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23 February 2008 | 1940 words
Title: A Different Need
Pairing: Faramir/OMC, A/B, unrequited F/A
Summary: Faramir is only too glad to have a companion for the night
Warning: A/U, Boromir!lives
A/N: For the “Different” prompt on the 50_darkfics community.
This is part of a larger arc that exists only in my head as yet. Boromir is alive and he and Aragorn are very much in love. Faramir – well… as ever is unloved:))
For Iris, for being such a wonderful sounding board for all these years now, and always encouraging me to pull these out of my head and for starting up faramirfiction.com :) And for reading this!:)
Faramir lets himself be pushed back against the pillows. They are satin and white, like the silken sheets spread over the soft bedding. He feels himself sink in, revelling in their feel against his naked skin, unused to the softness and comfort. His own bedding is hard and harsh, a relic from his days as the less-favoured son and no one has thought to change it. He closes his eyes to drive away the unbidden thoughts.
“Open you eyes,” the voice is firm and insistent.
His companion for the night stands in front of the mirror now, removing the rest of his clothes. The younger prince of Khand is an extremely handsome man, and well aware of it, and hence used to getting his way, he has been told. Faramir is used to giving others their way, so he was only too glad to accept the other man’s obvious overtures at dinner a fortnight ago.
They have lain together often since then, the prince telling Faramir what to do, and Faramir doing as he is asked. The prince asks less from him than others have in the past. At Faramir’s request, they keep their activities covert. He says it is because Gondorian society is too prude to accept such a relationship openly. If the prince thinks he has other reasons, he does not say so.
He stares at the other man as he reveals the rest of his body, removing the multiple layers of rich clothing. He must be used to having pages help him with this, but they have met immediately after dinner this night. The prince had pulled him away as he had been returning to his chambers, and he had been happy to comply. Dinner gatherings such as these left him strained these days, as his eyes and ears took in far more than others saw or heard. The prince was already hard and Faramir had dropped to his knees, undone the bindings of his pants and begun to pleasure him with his mouth. He has been told he does that well, and the prince clearly appreciates it for Faramir’s shoulders now ache from the bruises he has left there, digging his fingers in. Faramir’s face, neck and chest are still streaked with the prince’s fluids.
As ever, the prince sought more. It takes little time for Faramir to remove his own tunic and pants, before he is pushed towards the bed.
The prince is tall, his slender build belying the strength in his muscles. Faramir is well aware of his strength though; after their first night together he stared in fascination at the purple and blue bruises on his hands and hips and thighs, remembering another hand resting on his bare skin, softer, gentler and tender, seeking to heal him.
The prince turns now, his long hair unbound, falling to his shoulders in soft waves. Years of riding in the open plains and hills of his lands have given his skin an even golden sheen. And yet, the skin is smooth and unlined, as soft as the sheets Faramir lies on. Faramir stares at the long, sinewy limbs, and the dark hair, and the hard, deep brown eyes, and tries not to think of gentle, grey eyes on a sun bronzed face, wearied from days of travel and battle, dark hair flying in loose strands, and travel stained ranger’s clothes. He is hard now, whether from his forbidden thoughts or from the sight of his companion, naked and swollen with need, he is unable to tell.
“Look at me,” the prince sounds annoyed now, so Faramir hurriedly pulls his thoughts away. He would rather lie on his stomach but his companion prefers him this way.
The prince climbs into the bed, straddling him, his engorged length bumping against Faramir’s hips, long fingers reaching between his legs, spreading him even as he instinctively spreads his legs further. They are dry and hurtful but he likes it that way. The pain helps him forget other things he could be thinking of. The fingers push into him briefly, cursorily stretching, before pulling out. He moans at that involuntarily, seeking the touch and more.
The prince says something when he moans, but he ignores the words. Once such words would have shamed him, now he is used to them. Besides, he thinks they are true.
Strong hands hold his wrists down above his head, as the prince pushes his length into him. He bucks up, rising to meet him, ignoring the pain. The prince’s thrusts are rapid, and painful, yet Faramir begs for more, clenching himself around the thickness, pulling it into himself. The prince responds with harder, faster thrusts, his grunts loud against Faramir ears. The sweat dripping off his heaving body feels cool against Faramir’s fevered body as the other man climaxes inside him.
His own body is screaming at him now, his groin tight and aching as the warm liquid fills him inside. The prince pulls out of him and he cries out in frustration and pain. His wrists are released and he grabs himself, numb fingers fumbling until he gets his own release.
The prince has risen off the bed and is pulling on his night robe now.
