Faramir Fiction Archive

The Usefulness of History (NC-17)

Written by Geale

16 March 2010 | 7111 words

Title: The Usefulness of History
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Summary: There is a feast going on in the Tower. Aragorn is in a good mood and somebody needs to properly appreciate history before the future is fully embraced. Oh… this is really nothing but a poor excuse for me to get the boys together. I have stolen the plot from my own A/L work Author’s Notes since the idea was never fully explored there. How does that relate to the disclaimer?
Warnings: Slash (what’s new?) and a disrespectful conduct towards historical artefacts. Don’t read if that is likely to upset you.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien except for the cousins Fenaron and Ueran which are my very own inventions. The former has two, three lines and the latter none. See why I was not the author of LotR?

A/N: I got so depressed while writing ‘Mist’ that I had to put them in a happier context. Set in the same angst free universe as ‘The Glove and the Boredom’. As in that one, let’s pretend Aragorn needs no wife and heirs, and no one cares who the King loves and shares his life, bed and other things with. And just because I wanted him to stay, Gandalf has not left Middle-earth yet.

Enjoy!

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The Usefulness of History

Laughter was rising towards the high ceiling in the Tower Hall. A dozen voices combined – and another dozen, and maybe more. Faramir hung his long woollen tunic over the back of his chair and grinned.

“So you still have a few left?”

His small friend nodded eagerly. “And then there is dessert!”

“Aye, we had best not forget dessert,” said Faramir as he smoothed out the creases in his shirt. His eyes instinctively scanned the crowd but he did not find what he was searching for.

Pippin pushed a few sad looking pieces of cabbage around his plate. “There is nothing as heartbreaking as dessert being forgotten.”

“Oh?” Faramir’s hand went back to his tunic. “No?”

“No. It is truly lamentable.”

Raising his eyebrows, Faramir glanced down at the hobbit questioningly.

“The Tale of Years.“ Pippin waved his fork around in the air in an extravagant fashion. “Writing that has Merry and me learning all sorts of new words. ‘Tis quite delightful, actually. Makes you feel rather like dear old Bilbo himself, if you see what I mean.”

He smiled, “I can imagine.”

Not since the coronation had Faramir seen such a big crowd gathered in the Hall. The throne itself was shoved into a dark corner and some clever soul had thrown a heavy coverlet over it so that no guest accidently found themselves seated in it. Not that the King was likely to care but that was talk better conducted in private. It was not necessary for the people of Middle-earth to know that the Lord of the Reunited Lands once or twice had actually considered replacing the ancient artefact with something ‘more comfortable’. And when Faramir, Steward of Gondor, had protested against this breach with History, he had effectively been informed of the consequences of crossing his King.

Colour would still seep into Faramir’s cheeks as he recalled Aragorn’s threat-bordering-on-promise from a few nights before, even though no one was around now who could possibly know.

“Faramir?”

“Hmm?”

“You seem awfully attached to that tunic,” said Pippin matter-of-factly, pointing the fork towards him.

He glanced down at his hand clutching the fabric. “Right.” He smiled. “It is a nice tunic, I like it.”

Pippin shook his head. “Big folk,” he muttered. “When do you reckon they will serve dessert anyway?”

Faramir pulled out the chair and sat down. “Not happy with the cabbage?”

“Well,” Pippin appeared to study the remnants of his meal in detail, “I am not saying it was not nice, you know…”

“But?”

Pippin looked up at him with a grave face. “You do not go roasting cabbage, Faramir.”

Biting his lip shard to keep from laughing out loud, Faramir tried a sympathetic nod. “Next time we should send you down to the kitchens in advance to ensure that things are prepared adequately. I am quite certain there are some Shire traditions that would be heartily embraced in Gondor.”

“And ‘tis no wonder they should be!” Pippin lit up at once. “Not that we mind roasting our foods, mind you, but for that we reserve the taters and leave the cabbage out of it.”

“Sounds wise to me,” said Faramir. He reached for what looked like an unused glass and the pitcher of wine that was closest. In the wild firelight the red liquid shone like molten jewels.

Sipping his wine, he once more ran his eyes over the crowd. He recognised a handful of former rangers, a few guards on leave tonight, and a few who were not, and innumerable envoys and ambassadors. Only Pippin and Mithrandir from among his close friends were here as this was a feast held to impress and remind any moody neighbours of Gondor’s capacity. Neither Éomer King of Rohan nor the brethren of Rivendell needed to be impressed though in the case of the former, some moodiness had been detected.

