with meaning, and slightly mocking, a smile touching the eyes now, as the councillor moved forward.

The words and movement got the desired result. A look of panic flashed through the Steward’s face.

The older man reached out a hand and ran his finger over Faramir’s jaw, “I can see that proposition has you a little interested.”

The Steward flinched very slightly before straightening and gritting his teeth, causing the councillor to smirk.

“Would you stand back and let me do this?” he said smiling, and gripping Faramir’s chin lightly, lifted his face up to meet his. He pressed his lips down on Faramir’s swiftly, and pulled the Steward closer, his hand slipping down to grasp the younger man’s waist, even as his other hand caught his wrist swiftly.

Faramir felt the cold lips on his, and then rough hands grasped his waist, pulling him forward, even as his lips were forced apart by an insistent tongue. His flailing wrists were caught up in a firm grip and pressed against his back, a belt swiftly wound around them tight. Fingers pressed into his stomach, the knuckles sharp and painful as they dug into his skin. He felt a familiar panic assail him as he struggled against the overpowering grip. His lungs were beginning to ache.

And then he was let off, pushed back against the wall and held in place there, shocked by what had just transpired, even as he breathed heavily gasping short bursts of air, hands still caught up behind his back, the soft skin of his wrists abrading against the rough stone of the wall. Cool air swirled into the room, the autumn winds fluttering through the curtained windows of the older man’s study, and Faramir began to struggle to free himself again.

“What would you do for your king? I hear you would do anything? Especially if it were to be for a matter as critical as this?” continued the older man, his voice as silken and as soft as the callused hands were rough against Faramir’s skin. Faramir stopped struggling at that, even as the long wrinkling fingers were placed on his tunic.

His tunic was swiftly loosened to expose his chest, and fingers ran over his upper body. His nipples were pinched until they stood stiff and as red as his flushed cheeks, bright against the pale skin of his torso. Then his pants were lowered, tugged swiftly down over his hips and then pushed lower down to his thighs, exposing his groin to cool air and the hungering eyes. He felt the hands rove his groin and cup his limp member. He tried to step back, alarmed at the touch to the sensitive skin, hitting his back and still bound hands against the cold stone of the wall. The fingers around him tightened, causing him to gasp.

“For your king,” the councillor said softly and slowly, as he began squeezing the limp flesh lightly. Skilful fingers massaged the soft flesh gently yet swiftly, kneading it into hardness, even as Faramir tried to fight off the intense waves that assailed his lower body. He felt his groin tighten, despite himself and let out a soft whimper as the fingers suddenly pinched the tip of his swelling shaft.

Faramir was breathing heavily now, trembling slightly, as the stroking ministrations continued, wearing down his resisting body. He was lowered limply onto the hard floor on his back, legs nudged apart to expose him completely to the gleaming eyes and spit slicked fingers of the older man. The older man continued stroking his aching need even as he entered him, with no more than spit to ease his way, his gaze still upon Faramir’s face, his bright grey eyes locked into the young Steward’s leaden, pain-clouded eyes.

“For your king,” he kept repeating as he thrust repeatedly into the younger man’s tightness, his lips forming the words slowly, “For your king.”

When Elessar heard that the councillor had reconsidered after Faramir had spoken to him, he was surprised but glad. The older man must have mellowed with age he thought, amused. Or perhaps, he thought not without some pity, the war had changed him too. Whatever the cause he was glad. Faramir was clearly an asset as a diplomat.

When, a month later, the older man wrote to him with an objection over the treaty with Harad a few days before the council met to debate it, Aragorn could think of none who could speak to him and explain how their position stood, other than Faramir.

Part 2

Written for the ‘Lust’ prompt on 50_darkfics

“You have come here to ask me my views on the new amendments in the trade agreement have you not?” the councillor asked, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair, watching the other man with a slightly amused look.

The other man, standing by the window, spoke in soft, measured tones, “You have in the past often raised certain …ahh… views on various issues that may not perhaps be, let’s say… concurrent with the views of others.” He turned and studied the wall opposite him with seemingly great interest. An ante chamber lay on the other side, and the wall between the two rooms had a stretch of latticework in the bricks, shaped as a flowering wine. It was good workmanship.

He turned back to see the councillor smirking. It was not a very pleasant expression.

“I am sure your views will be very interesting,” the other man said, after a pause.

