"Here?" Faramir stares incredulously. Yet Aragorn only offers the same unfathomable smile he wore when he requested Faramir's presence for a few minutes of private consultation before they would each address the assembled dignitaries, nobles, and scribes gathered for this council. Many of the fields remain scarred from the ravages of war, and Faramir had urged Aragorn to summon leaders from far away to discuss how they could help one another.
"Why not?" Aragorn's voice is calm and reasonable, as if he had just suggested an accounting of the grain stores rather than quick, furtive loving with his Steward in a little-used entrance chamber right beside the great hall. "No one can see us."
"There are a hundred and fifty men through that door!" Faramir does not add that the door has no lock, and that they have no towels, water, soap...
"Yes," agrees Aragorn pleasantly, "and I am certain that none of them can hear us because they are talking amongst themselves." His hand slides warmly along Faramir's forearm as his smile moves closer. "Of course, if you would rather not..."
With a breathy groan, Faramir feels himself begin to harden under the heavy finery in which he has dressed for the celebration. There is not really enough room to pace in the small chamber, yet he must move. "They will be looking for you. They are all here by your invitation." He dares not look at the King; to look at the King would mean to be lost.
"That is why we can duck into another room for a few moments," reassures Aragorn, following Faramir's movements with his eyes.
This temptation is painful yet unsurprising. They are too seldom together, with Faramir in Ithilien, and wearisome court activity seems to excite Aragorn rather than quelling his desires. Turning, he looks at the eager blue eyes studying him and feels himself weakening. "We rarely spend 'a few moments' alone," he points out.
"True." Aragorn's expression turns from naughty to nostalgic as he moves close, leaning in until their foreheads are touching. With his thumb and the backs of his fingers, he touches Faramir's cheek. "Then...will you find me, afterward? Meet me in my rooms?"
Faramir cock has grown fully erect, stretching his breeches and tenting the bottom of the White Tree on his vest. He sighs in frustration. "Now I cannot walk out there!"
Wicked amusement flickers in Aragorn's eyes. "Then I will give you a few moments by yourself." He turns as though to walk away.
"You will drive me mad!" blurts Faramir. "If you were not the King..."
Aragorn glances back over his shoulder, wide-eyed with false innocence. "...you would...?" he prompts.
The first several responses that rise in Faramir's throat, most of which involve shackles, are not things that he can utter, certainly not just before an important meeting with dozens of nobles. "It is no matter," he stammers, then adds, "Why must you do this to me at times like this!"
"Because you look so lovely when you blush," declares Aragorn with amusement as he spins and steps to Faramir, dragging him close for quick kisses on each burning cheekbone.
"I doubt that the nobles, captains and dignitaries outside would agree. You are cruel to tease me."
The humor fades from Aragorn's expression, though his eyes remain bright with inner heat. "Oh, I am not teasing. I would have you right now. Yet you balk at the suggestion."
"What do you plan to do if Imrahil steps in to fetch you? Or Halbarad, who frowns to let you out of his sight, or that thick-necked bully who commands the patrol of the lower Isen?"
"You do have a point, I suppose," sighs the King. "Shall we go, before someone comes?"
"You should go," Faramir tells him, gesturing helplessly at the bulge pushing out the roots of the White Tree on his vest. "I cannot be seen in public at present."
"Ah, Faramir." With a delighted chuckle, Aragorn pulls him close and drops to his knees. "Then I shall remedy that for you."
"Aragorn!" Faramir gasps as the King's hands move up his thighs, sliding beneath the hem of his vest and pushing it to the side. "...it would not be seemly for you to be found like this if we were discovered...it would be less seemly than if you were discovered...doing what you said you wanted to do..."
"Indeed?" Aragorn glances up from beneath his lashes, for his concentration is elsewhere as he opens Faramir's breeches. Faramir shivers at the cool air, the gentle movement of cloth, and then the touch...
"The King!...should not be on his knees to anyone!...especially not..."
He breaks off with a groan as Aragorn's tongue trails over his hard cock. "Tell me more," Aragorn whispers onto his skin, the warm breath making Faramir thrust forward instinctively.
"Y-you cannot be seen as...supplicating to anyone...least of all me..." he stammers. Aragorn makes a sound of agreement, but his mouth is moving lower, taking Faramir's balls into his mouth one at a time, sucking on them as one hand strokes up and over Faramir's surging cock. "A-a-aragorn..." Faramir hears himself practically wailing, and tries to modulate his voice. "I am Denethor's son. Some of them know how much he despised you-u..."