Although actually invited to spend several weeks in Minas Tirith, Pippin thoroughly enjoyed being the sole representative of the Hobbit lands even though he was momentarily upset by the handling of the cabbage, and Mithrandir was currently nowhere to be seen – much like the King himself. Faramir could not stop the small sigh that left him and then he must chide himself for he really had no reason for feeling lonely.

With a conscious effort he took a larger swallow of his wine and then leaned forward. “Dessert will be served as soon as everyone has finished the main course.”

“Well that is hardly a surprise,” said Pippin, shooting him a glance as if he were of lesser intelligence than a wine barrel. “In any case, I was thinking of trying the chicken.” He pushed his chair back with some determination. “That fine fellow from…” he scratched his chin thoughtfully, “from, yes, Ethring I believe – is that its proper name? – liked that dish in particular and he highly recommended it!”

“Ethring, yes, near the Ringló Vale,” nodded Faramir. “Go on then – before they clear the tables.”

Pippin winked at him and then disappeared in the crowd, plate in hand and cabbage probably flying.

Faramir finished his wine and decided that since he was now left to his own devices he had two choices: either he could drink alone or he could find someone who might consider joining him.

He wove his way through the mass of people, took a sharp turn around a round table staggering under a load of more wine and passed by one of the hearths in which a huge wood-fire was blazing. Constantly his eyes were searching for that one form he was quite intent on finding. He neatly avoided crashing into the ambassador of Dol Amroth who had had just a little too much to drink and he got away with smiling brightly at a group of rangers and none of them called him over to join them.

Despite the raging winter winds outside he was glad he had pulled off his tunic. His boots were too warm but after coming back inside he had given himself no time to go and change.

Spinning around, he finally spotted the person he had wanted to talk to since then. The King of Gondor was engaged in conversation with a couple of broad-shouldered, bearded men that looked like no winter storm could ever push them off their feet. One, Faramir recognised from the council that morning, but the other one, with hair and beard matching the colour of the flames in the hearths, he had never seen before.

Faramir pushed forward and slid through two separate groups of Gondorians that just happened to stand so close to each other that they were in his way, while he mumbled his excuses. He ran his hands through his hair and tried to smooth it down as he approached the King and his company.

Aragorn was laughing and the sound sent warmth swirling through Faramir’s stomach. It had taken less coaxing than expected to get their ruler to dress this elegantly and Faramir was the first to admit that the result was striking. The blue hue of his shirt brought out the shimmer in his grey eyes and his black leggings fitted snugly… Faramir averted his gaze briefly and tried to collect his thoughts.

He stepped up to the small group and cleared his throat.

“My lord?”

Aragorn’s eyes turned to him and their brightness was accompanied with an equally bright smile. “Faramir! I wondered where you had disappeared to.”

He slid an arm around the Steward’s waist and gestured to the two men. “This is Fenaron of Linhir and his cousin Ueran.” He nodded at Faramir. “My marvellous Steward,” he grinned.

Faramir greeted the two men and was able to resist raising an eyebrow at Aragorn. It was a rare thing to see his King so exuberant in public.

“We met at the council, I believe,” Fenaron of Linhir said in a deep, rumbling voice which fitted his appearance perfectly and Faramir inclined his head.

They spoke for a while longer, avoiding politics and instead sharing knowledge about the lands and harmless comments about the weather. Aragorn began to idly stroke Faramir’s side and the younger man found it hard not to squirm. The King knew all too well which parts of his body that were the most sensitive and he usually took great delight in exploring them. Unfortunately, he was also deeply acquainted with the areas where Faramir was most ticklish.

“Oh, quite right,” said Fenaron and then proceeded by describing the contents of a report that apparently had been sent to Minas Tirith a month earlier but which Faramir was not able to recall at present. His cousin stood silent by his side, but his brown eyes were full of intelligence.

“We shall look into that,” Aragorn promised while he gave a small tug at the shirt Faramir wore. His hand slid down to rest upon his hip. “And if we have any grain to spare, which I am sure we do, we will send you some as soon as the storm has quietened down.”

The men of Linhir looked sufficiently pleased and turned to each other in deliberation. Faramir caught Aragorn’s eye and could finally arch his eyebrows.

“How much have you had to drink?” he murmured.

Aragorn swiped his palm against his backside and his eyes glittered. “What are you accusing me of?”

