Faramir Fiction Archive

Negotiation (R)

Written by Minx

11 October 2007 | 2181 words

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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