"Is that so." The King does not sound as if this is of any great concern to him. He moves his mouth back up, his tongue and lips sliding wetly along Faramir's erection.
Grabbing a fistful of Aragorn's hair before he can stop himself, Faramir stutters, "Y-yes, and you are still a s-stranger here to many...King you may be, but they...aah!" For Aragorn has sucked Faramir's cock into his mouth, taking him in as far as he can. Trying to retain his sanity, Faramir presses a hand down on Aragorn's shoulder so he can stay upright while Aragorn's clever lips and tongue and hands work on him. "Your wife is an Elf...you have brought Dwarves and Halflings to this court...your ways are stra-a-ange..."
Aragorn hums softly and lets a hand sneak around to Faramir's buttocks, squeezing one gently before his fingers dip in to seek out the opening to his body. Gasping, Faramir tightens his hand on Aragorn's shoulder and spreads his legs wider -- for balance, he tells himself, even though his hand in Aragorn's hair slides to cup his head and urge his mouth forward.
"It is too dangerous," he hisses again.
"Mmffmm," Aragorn replies, sucking harder. His finger presses against Faramir's hole, not seeking to penetrate, merely teasing him.
"You cannot...walk out there...with your mouth covered in my..." Faramir shudders all over and cannot finish the sentence. It takes all his power not to explode into Aragorn's mouth at the thought of the King greeting his court with the taste of Faramir's seed on his lips.
Aragorn pulls him closer, breathing heavily through his nose as he takes Faramir's cock into his throat. It is evident that Aragorn is half-choking around him, swallowing convulsively, yet Faramir does not pull back. Once again he imagines the King stepping from the room with lips red and shining from pleasuring his Steward, and he keens, turning the sound into a silent cry so that none beyond the door can hear. But the effort expended to keep from shouting drains the last of his control, and he begins to spurt into Aragorn's mouth.
Aragorn pulls back a little, allowing Faramir's seed to flood over his tongue. He moans softly, swallowing it down, milking Faramir's cock. After a moment he sits back on his heels and licks his lips, lacing Faramir's breeches again.
Faramir's knees are unstable and he cannot move his hand from Aragorn's shoulders, lest he collapse onto the floor. "Oh," he gasps, embarrassed and elated. "Aragorn. I cannot resist you."
Aragorn keeps steadying hands on Faramir as he rises to his feet, pulling him into his arms for a kiss. "And I do not object to that, not in the slightest," he says with a conspiratorial smile.
Faramir kisses him back far more passionately than Aragorn should accept, for while it would cause scandal enough if it were known that the King used his Steward for his pleasure, there would be greater uproar if the men learned that Faramir loved Aragorn in much the same way that he loved his own wife. "This is far too dangerous," he whispers again when they break apart, though his treacherous hands are moving over Aragorn, pushing aside his clothing.
"Shh." Aragorn takes Faramir's hands in his, and lifts them to his mouth. "I can wait," he says.
"You never wait," objects Faramir, stroking Aragorn's lips with his thumbs as he shuffles Aragorn backward to lean against the wall.
"But I want to have you," Aragorn protests, though he is unresisting. When his back hits the wall, he adds, "In my bed. I would spread you out on the sheets and taste every inch of your body..."
"And you will, later," Faramir promises with a groan. How is it that merely with words, Aragorn can make him ache again so quickly? He leans against the supple body, feeling the prod of Aragorn's erection through the layers of his clothing. "But now you are in no condition to stand before the court."
"Mmm," Aragorn replies, closing his eyes briefly, unwilling to relinquish the fantasy. "I would lie between your legs, and lift your hips, and I would take you with my tongue. Push it inside you...would you like that, Faramir?"
Faramir's fingers are fumbling with the fastenings of Aragorn's clothes, his mouth moving along Aragorn's throat, careful not to leave any marks. "I would," he groans.
The King reaches down to help Faramir open his breeches. "And when I was done, I would have you..."
Closing a fist around Aragorn's erection, Faramir slides his other hand down inside the clothes to cup Aragorn's balls. He teases, "In your own bed? What of your wife?", knowing what the response will be.
"Arwen would very much like to watch. Perhaps...join us," Aragorn replies, groaning and thrusting forward into Faramir's hand. He remembers lying between the King and Queen, with Arwen's surprisingly strong thighs cradling him as Aragorn drove mercilessly into his body, and Éowyn crouched behind Arwen's head, smiling at his helpless sobs of pleasure before her lips descended upon his to breathe a laugh into his mouth. He wonders what the court would think if any of them ever learned of that, wonders if the servants might have gossiped...wonders what Aragorn is thinking as the fluid gathering at the head of his cock wells and trickles over Faramir's fingers.