Unable to resist, Faramir nestled closer. “Linhir is a thriving city… You are being very generous.” He almost mouthed the words as he gave a minuscule nod in the two men’s direction. “Not to mention uncharacteristically gregarious,” he teased.

Aragorn’s hand gave one of his buttocks a light slap. “I am a wonder of sociability,” he stated.

Faramir snorted, nearly forgetting where they were. “Since when?”

“Sire,” Fenaron gave a small bow, “we shall leave you to entertain your other guests. Thank you for your generous offer.”

Aragorn waved them off with a wide smile but as soon as they were alone, he turned his full attention to Faramir and pulled him close. “Where have you been all night?” he queried, renewing his hold on Faramir’s waist with both his arms this time.

“I ended up discussing trade with an envoy from Lamedon – on the balcony.” Faramir pressed into his lover and smiled. “We reached a fair deal – you will be pleased in the morning.”

“I am pleased now,” smirked Aragorn as he caught the younger man’s lower lip between his teeth. He nipped at it before pushing his tongue into Faramir’s mouth and sliding it against its counterpart.

Faramir met the wet heat eagerly, opening up further. He flicked his own tongue over the soft silk of Aragorn’s lips and then let the older man explore every corner of his mouth freely. His hands were resting at the base of Aragorn’s spine.

“Mmm…” His lover and sovereign placed a kiss in the corner of his mouth. “Very nice.” One more kiss. “Why were you on the balcony?” He pulled back. “I hope you wore more than this!”

Faramir smiled and licked his lips. “Yea, tunic, coat, cloak, everything I own.”

“Good.” Aragorn bent down and suckled at the soft skin just beneath his earlobe. “Must have been tricky with the boots…” His murmur sent ripples of heat through Faramir’s body.

“Hmm?” His eyes were drifting close and he was going supple in the embrace.

Aragorn’s lips slid down the soft skin and he left a trail of wet kisses behind. “You own more than one pair of boots, love…”

“Oh,” was all Faramir could manage as Aragorn nuzzled his neck and hands began running up and down his thighs. He pressed a kiss to Aragorn’s cheek and let his lips linger there, brushing over smooth skin and then over the dark stubble. He felt the King’s body respond and he gave a tiny moan as the evident hardness was pressed against his thigh. “Should we leave?”

“I think that is a remarkably good idea!” said a deep voice behind him.

He let go of Aragorn who did not let go of him but at least he could twist around enough to lay eyes on Mithrandir standing not three feet away. The Wizard had his arms crossed over his chest and his blue eyes were twinkling with badly concealed glee despite the stern face he was presenting. Colour crept into Faramir’s face as he once more became aware of the guests swarming around them.

“No one minds that the King and the Steward of Gondor are comfortable together,” said Mithrandir, “but people need only so much proof after all.”

“Ah, well you might have a point old friend,” grinned Aragorn, showing no remorse whatsoever. He planted a kiss at Faramir’s temple. “We got carried away.”

“You do not say,” remarked the Wizard dryly. “You will be happy to know that so far there have been no complaints, though.”

“If there are, I shall deal with them personally and at once!” Aragorn answered him. “And no one shall ever doubt my affection for my Steward ever again.”

Faramir’s cheeks darkened further and he glanced around the Hall. “Aragorn…” he muttered.

Mithrandir let out a booming laugh that more than anything drew attention to them. “The Minas Tirith of today has little in common with the one that was the centre of Gondor for many long and shadowed years,” he said. “And that is, if you will listen to an old fool, a good thing.”

Aragorn tightened his hold on Faramir’s waist once more. “I must thank you, Gandalf, for convincing me that the pursuit of my destiny was not such a bad thing after all.” He leaned in and pressed a warm kiss to Faramir’s mouth. “In fact, the outcome is highly delightful.”

Torn between wanting to instinctively deepen the kiss and fleeing their audience, Faramir managed to do neither. Still with burning cheeks he muttered something under his breath that Aragorn did not catch.

Chuckling, Mithrandir shook his head. “I believe I have embarrassed your young lover enough so I shall leave.” He winked at Faramir. “Drag him out of here, I advice you, or you shall find yourself more stared at than I think you may wish.”

He was neatly swallowed up by the crowd and Faramir turned back to the King. He was about to speak, to say that he was already stared at enough, when Aragorn kissed his flushed cheeks and then his mouth.

“We really should…” Faramir tried before he must yield to his lover as he was pressed firmly against him and kissed thoroughly.

