This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «explicit slash, rough sex, clichés, blood, AU, darkness and violence».
Since you have switched on the adult content filter, this story is hidden. To read this story, you have to switch off the adult content filter. [what's this?]
Remember that whether you have the adult content filter switched on or off, this is always an adults only site.
04 September 2009 | 4643 words
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Summary: Vampire fic! The city of Osgiliath was never rebuilt after the War and many long years later it is the home of one who is not exactly alive, but not exactly dead either. But another shares his fate, and tonight he is expected.
Warning: Don’t like explicit slash and rough sex? Nor clichés, blood, AU, darkness and a tiny bit of violence? Then don’t read.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (who, if he didn’t already, in his afterlife now officially hates me).
A/N: I can’t believe I wrote this… This is my homage to all the vampire stuff I’ve been delving into lately.
For J, with love.
The withered stone is icy to the touch. The moonlight licks it, drags its silver rays across the walls; some of them are unscathed – most of them lie in ruin upon the black earth, and others – pillars, arches, vaults – lie thrust upon each other, their forms like twisted bodies, torn and broken at their necks. A chill wind blows in from the North and it soundlessly seeps through the stone but not cooling it further for that is not possible. In fallen Osgiliath there is no movement this night.
At least not where the water laps at its edges – where Anduin wets its foundations. Nor is there any movement among the wrecked walls; the shimmering energy of the Númenóreans being long lost in the folds of history, and nowadays, myth. Perhaps if Elendil had seen its present state while he still drew breath in Middle-earth, he would have been horrified.
As it is, it was not so.
But still there is life in Osgiliath, City of Ruin, though few know of it. If life indeed it can be called, such an existence. Never pity it; it is not your place to judge.
He lies back and rests his head against the edge of the tub. His eyes remain open and they are blue – a very pale blue that shifts to a light grey when any deeper emotion runs through him. They hold nothing of the warmth of the flickering candle flames that light up the bathing chamber. No, they do not flicker, for he wills them to stop.
The water has lent some of its mutable softness to his skin and now he lifts an arm to watch how small drops fall heavily onto the still surface, melting into itself once more. He is thinking, again with irony, about how much he now resembles an Elf – or would have, if the similarities were greater than the pallor of their skin.
There are not many Elves left in Middle-earth and few come to Osgiliath. Even fewer after sundown.
They thought him dead. Not only the Elves, but all of them. Indeed, he had given up his breath and his heart, which had frantically been beating in his breast, was growing into a heavy burden. He could see nothing, and the last sound that left him was a scream that cruelly scarred his throat as darkness closed in around him. The last thing he heard, though, was a cry of agony that did not come from his lips.
Faramir lets his arm sink down into the water and almost absentmindedly his palm ghosts over his stomach where the skin is hale and unblemished. Sometimes, but only sometimes, he imagines that he can still feel the intrusion of the poisoned steel, the jagged blade settling deep in his flesh. He imagines that he can feel his blood gush forth, warm and rich, going to waste upon the ground. He imagines he can do all this, and he wishes he knows how it feels – to not only dream but to live such a reality, only to be saved again, and again…
It will rain later this night. It is obvious in the way that the clouds have gathered along the horizon beneath the moon. As Faramir steps out of the bath, the first drop falls upon the white stone in Minas Tirith. Even inside his bathing chamber he can smell the outside air and he knows the storm is approaching fast.
He lights more candles on his way downstairs. With his body swathed in a silky robe of a grey so dark it looks almost black, the contrast to his eyes could not be greater. He dresses not in black, and he thinks he never will.
Briefly he stops before the great portrait, hanging above a mantelpiece, one of many, and he lights the candles that give life to the colours and the texture. Éowyn, forever frozen in her youth; her beauty is like a dazzling flower, as fascinating as it is unapproachable. Her proud gaze and the hint of a smile on her lips bring forth memories and he cherishes them, and hopes that she is happy wherever the Gods send you after your death. He would not know. He bows to her, for in some ways he is still her husband, and she is still his wife.
He continues through the rooms, many of them are untended to and they hold an air of times long passed. This he ignores as he always does, though he somehow takes comfort in their existence. Here he lights no candles, letting the shadows play freely instead.
