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26 September 2008 | 3735 words
Disclaimer: All characters and places are Tolkien’s.
Summary: The steward has a visitor
For the “Anonymous” prompt on 50_darkfics
Many thanks to Iris for her help!!!!
He slipped quietly into the Steward’s chambers, smirking thankfully at the lack of guards, due to the festival in the city. Far below, in the streets of the city, people continued to celebrate the festival, singing and dancing by the moonlight. The music and laughter could be heard faintly even this far above in the citadel.
All the better. He would not want anyone disturbing him right now. He stepped through the darkness of the outer room, carefully making his way past the desk and chairs, and quietly pushed open the door to the bedchamber. The drapes in the large windows were open, letting in the whiteness of the moon, bright enough for his needs. The room was large and sparsely furnished. The Prince of Ithilien had few needs for himself and his chambers reflected that. There was a table, a large chair, a small hearth, and a large bed, where the Steward lay asleep now. He could see the outline of his body under the bedclothes.
He walked up to the bed, and glanced down at the occupant of the bed. The sleeping man lay curled on his side, covered to his chin with the thick bedclothes. Wayward strands of hair obscured his face.
He moved the hair off his face first, and stood by again, watching the sharp contours of the lean face for a few moments, making sure that Faramir had not been disturbed by his movements. The Steward continued to sleep. Then he pushed away the bedcovers, exposing the Steward’s upper body. Faramir wore a loose nightrobe of a thin material. He gently grasped the Steward by his shoulders and rolled him over onto his back, straightening out his legs. He stood back again to watch the Steward, observing the rise and fall of his chest. It seemed a little more rapid, but that, he felt, was to be expected from the potion he had slipped into the Steward’s drink earlier that evening.
When Faramir had excused himself from the feast, pleading tiredness, it had surprised no one. The Steward was known to overwork.
The potion would make him sleep undisturbed for some time yet.
He smirked and ran his fingers lightly over Faramir’s face, feeling the softness of the cheeks give way to the roughness over the jaw and chin. He ran his fingers over the full lips, and pressed down gently on the lower lip, before slipping his fingers into Faramir’s mouth, and running them lightly over his teeth. Then he ran his hands over his throat, and pressed lightly down at the hollow at the base of the throat.
He loosened the bindings of the nightrobe and rested his fingers lightly over the sharp contours of the Steward’s collarbone, contemplatively.
“Where should I start from, beautiful one?” he whispered softly, bending towards Faramir’s ear. The Steward’s warm breath wafted over his face. It only served to excite him more.
He shifted, and climbed onto the bed. He straddled the Steward’s legs, and pushed the nightrobe up his thighs slowly, observing their well-muscled shape. He pushed the robe further up, and could not resist a moan at the sight of the Steward’s limp penis resting in a bed of raven curls. His hand hovered uncertainly over it before he clenched his fist. Sighing he opened his fingers and laid his palm down on the Steward’s abdomen. He splayed his fingers against the flat stomach before curling his thumb into the navel. He ran his thumb lightly around the depression before pressing into it, hard. The Steward shifted in his sleep. He pressed in harder, and cocked his head sideways as the Steward’s legs twitched, and he shifted again. He released the pressure suddenly pulling his thumb away.
He pushed the nightrobe further up now, easily raising the Steward’s limp body until the thin cloth lay bunched up under his armpits. He sat back and observed the near nakedness of the young man on the bed. He was truly beautiful, slimmer in build than most of the others in court, yet clearly no less a warrior.
He ran his hands all over the lean chest, feeling the firm muscles. He ran over the short coarse hair and found his mouth going dry as his fingers brushed the Steward’s nipples. Faramir’s breathing seemed to become the slightest bit more rapid. He raked over one nipple lightly with a fingernail, and then did it again harder. The Steward let out a small moan, and shifted his head sideways, but did not wake.