“Mmm… we really should find a dark corner…” mumbled Aragorn against his mouth. He circled his hips, somewhat discreetly at least, and his arousal nudged Faramir’s thigh.

The Steward tried to hold on to the air in his lungs. “We have a bed,” he said and then gasped as Aragorn’s fingers briefly dipped beneath the waistband of his leggings. He felt his stomach twist as the fingertips traced a burning trail on his naked skin.

“We do,” smirked Aragorn. “But I have someplace else in mind.”

Abruptly he was more or less released and Faramir found himself pulled through the crowd. Aragorn’s hold on one of his hands ensured they stuck together but that was about it. He dodged a servant’s tray held high and he almost stumbled over a bench that had ended up far from the main tables. He thought he spotted Pippin but someone blocked his vision and then there was a roaring fire to his left. Aragorn threaded through the guests, occasionally throwing out a word or two in some direction and Faramir tried his hardest to look dignified and like he knew what was happening.

Near the edge of the crowd, Aragorn slowed his pace and caught Faramir in his arms. Pushing the younger man ahead of him, he did indeed make for a dark corner far from the buffet and wine. As the lack of light enfolded them in shadow, Aragorn pressed up against him and dropped his mouth to Faramir’s neck. The royal hands skimmed over his chest and down past his heart, continuously travelling further downward. Faramir sank back against the broad chest and could not help the moan that the roaming hands and questing mouth drew from him.

He heard Aragorn chuckle as he was steered deeper into shadow and suddenly hands were dancing over his groin and found the growing bulge in his leggings. They hit the wall gently and Faramir thankfully fell against it, relying on it for support as blood was pooling in the centre of his body. Aragorn’s stubbly chin rubbed against his neck as the older man pushed at the shirt to find more skin. His hips gave a small forward thrust and his hardness was pressed into Faramir’s backside. A groan caused a shiver to race across Faramir’s skin and he pushed back instinctively, earning another thrust in return.

“Willing, hmm?” murmured Aragorn in his ear and this time his hand cupped the hardness in Faramir’s leggings.

“Want you,” Faramir groaned as he bucked into the hand.

Aragorn stroked the straining fabric. “I will have you, love, soon…” he rasped. “Just…”

He deftly undid the lacings and then his fingers wrapped around Faramir’s heated flesh. The younger man moaned and braced himself against the wall, bringing his arms up to support his head. Aragorn’s soft lips descended once more on his neck and sought a way to push his hair aside and kiss the skin he found there. Quivering with anticipation, Faramir must swallow a groan as the hand that held him finally slid up and then down his length. He wished he could have Aragorn inside him this very second, but as soon as that thought assailed him he remembered where he was and a wave of panic caused him to stiffen and raise his head. “Aragorn…”

“Hush, love… no one will see us… No one cares. Close your eyes…”

The King urged him to relax by beginning to stroke in earnest, sweeping his thumb over the slit and sliding down expertly. Faramir had no choice but to comply and as desire quickly mounted he forgot his surroundings. His pushed into the hand and Aragorn spread the first drops of wetness over the satiny skin, easing the friction. Faramir bit down on his own arm as Aragorn’s other hand coaxed him to spread his legs a little so that he might run questing fingers down the insides of his things. Aragorn tugged on his length, continued to swirl his thumb over the tip and then, with his other hand, brushed against the sacs resting beneath it. Faramir squirmed in Aragorn’s embrace and silently pleaded for more. A few keening moans he could not stop escaped him, but he fervently tried to stay as quiet as possible.

When Aragorn picked up speed, warmth began to build along his spine, shooting tingles of heat to his groin. He lost control of his hips and rhythmically pushed into Aragorn’s hand which happily accepted him. A new swirl of the thumb, and then Aragorn’s fingertips traced the vein that ran down the length of his member. Faramir gasped for air, his own ragged breathing blending with Aragorn’s muttered encouragements.

The King’s hips thrust forward and he rubbed his own arousal against Faramir’s backside. He left a few open-mouthed kisses just beneath the younger man’s ear and then Faramir shuddered as he felt a wet tongue tip trace a circle in the same spot. With a few forceful strokes, he was pushed against the edge and Aragorn’s hips thrust against him in a shameless display of obvious want. Kisses were randomly scattered on his neck as Aragorn pumped his member and Faramir met his thrusts with his own erratic backward ones.

“I…” he groaned as a warning before his body convulsed and his hot release coated Aragorn’s hand and good deal of the stone wall too. He sagged against it and Aragorn’s body covered his own, one hand still holding his still throbbing length and the other stroking his belly and hips.