Faramir lies back against the soft clothes, his body tired, sore and sated. And yet, as his mind wanders, thinking again of straggling hair, sun-bronzed skin, he finds himself wishing for more.
“Again?” he asks hoarsely, and he knows he is begging, again.
“No,” the voice is firm.
“Tomorrow in the morning, then?” Faramir suggests, thinking rapidly, “In the gardens, at dawn, there is a pool and vines and …”
“No, you may leave now,” the voice is hard and dismissive now.
He stares at the prince in confusion. The other man has in the past only been too glad to take him again, pinning him down, taking him harder and rougher, revelling in his pain, echoing his involuntary cries with gloating sounds and laughter. And then taken him again.
“I leave tomorrow,” the prince cuts in.
Faramir stares at him, unsure of what he hears.
“I leave,” the prince tells him, “My work here is done. I see you have not been told.”
He has not, but he rarely was consulted on matters of such import earlier, and nothing has changed for him now.
“I was not told,” He says hoarsely, “You would know that. I – I – tomorrow – ? But -,”
“You may leave now,” the prince repeats.
“I will miss you,” Faramir states woodenly as he rises, pushing away the sheets, wet and stained from their coupling. His robe lies somewhere on the floor.
The prince bursts out laughing. Faramir reddens, and instinctively pulls the sheets closer to him, suddenly aware of his own naked body, thin, weak and riddled with scars, pale from being closeted inside for long hours doing nothing but dealing with the steward’s paperwork.
“Do you really think I do not understand what goes through that filthy little head of yours?” the prince demands. He rakes his eyes over Faramir’s defeated posture dismissively, his look radiating scorn and derisiveness.
“Do you think I did not see the looks that you constantly give your king, ever lustful and pleading, or the way you scramble around to fulfil his every desire? Do you think I do not see the jealousy in your eyes when you see him talk to your brother, or the desperation when he ignores you and seeks out your brother always? Do you think I do not know that two nights ago when you threw yourself on me, needy as a whore, and begged me to take you over and over again, your king and your brother had been indulging in one of their little fantasies in the gardens below your window?”
Faramir sinks back into the bed, as though kicked in the stomach, as his deepest secrets come out through another’s lips. He is desperately in love with his king, and increasingly jealous of his brother, and now this stranger to their court has realised it.
“Don’t worry,” the prince snorts, “They do not know you know. Do you not see they are far too wrapped in each other to even notice you?”
He knows that, but it hurts to hear it nevertheless. In the days after the war, he had dreamt of being loved by the king, of having his brother’s support and helping the two men he cared the most for, rule their kingdom. Instead, he is relegated to doing the paperwork that bores Boromir, and of being the unwanted spare again. He realised that the day he came across them accidentally, months ago, in Boromir’s rooms, naked, entwined around each other, the king screaming exultantly as his brother thrust into him. Neither noticed him shrinking away behind the door, distraught.
“I fear, my dear lad, you are destined to whore yourself out to others to assuage your needs.”
The prince’s next movement is so swift, Faramir never realises it until the heavy bag hits him on his chest. It is hard and hurtful, and the coins that scatter out of it are cold against his still warm skin. He stares dumfounded at the shiny pieces of metal.
And then reddens deeper. He feels anger rise in him, and looks up at the prince, eyes flashing.
“You would insult me greatly if you were to return that,” the prince says pleasantly, “I would not like to think you, a mere servant to the Steward in this realm, were using me, a prince, to answer to your baser desires. In my eyes, you rendered me some very useful services during my stay here, and you did it quite well, I must say.”
The prince turns away from him, returning to braiding his hair in front of the mirror.
“I think the amount is adequate,” he adds, “It is what I usually give to the prostitutes who cater to my needs where I travel.”
Faramir says nothing. He rises from the bed, and pulls on his clothes, ignoring the prince’s release trickling down his legs, cold and sticky, and walks out of the room, clutching the bag.
When he reaches his room, he hears laughter outside, low-voiced, yet discernible. He walks over to the window. He stares at the bag full of coins in his hand, the weight heavy, and raising his hand, throws it out of the window. It arcs over the gardens, descending beyond the walls, somewhere into the city far below. He pulls the window close hard; releasing all the anger he could not let out earlier.
He reaches for the sleeping herbs that he constantly keeps near now, and yet when he throws himself onto his bed, hard and cold with its rough sheets, his sleep is filled with sounds of laughter and tinkling coins and visions of unkempt hair and a grey travel stained cloak, and his own naked body aching for relief.
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The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: kabaue , elektra121