“My views may also concur with yours,” the councillor said pleasantly, and smirked again as he watched the other man’s visage.

He controlled his expression perfectly, but a momentary surprise flickered in his eyes at the words.

“For a price,” the councillor said very softly.

The other man looked directly at him, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“The price had been paid on earlier occasions, Sire,” the councillor murmured.

Aragorn started at that. A price? He had been unaware of this. Surely Faramir would not have…

“A price?” he frowned, feeling a little angered that his Steward had taken such a decision and not consulted him.

“In kind,” the councillor replied, “And I would willingly partake of such again.”

“In kind?”

“Aye, I have some needs that must be satisfied after all. Your young Steward satisfied my needs greatly,” he could see the realisation sink into the king’s eyes, as he moved forward, inching closer to his almost scowling king.

“You forget yourself, my lord!” Aragorn snapped, angered and disgusted by the gleam in the older man’s eyes.

“You misunderstand me, Sire,” the councillor replied calmly, “We are near of an age, and I find that interests me little. I much prefer the younger price I have availed of earlier.”

Aragorn stepped back, feeling even more disgusted now.

The councillor continued on merrily, “He was quite a find, and I enjoyed myself greatly.”

Aragorn looked furious now.

“And he looks very fine indeed. You might scowl all you like, my king, but if you were to see Faramir naked….”

Aragorn had seen Faramir naked.

“Ah, but you have?” the councillor observed for Aragorn’s visage had betrayed the direction his thoughts had taken, “Ahh… at the houses of healing it must have been? There were some fine tales oft repeated on how you healed him? Faramir’s lack of clothing then is a necessary feature in all of them.”

Aragorn shifted back uneasily at the rush of images in his mind – Faramir lying on the pallet, his body slicked with sweat and flushed from the fevered heat. As the fevers had wracked the young Steward, he had moved constantly, arms and legs shifting restlessly, pushing aside blankets and exposing more and more of his body to Aragorn’s curious eyes.

The Steward had been thinned of frame by the fever, but he could make out his slim archer’s build. He could remember well now the well-muscled shoulders, giving way to a tapering chest and stomach, the long curve of his back as he’d curled into himself, giving way to the rounded curve of firm buttocks, long, tapering legs, and between them soft, pale skin in a bed of raven curls. He had felt his groin stir at the sight, and even now as he remembered it, he could feel a tightness in his lower body. He loved Arwen but Faramir’s sweat wracked, writhing, nakedness had stirred something else entirely inside of him.

The councillor was watching him patiently, “He was rather fine to look at wasn’t he? Such smooth, lovely skin, and that beautiful back! And that mouth! Extremely talented! Those lips pout so perfectly when I enter him!”

Aragorn tried desperately to maintain a lack of expression showing through on his face.

“He’s as tight each time,” the councillor continued, running his tongue over his lower lip, “I’ve had him writhing under me like a practised whore in moments. I like to hurry things a bit the first time round… even his tears add to his looks.”

Aragorn could well agree to that. He had met Faramir when the younger man had been in the houses of healing, and held him close as he’d cried in his arms, bewildered by the sudden loss of so many he held dear, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead in the war. He had felt the tears soak through the rough fabric of his tunic, even as his arms had enclosed the thin frame, covered in no more than an extremely thin nightshirt that barely managed to cover Faramir’s decency, and he had felt more than a little moved.

He let out a deep breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, and glanced at the councillor’s hungering eyes. The man was extremely old, and the thought of him and Faramir…. he shook his head and thought of Faramir alone – of the thin, naked, frame, legs spread apart, bucking up to meet rapid, painful thrusts, each more forceful than the previous one, chest heaving, his back curved in a painful arch. He thought of the wide eyed look that would be on the Steward’s face, the perfectly shaped pale pink lips hanging open.

“Well?” the councillor interrupted his thought.

“Very well,” Aragorn found himself saying, “I shall send Faramir to you, you may make your request.”

“And for you, Sire?”

“You will seek your price here. Use the floor or the table for Faramir,” he continued, his mouth feeling strangely dry.

The councillor waited.

“I shall require the use of the ante-chamber when Faramir visits you.”

If he had it calculated correctly, through the eye of the flower would give him a clear view of Faramir, whether the younger man was stretched out on the floor or the huge study desk with the councillor pounding rapidly into him.

“Very well, sire,” the councillor replied smiling.

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