His breathing came in shaky gasps as Aragorn nibbled at his earlobe. The King’s own breaths, somewhat erratic too, were hot waves caressing his cheek and Faramir found himself suddenly smiling dazedly.

“This should not happen here…” he mumbled, turning his head to the side and earning himself a kiss.

“You are right.” Aragorn tucked his softening length back into his leggings and made quick work of lacing them up. “I want you, but not here.” He pressed against Faramir, the bulge in his own leggings demanding attention. “Come.”

He dragged Faramir upright and steered him along the wall. All the while his hands roamed Faramir’s chest.

“We could…”

“No, I will have you now. Here.”

A large angular bundle of darkness greeted them and before Faramir had grasped exactly what it was, Aragorn had reached around him and tugged down a heavy coverlet that slid to the floor with a muted sigh. Somewhere behind them music began playing and there was laughter once more ascending towards the ceiling.

Aragorn ran his hands down Faramir’s sides, hips and thighs. “Right here…”

Faramir stared at the item before them. “This is the throne of Gondor,” he hissed. “We cannot…”

“Oh, yes we can.” Aragorn caught his mouth in a searing kiss before he spun them around so that he was the one closest to the throne. “I am King of Gondor so this is my rightful seat…”

He slid into it and stretched out his legs so that Faramir must either step aside or come to stand between them, which, in the end, he chose to do.

Aragorn smirked and pushed his shirt up to reveal the prominent bulge in his leggings. Faramir found himself staring as his lover stroked a palm over his own hardness. He watched as Aragorn unlaced his leggings and freed his hard flesh. He stepped a little closer, his own hands, on their own volition, quickly undid his own lacings and then started to push the fabric down his hips.

Wetting his lips, Aragorn reached out for him and pulled him as close as he might. Faramir’s knees collided gently with the wood.

“And when in my designated seat,” Aragorn continued murmuring, “no one would begrudge me the presence of my Steward, with whom I work so…” with his hands he coaxed Faramir to turn around and then he pushed down the leggings further, “intimately…” He placed a kiss to the base of Faramir’s spine.

“You can sit here…” With that, he pulled the younger man down onto his lap.

Faramir’s head was spinning. Aragorn was about to take him here and he was not objecting. He leaned back, rejoicing when he managed to rub against the King’s exposed arousal and smiled at the gasp. “Enjoying history?” he teased.

“Mhm, very much.”

Suddenly he was pushed forward and quickly licked fingers were probing his entrance. His body knew well how to adjust but the initial intrusion had him tensing up for just a moment nonetheless. Aragorn leaned against him and hummed soothingly. The first finger soon slid inside easily and Faramir drew a deep breath, the promise of more pleasure to come awakening sparks of delight in his stomach.

“Okay, love?” murmured Aragorn as he slid the finger out and then back in.

“Okay…” Faramir’s head fell forward heavily.

“Only ‘okay’?” Aragorn curled the finger, expertly finding the bundle of nerves within Faramir’s velvet heat.

The Steward of Gondor bit back a sharp cry and pushed down on the finger. “More…”

There was a good portion of self-satisfaction in Aragorn’s chuckle. He added a second finger and began a scissoring motion, coaxing the tight opening into allowing him entry. When Faramir’s trembling body gave way, he quickly added a third, stretching the muscle expertly.

Blood was rushing to his groin once more but Faramir severely doubted the need of his mental abilities anyway so he gladly gave up thinking as he inevitably hardened again. He had nothing to hold on to except for his own knees and they currently provided him with little stability.

Aragorn’s breathing was heavy behind him and he was thoroughly glad for the music filling the Hall. The King’s fingers slipped out of him and briefly one hand slid across his erection.

“Very, very nice…” Aragorn’s raspy voice reached him through the fog. “All hard for me again…”

Faramir bit back a hiss but then Aragorn’s hands were on his hips and firmly pushed him up and off his lap.

“Now… sit down…”

Holding on to nothing, Faramir must trust his senses and the muscles in his legs as he sank back down and slowly impaled himself on Aragorn’s swollen flesh. The long groan they both emitted was swallowed up by the background noise fairly well.

“Perfect,” Aragorn breathed.

