Leather creaked.
The worn cushion of the old leather couch bent beneath Aragorn's knees.
The warm fur of Faramir's chest pressed against his back, the archer's hands splayed over Aragorn's torso, one high, one low. As he knelt on the floor before Aragorn Boromir's arms tightened about the king's thighs, his swordsman's fingers curved into the slopes of thighs into buttocks, bracing Aragorn as Faramir rocked slowly, almost gently into him.
Each upward glide of Faramir's hips was matched by a downward stroke from Boromir's mouth, lips embracing, tongue teasing. Trapped between blade and bow, Aragorn let Faramir brace him, let his head droop forward. He watched the shadow the three of them made stretch across the study floor, listened to Faramir's even breaths ghosting the back of his neck, Boromir's indulgent lapping and nuzzling between his legs, his own loose breath, catching in soft moans of deep surrender, and somewhere in the haze of slow pleasure and warm afternoon sun, it occurred to him that since Denethor's death the limited prescience Boromir had shown since birth had grown. Faramir's was still the greater gift, but Boromir's ability to read men--to evaluate intention, discern ulterior motive, had increased noticably.
Boromir shifted his grip. Faramir countered to maintain Aragorn's balance between them, fingers toying idly with Aragorn's left nipple, while lower down the archer's thumb daintily circled the king's navel. Aragorn had sworn to himself more than once lately that the brothers could read one another's thoughts, and as Faramir's rhythm increased, still smooth and controlled, as Boromir's grip tightened and the steward leaned in with his shoulders to brace Aragorn back into Faramir's hips, Aragorn thanked whatever magic that meant and gently tangled the fingers of one hand into the gold silk of Boromir's hair. He rested his right hand over the back of Faramir's as the ranger captain pressed now against his breast to hold him tightly, and Aragorn breathed deeply and let out a long, low groan as Faramir moved quickly, strongly into him. Pressure built, twining about the lower part of his spine and spreading outward. His legs shook. Faramir bit gently into the side of Aragorn's neck, a soft, possessive growl rising. Aragorn closed his eyes, rode the tremors beginning low down in his belly, made no effort to quiet the ragged groans his breath had become. He tried not to thrust into Boromir's mouth.
Faramir's hand that had been toying with Aragorn's navel lifted, Boromir pulled away, and Aragorn made a small, unhappy noise. Faramir thrust harder, bit harder, curled his callused fingers where Boromir's mouth had been. Boromir's hands moved forward, pushed against the fronts of Aragorn's thighs, and Faramir's hand drew sharply down, up, his hips thrusting boldly into the king.
Aragorn gasped, wide-eyed, riding the edge.
Boromir's lips and tongue caught the tender, rounded flesh nestled in the dark curls below Faramir's grip, pulled it into the warm, wet cavern behind his teeth, and sucked on it.
Aragorn convulsed, shouting mindlessly at the ceiling.
Faramir laughed and gasped through the climax of his own pleasure, pulling hard back to keep the overwrought king from falling off of the couch.
They collapsed backward, nearly toppling over the far edge. For a moment they lay together in the sunlight, Faramir chuckling beneath while Aragorn gulped and gathered his wits. He could hear Boromir chortling there between his knees. "You..." the king rasped. "You two could have bloody *gelded* me like that!"
Boromir rested his elbows across the span of the king's lap. "Oh quit complaining," the steward grinned. "Just look at the mess you've made and then try to tell me you wouldn't have us do it all over again!"
Faramir wriggled from beneath Aragorn as the king rose to his elbows. Aragorn smirked at the glistening streaks of pearl across Boromir's right cheek. Faramir waved a bejeweled hand at him, strands of pearl draped liberally through his fingers. "Where did you drop your shirt? I want to clean this off."
Aragorn laughed, "There's the rag I use to clean my sword."
Wandering off toward the rag lying among assorted weapons near the fireplace hearth, Faramir snorted over his shoulder, "How appropriate..." He turned to find Aragorn licking at Boromir's face, sliding from the couch and slowly pushing the steward backward onto the thick carpet. Brunette and blonde, they glowed together in the sunlight streaming through the high window.