He felt his own arousal hardening, and grunted softly. Outside the music had lessened. He had little time, he realised, cursing softly. Moving, he wrapped his fingers around Faramir’s limp penis and stroked it gently.
The Steward moaned softly. He let go of the hardening flesh, and shifting, parted Faramir’s legs as wide as he could. He slipped his hands under the firm buttocks, and ran his finger between them. Faramir was tight and dry, he realised as he slipped his finger in. He was no virgin, he knew, though he wondered how long it might have been since the young man had had a lover. He knew he had shared his bed with another, during the councils with the Rohirrim some days prior, but for a night or two, no more. It was a shame that a body like this should go untouched by him for as long. He used his finger to gently massage the entrance a little before pushing in further.
The Steward’s long legs twitched, and he let out a soft whimpering sound, eyes still closed. He smirked a little, and pushed his finger deeper into the Steward, working it through the tightness. He should have brought oil, he thought. This was bound to hurt. On the other hand, if it did hurt, the expression of pain mingled with embarrassment the steward would show each time he sat on the morrow ought to be amusing. He had seen him so earlier, those days prior. The Steward, he thought, could be needy enough at times, and if so, must be no stranger to rough lovemaking, especially of the kind Rohirric princes like to practise. He’d even seen him all those days ago, being taken over a stone table in his private gardens, long and hard. He’d hidden behind the trees and watched, and imagined himself in place of the Steward’s visiting lover, pounding harshly into the writhing body beneath.
He’d seen the glances the steward often gave him, when he thought he wasn’t looking, and the open want written in them never failed to stir his groin. It was unlikely though that Faramir would do anything about his need… he appeared to have a tendency to repress his own wants. All the better… he would wait longer, stoking that need, and then give the Steward what he wanted one day. And the Steward would finally be so pathetically grateful, he would do anything he was asked.
His finger was nearly up to the knuckle. The Steward shifted, splaying his legs further apart, bending one slightly at the knee. He smiled and slipped another finger in. He scissored the two fingers, widening the tightness, and grasped the Steward’s shaft with the other.
He felt himself harden almost uncontrollably at the feel of the warm hardness, and reminded himself with a groan that this was not the occasion. The potion had not been strong enough. The next time… he would make a stronger potion, have Faramir removed from the citadel, bind him and blindfold him. Then he would wait for him to wake, and then take him. He knew a wine cellar that would be perfect, the floor hard and cold. He could almost imagine how it would feel to thrust into the steward, filling up his tight, dry passage, pounding him into that hard floor.
He pulled his fingers roughly out of the steward and swiftly undoing his own robes grabbed his hardness. He leaned over Faramir and rubbed against him. It took little time.
When he was done, the Steward lay, still sleeping his shaft limp now and his lower body sticky with release. He pulled the nightrobe down and slipped out of the room.
At the council the next morning, Faramir tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, and winced as he shifted a little. The chairs in the council room had been changed and these were harder than the usual ones, he noted, groaning silently. He must still be little sore after his in the gardens the week before.
“Not enough sleep last night, eh?” The Haradric envoy next to him asked pleasantly, “Was it the music that kept you up, or a bad dream, or something else. Or perhaps I should say, someone else?” he smirked.
“No, I slept well enough,” Faramir muttered, “And dreamt well enough too.”
“If you’ve finished dreaming now, Lord Faramir, perhaps we can begin the council.”
Faramir turned, a little stiffly, to see his king walk in and sit on the chair next to his. Elessar glanced at him; his face expressionless, and then raised an eyebrow as though in question.
Faramir started a little and reddened the slightest bit, “Yes, Sire, “ he murmured, and clearing his throat, leant forward, but his lip slightly and began addressing the council. Aragorn leaned back in his large chair and watched as Faramir winced almost imperceptibly, while leaning forward. He observed the way the neck and back stiffened, and the slim fingers tightened just a little, and smirked inwardly.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Iris , Sady , dream.in.a.jar , DIDI!