Faramir settled with his back against Aragorn’s chest, the hardness filling him setting his senses on fire. He welcomed the hand that encircled his own arousal and then Aragorn flexed his hips and began a slow rhythm. The Throne of Gondor, age-old and steeped in royal myth, supported them both without too much complaint. Faramir rocked his hips in time with Aragorn’s deep thrusts and he was close to crying out when his erection was stroked.

They rocked back and forth rather than pushed up and down, but the pace was surprisingly even and Faramir grew hot all over. His legs were tingling with his second release steadily building and Aragorn’s hand stroking and twisting made him quiver. He rocked back and light exploded into the darkness as his gland was hit. Wetness oozed from the tip of his length and Aragorn greedily dipped the pad of his thumb into it.

“So hard…” the King mumbled against his neck, “and so tight…”

Faramir whimpered as his sweet spot was hit a second time, and then a third and he must lean forward to quell the almost nauseous feeling inside. Aragorn followed him, fell against his back and the thrusting took on a new form.

Pushing back now, Faramir made his lover gasp and he gave all he had with fierce determination. With one hand on a knee for some semblance of support, his other hand joined Aragorn’s in the stroking of his aching erection. The more he responded to Aragorn’s thrusts, the more erratic the stroking grew but he was so sensitive now that only a light pressure was enough. Aragorn had a firm grip on him, though, and he felt every muscle tremble as his release built. He pushed back once more and a long groan was ripped from his lips as Aragorn thrust into him simultaneously. All air rushed out of his lungs as he came a second time that night. Tears stung his eyes as he squeezed them shut and lost himself in the explosion of pleasure. He was still shaking when Aragorn’s low murmur vibrated against his skin. “Open your eyes…”

He made an effort and the room was blurry before him. He saw a thousand moving shapes and colours mingling and there was laughter and music… and Aragorn’s picked up speed and drove into him, brushing his very core with every thrust. They fell back against the wood and then all was dark, sweet pounding for Faramir as Aragorn found his release deep within his over-sensitised body.

Long minutes were spent drawing ragged breaths but eventually Aragorn’s hands skimmed over his stomach.

“Mmmm…” the King sighed and left a cluster of lazy kisses on his neck. “We should do this more often.”

Faramir, still impaled on his softening flesh, dragged up the energy to form a smile. “Every morning and evening is not enough for you?”

He felt Aragorn smile against his neck, and then his throat when he moved deeper into the embrace. “Not nearly…” The smile turned into a grin, “We could have the throne moved into our bedroom… Let me mark you, love.” His teeth grazed the tender skin and then he sucked at it hard.

Groaning, Faramir knew there was very little he could do when Aragorn was determined. “That will leave me with a bruise for a week.” He heard the chuckle and pushed Aragorn’s hands towards his groin. “And the throne stays put in the Hall. Lace me up, please. It is the least you can do now.”

Aragorn laved at the abused skin. “I will have no one else laying a claim on you,” he said as he took his time sliding fingertips over Faramir flaccid length.

He shuddered at the gentle touch. “And marking me will prevent them from that?” He was more than a little pleased at the treatment but the King’s ego was already big enough, he figured.

“Oh yes. And if that is not enough then I shall have you before the entire court.” Aragorn cupped the sacs beneath his length and kneaded them gently.

Faramir exhaled deeply and twisted his head, smiling as he managed to leave a kiss somewhere in his lover’s hair. “Is it very wrong of me to find that idea slightly attractive?”

“It is very healthy of you, I think.” Aragorn gave him a gentle nudge. “Now we had best rejoin the festivities or I shall find myself so enamoured by you that I will want to take you again.”

On unsteady legs, Faramir pushed himself up; the familiar pang of loss immediately assailed him as Aragorn slipped out of him. He pulled his leggings back on and turned to face his King.

Aragorn was still leaning back in the throne, looking smug and Faramir would have added fully sated had it not been for the predatory gleam in the grey gaze.

“Lace me up, please…”

Leaning forward, Aragorn grinned. He kissed one hip bone and then the other. His hands travelled up and down Faramir’s thighs as his lips lingered against the skin and drew closer and closer to the base of Faramir’s member. “Shall I mark you here as well?” he murmured and the young man choked on a cry as Aragorn sucked hard on his skin.

When he let go, it was plain to see that Aragorn had recovered fully. Faramir tried to rein in his fleeing sanity and stepped back.

“I think we need to stop… for now,” he said, glancing down towards Aragorn’s lap.

He received an outrageous smirk in return. “‘For now’ – I shall hold you to that. Come here.” Aragorn reached out and quickly tied Faramir’s lacings and then gave his own the same treatment.