"Although she and...Éowyn...said they might be very busy this after...ooh...noon." Fingers card into Faramir's hair, pulling him close for a kiss as Aragorn's thrusts pick up speed.
"They are rarely too tired to watch us," Faramir observes merrily while he falls to his knees, glancing up. He cannot blame the women for wanting Aragorn; there is no man in all of Gondor at whom he would rather gaze, especially like this, dressed in the finery of Minas Tirith, flushed and happy.
Though Faramir has felt this way since the day he met the King in the Houses of Healing, many months passed before he acknowledged the current of burning desire running through his brotherly affection and admiration. He is happy with his wife in Ithilien and he thinks that she is happy with him, yet in the King he finds salve for his wounds, abundant joy that eases the loss of his brother and the spitefulness of his father. As his tongue descends into the wetness dripping from Aragorn's cock while his hand continues to move in rhythm, he wonders what Aragorn seeks in him.
The other man gasps, and a shudder races through his body. "Faramir," he says in warning, "I will not last."
"Good, because we have little time." Faramir's mouth closes, sucking eagerly. Aragorn buries his fingers in Faramir's hair and lets out a soft cry, spurting into his mouth as he trembles. The bitterness of the taste and the thickness of the fluid always startle Faramir no matter how often he does this. Yet he loves the sounds Aragorn makes, the way his body tenses and quakes, and he wraps his free arm around Aragorn's waist as he gulps down the hot liquid.
Aragorn draws in a breath, then lets out it, slowly, relaxing against the wall. He strokes Faramir's cheek. "How did I get so lucky to have you?"
"I am the lucky one," Faramir murmurs, dropping his eyes as he rises to his feet.
"That is not so," Aragorn says as he laces his breeches again. After smoothing his clothing, he reaches out to brush the hair from Faramir's face. "You are wonderful, Faramir."
Faramir presses his fingertips over Aragorn's mouth, letting his own lips drift across Aragorn's cheek. "You must not say such things." One day, he thinks, he will blurt out everything that is in his heart -- perhaps in the presence of his wife, or Aragorn's -- and he is not sure that any of them will forgive him.
"But it is true," Aragorn insists, and tidies Faramir's clothing and hair, making him look presentable again. "But now we should go face those assembled before they start to worry."
Faramir nods, begins to pull back, then glances up at Aragorn's smile and is lost once more. He leans in and kisses Aragorn, pressing the King against the wall in his fervor, bunching newly straightened clothing in his fists. And Aragorn does not stop him, wrapping his arms around Faramir's back as though he does not mean to let him go.
The sound of a door opening causes Faramir to leap backward as if touching Aragorn has scalded him. Thankfully, it is the Queen who has stepped inside, with eyes averted and laughter in her voice. "The court is waiting for you, my lords."
"Are they?" Aragorn laughs, and casts a look between Faramir and Arwen. "I seem to have forgotten about them."
"Éowyn and I have had to interrupt a lovely walk through the gardens to search for you," she taunts. "We hope to be rewarded later for our diligence."
Faramir's face is scarlet, but he cannot help grinning at Arwen. "I am certain that Faramir and I will be able to think of some way to repay you," Aragorn replies, grinning as well.
"Wait one moment." Stepping back through the doorway, Arwen leaves Faramir and Aragorn glancing quizzically at one another before she returns with goblets in each hand. She comes forward, handing one to each of them with a tiny knowing smile. "Perhaps you should have some ale before anyone else comes so close."
Taking a goblet from Arwen, Aragorn nods thankfully. "I probably would not have thought of that," he admits, and drinks deeply before kissing his wife.
Faramir drinks as well, feeling the burning ale wash away the taste of Aragorn. "Please give my apologies to my wife for me," he tells Arwen earnestly, until he cannot maintain the pretense of somberness and ducks his head to hide his chuckle.
"I will," she replies, gifting Faramir with a smile that is nearly as naughty as Aragorn's. "Then you may apologize to her properly later."
"Come, my Steward," Aragorn orders in a regal voice, before all three of them break into laughter at his command. "Let us get to the business of protecting Gondor. Perhaps something interesting will happen today."
"Very well." Faramir holds the door for the King and Queen, as is fitting, and they sweep through hand in hand, as is also fitting. And when he steps through himself, he sees his wife across the great hall, her face full of mirth.