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.

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