As soon as he was on his feet he gathered Faramir up in a long embrace. “I love you, my sweet one.”

Faramir held his King close and smiled. “I love you too, Aragorn… despite your disrespect of history.”

“Hah!” Aragorn pulled back and held him at an arm length’s distance. “This was the best idea I have had in a good long while.” He grinned as he ran his fingers through Faramir’s copper locks. “Because now, even in the unlikely event that I should be persuaded to keep the blasted thing, I shall always have fond memories of it. During all those dreary audition hours I shall feel you around me…”

Faramir smoothed out the wrinkles in their shirts and was glad for the lack of light that helped to hide his burning cheeks. “I am sure we look a mess,” he mumbled.

Aragorn planted a kiss on his lips. “I am sure we do, and we should probably wash too.”

Half expecting Aragorn to lead them to their chambers, Faramir’s eyes widened when he was dragged straight into the crowd. All the light and noise caught up with him quicker than he liked and soon he found himself twisting and spinning to avoid bumping into their guests. With a firm grip on his wrist, Aragorn pulled him towards a low bench.

“Here is water,” he said happily, lifting up a stray carafe. “Hold out your hands.”

“But…”

“Hands, love.”

Faramir obediently held out his hands and partly horrified and partly amused watched as Aragorn poured a generous amount of water over them. The lukewarm liquid fell to the floor in a silver splash and hands as well as boots were properly assailed.

“Now your turn…”

Faramir accepted the carafe and repeated the action, sending a new cascade of water towards the floor. Aragorn rubbed his palms together and then looked around. “Ah!”

He disappeared for a moment but quickly returned with a linen napkin. “Towel?”

Arching an eyebrow, Faramir had a hard time to keep from laughing. “Thank you…” He dried off his hands and then waited for Aragorn to do the same.

“Now,” the King said. “Now that we are cleaned up I think it is high time we find something to eat.” He wound an arm around Faramir’s waist and drew him close. “What does Pippin recommend?”

Faramir smiled. “Not the roasted cabbage at any rate. He was eagerly waiting for dessert when last I saw him.”

“Hmm…” Aragorn bent to place kiss at the love mark he had bestowed upon his Steward. “Sometimes I think tasting you is enough…” He kissed the tender spot again. “I could give up food altogether.”

With a shiver trailing down his spine, Faramir tried his best to appear composed while he pulled Aragorn flush against him. “I like that…”

The King was perhaps not very aroused but it was only a matter of time. Aragorn’s pupils were slightly dilated when he straightened. “Even so, you, my love, lose weight far too easily. We should find you some cake or whatever it is we are serving.”

Faramir let himself be pushed through the swarming crowd, paying little attention to the music or random pieces of conversation that drifted around his head. He was still in Aragorn’s embrace as the King picked up a plate and filled it. He snuggled closer whenever he could and ignored his lover’s grumbled complaints as he constantly had to move the plate from one hand to the other. Then Faramir was steered towards the royal table and a seat he actually remembered occupying earlier that evening.

But Aragorn pulled out his own throne like chair – a pale variant of the one hiding in the corner – instead. “It is large enough for us both, I think.”

He sank into it and dragged Faramir down beside him. For two strangers it would have been uncomfortable but Faramir was more than happy to share such a limited space with Aragorn. After some fidgeting their legs were comfortably entwined and he had one of the older man’s arms around him.

Picking up the plate with a dramatic gesture, Aragorn selected something sugary looking and examined it meticulously.

“I think,” he said, “this is something… with apples.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed,” said Aragorn and popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“I thought you were feeding me?” Faramir elbowed him half-heartedly in the ribs.

Aragorn nodded vigorously while he swallowed. “I am, I am – I will! But I like apples and…” he stole a quick kiss from Faramir’s lips, “you seemed less eager.” He grinned. “Now this on the other hand… looks like something with blueberries.”

He pushed something partly purple against Faramir’s lips and all the younger man could do was to open up and accept. He tried to glare at the suggestive gleam in Aragorn’s eyes but lost focus when a hand slid down to his hip.

“That is it: open, taste and swallow,” Aragorn winked at him and looked pleased beyond words when Faramir snorted. “Like it?”

“I will live through it,” Faramir teased when he could speak again. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Aragorn’s.