Faramir knelt behind his brother, bracing Boromir's shoulders against his lap. He bent forward for a quick upside-down kiss, kissed Aragorn as he leaned in, tasted the king's own essence on Aragorn's lips, flickered his tongue across Aragorn's teeth.
Then Aragorn was away and licking at Boromir's chest, suckling here, raising a red mark that made Boromir hiss, and would bruise neatly later on, biting at a tender nipple, licking at Boromir's bellybutton, laving downward over flesh straining for attention.
Boromir's hips flexed. He grunted and clutched at Aragorn's shoulder.
The king glanced about for Faramir knew what, found it at the head of the leather couch. Faramir watched his brother's eyelids droop as Aragorn caressed him. Aragorn kissed the rounded corner of a hip bone, shuffled forward on his knees to push Boromir's knees back and spread them wide, and Faramir heard all the breath easing out of his brother, felt all his muscles go slack as Aragorn settled in, slow, easy, leaning forward to kiss Faramir again, Boromir reaching lazily to stroke Aragorn's throat, and Faramir slid his kiss along Aragorn's stubbled jaw to reach his brother's fingers, nibbling and pulling them in to suckle.
Aragorn's arms reached along Faramir's thighs, grasping at his hips for leverage.
Faramir stroked Boromir's face, listened to Aragorn's low, focused hum, recalled fondly that his brother had always been a fidgety child, and he had grown into a youth who always seemed to need to be moving, as though he had been filled from the beginning with too much energy, and if he did not expend it he would shatter--except when he was with Faramir. Faramir had always been able to quiet his brother, and now here too was Aragorn, who could catch Boromir's attention with a whisper, put him into a trance with a brush of hands, could persuade him to be here, now, in this moment only, and content.
Boromir was making soft, quick, unguarded noises, his body shifting rhythmically in Faramir's lap as Aragorn moved into him. Faramir smiled, kissed the callused palm of his brother's hand, reached toward the bridge of Aragorn's spine as it arched toward Boromir, where Aragorn rested his forehead against the soft base of Boromir's neck, his lips where Boromir's heartbeat pulsed between his collarbones. Faramir stroked the warm vertebrae, ran his fingers over ribs and muscle hard beneath sweat-slick skin, felt the king's pants and groans shivering the flesh beneath his fingers
Faramir leaned back to watch his brother's face, see the flush of his cheeks, watch his eyes shut tightly. Then came the shift of his shoulders, the sudden tightening of muscle to bone and the deep, rolling satisfaction rumbling from between his teeth as Boromir torqued toward Aragorn, then sagged against his brother. Aragorn shuddered and cried out softly into Boromir's neck before collapsing atop his steward.
Faramir laced his fingers with his brother's, a caress in tandem over the curves of Aragorn's back.
"For the love of Eru," Aragorn whimpered, "tell me we've no business to conduct; no envoys or diplomats or councils we need to speak to tonight."
Boromir chuckled. "Not a damn thing."
Faramir leaned close and whispered into the king's hair, "The queen is in Rohan for another three weeks. We could have the servants send up food, hide up here for days and days." He squirmed from beneath his brother, rummaging under the old leather couch.
"Nah," Boromir suggested, "Be more fun to go steal it ourselves. I wonder if the latch at the back of the pantry can still be fussed? Haven't done it since we were boys."
Faramir eased beneath his brother's head one of the agreeably shabby velvet pillows he had found, kept the other for himself, yawning down beside Boromir and Aragorn in the sunlight and windowpane pattern on the heavy carpet. "As long as none of the maids or kitchen boys might catch trouble on account of us..."
Aragorn grinned into the warmth rising from Boromir's chest, watched the sunlight etch Faramir's dozing profile, and made himself more comfortable.
Summary: It's a lazy day in the palace. Aragorn, Boromir and Faramir find something to do.
Rated: R
Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir/Faramir
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 1413 Read: 659
Published: 31 Jul 2009 Updated: 31 Jul 2009