He had intended for it to be a light touch, not much more than a gesture of affection but his lover clearly had other plans. Aragorn’s thumb began rubbing circles where it lay, in the spot where hip melted into thigh. Faramir’s lips lingered for a moment too long and that was all the invitation Aragorn needed and his tongue darted out and sought entrance.

“We have lots of guests…” mumbled Faramir against the satiny skin, a bit of colour sweeping over his cheeks.

“Mmm… we do,” agreed Aragorn, his words a warm whisper that drifted into Faramir’s open mouth. His tongue tip traced the curve of his Steward’s upper lip. “But worse things have happened in this Hall, or so I have heard…”

Whatever reply Faramir may have wished to make, it was washed from his mind by the taste of his King, somewhat sweetened by apples and blueberries. He slid his tongue alongside Aragorn’s, giving silent thanks for the familiar sensation which never bored him. Unchecked, Aragorn’s fingers wandered closer and closer to his groin and he found himself unable to put a stop to it. A sinking feeling that was all due to pleasure made him sigh and Aragorn sucked his tongue into his mouth.

At the first tentative brushes of fingertips against his cloth covered manhood, Faramir regained enough sanity to break the kiss. Reddened lips hovered dangerously close.

“You are all tied up.” Aragorn’s voice had dropped to a husky murmur. “I would like to do something about that…”

“No.” He did not sound half as convinced as he should. “We cannot do it here…” Faramir scanned the Hall for the first time in many long minutes. “Two hundred pairs of eyes could be watching, if not more…”

“Faramir…” Aragorn shook his head but his hand did not move. “These people – all of them I wager – are too drunk to tell a horse’s head from its… tail.” His smirk made Faramir’s stomach tumble over. “Let me kiss you, my love.”

But someone had to ensure the future respectability of Gondor if the King would not. Faramir shooed the hand away. “Later?” he proposed as a compromise.

There was a flash in the grey eyes and a rapacious smile crawled across the royal features. “Later.” He refocused his attention on the plate and presented his latest find. “This, then, is something–”

“With nuts,” concluded Faramir, smiling. “And honey, I am guessing.”

“You are very intelligent, Steward Faramir, I believe you are right.” Aragorn announced. “May I prove to you my appreciation?”

“No!” Faramir dodged the kiss but could not keep from laughing. “Just give it to me!”

“The demands! But worry not, I shall… All in good time, as you prefer it.” Aragorn fed him the piece of cake and watched contentedly as he chewed. “You know, I have an idea–”

“Ah, splendid! You are having dessert!”

They both turned at the cheerful exclamation and spotted Pippin a few feet away. From the not too bright shine in his eyes it appeared that he had spent more time investigating the food and less drinking. Granted, that often was the case when Merry was not around.

“I already had a second helping,” the hobbit nodded, “but I think I could be persuaded into a third if you will join me?” He glanced around quickly and shuffled a bit closer. “That is, if you are done kissing and such.”

While Faramir felt mortification drain the colour out of his cheeks, Aragorn adopted an expression of pure delight.

“Did anyone notice?” He sounded completely neutral, as if he had dropped a few lines from one of his already long speeches to spare the dignitaries – and himself and Faramir even more – from ennui.

Pippin shrugged. “I did suggest to a few people that they had better wait a while before approaching you. It seemed like the best way, really. And a few of us got to talking and I daresay I made them understand the virtues of the Longbottom Leaf!” He looked exceptionally pleased with himself.

“Should you ever desire it, you are welcome to join my stab of diplomats, my small friend,” laughed Aragorn and the arm that was still wound around Faramir tugged the younger man closer.

“Nah,” said Pippin. “I am sure I should be terribly ill fit for the task. They travel a lot I gather, and you never know where there is decent food to be had along the road.”

Without really meaning to, Faramir complied. Gradually the buzz of conversation, the music and the steady rise and fall of Aragorn’s chest tricked him into relaxing. There was a boom of laughter far off to his right and he spotted Mithrandir entertaining a group of envoys from the southern lands. Beyond them was a dark corner in which an old throne stood hidden.

Smiling into Aragorn’s shirt, Faramir placed a kiss there too.

“Did you like the one with the blueberries?” he heard Pippin enquire as he closed his eyes during this one, perfect moment.

“Faramir did,” said Aragorn and his warm voice that drifted around the Steward of Gondor perfectly completed the embrace. “We shall join you for a while but then we must retire as Faramir has promised to devote some of his time to a few pressing issues. There is still much I need to learn about Gondor and its history – there are some deep dark holes that need to be filled.”

End

Sorry… ;)

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