The first thrill speeds through him as he enters parts of the house that know a bit more of recent events. Or maybe they are not recent, but at least they are not ancient. Time is a concept Faramir will never come to understand. He can feel the latent longing awakening in his body and he quickens his pace just slightly. The rain is drawing closer and he lights more candles, suddenly willing his home to look like it is set aflame. When he finally comes to stand in front of the wide widow near, but not quite next to, the entrance doors, and can see the Anduin gleaming in the moonlight, he wonders if he himself could be on fire, but he knows it is a silly thought.
He runs his fingertips along the stone encircling the window-glass. Where fighting and the slashing of swords have marked it, there are sharp edges and he languorously drags his fingers against them, relishing in the sensation when his skin gives way and tiny beads of dark red blood form on it. He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks away the blood, tasting himself as if his body were new to his senses. The Anduin glimmers in the moonlight one last time before the clouds cover the sky and the heavens crack open.
As the thundering of the rain fills his ears, Faramir fights the urge to scrape his teeth against his skin to taste more. His blood is such a gift and therein lies such a promise that now he feels weakened, having tasted it but having to refrain from doing so again. He leans his forehead heavily against the cold glass and tries to steady his breathing but his body is already humming faintly. Knowing full well that his own blood could never satisfy him, and he would end up draining himself in the process, he still cannot curse his destiny. It is too precious to him now, despite the time he spends alone.
But he will not be alone for much longer for as the first flare of lightning slashes through the clouds, a dark form slides out from behind a beheaded pillar, still standing erect though without much pride. Faramir watches as the form approaches and he feels his breathing deepen. The tiny cuts on his fingers seem suddenly to throb.
He slowly edges closer to the door and when he loses sight of the figure challenging the storm, he can smell him instead and the sensation nearly knocks him over. There is the scent of skin smeared with mud, weary drenched leather, and blood – maybe from some fresh, small wound not yet entirely healed. Faramir grips the doorframe as his head swims and he gives thanks once again; back then, all those years ago, he would have thought this a cruel fate indeed – cruel beyond understanding – but the Valar proved him wrong, and he is grateful.
He knows the second when the door will open. One more breath and then the storm will be on his doorstep, desiring to rush inside with all its force. He will shut it out but receive what it brings tonight.
The door is not locked and it does not creak. When it swings outwards, the rain cascades down upon the floor but it can drown a hundred times over and Faramir could not care less. All grows quiet when his guest steps inside.
His cloak is dripping wet, completely soaked through, and his face is hidden by a large hood. That cloak is black and so are his breeches and boots. He determinedly pulls the door shut and Faramir is once again sure this is the only reality he needs.
His guest will not speak so neither will he. Not at once, not immediately, for he would not trust his voice. Faramir steps forward cautiously, holding his breath. His body is screaming, screaming like he did when he offered his soul to death, though it is a different sort of scream, and yet not wholly unlike it. He leans in closer, blindly seeking to conquer the darkness firmly held in place by the hood. His guest does nothing to stop him. Not able to withhold his need any longer, Faramir closes the distance between them by dragging his tongue along his guest’s lower lip.
With a growl, his mouth is claimed and teeth graze hungrily against his lips. A cool tongue thrusts into Faramir’s mouth and he sucks it deeper inside, wishing he could pierce it at once and further taste it. Without courtesy he slams his guest up against the door and presses their bodies together. Another growl reverberates in the damp air and Faramir’s mouth is plundered ruthlessly, and before he can draw even the tiniest of breaths, he tastes blood as teeth rip apart his lower lip.
The metallic tang blends with the sweeter taste of saliva and it sends his senses tumbling over themselves. He staggers against the body he so desires but no arms wrap around him. Instead, he is held upright by gentle licking and soon the blood is wiped away from his mouth.
“You started without me.”
Finding himself smiling, Faramir withdraws from the contact. “I cut myself.”
Faramir reaches out and finally pushes back the hood. As if he needs to make sure, as if he must confirm the identity of his guest though he knows it already. He could never be wrong. And he needs no candlelight to see Aragorn’s dilated pupils. His face, untouched by time, is never-changing. His skin is pale, grey eyes brightened by desire and his hair as black as his clothes. He is ever a hundred years old, maybe some more – Faramir no longer remembers the exact year that blade cut through him.
His body calms down somewhat and he can breathe properly again. He feels his smile soften as he brushes aside a stray lock of hair from Aragorn’s forehead. “I missed you.”
The man before him lets out a long breath and closes his eyes. His head falls back against the door and some tension leaves his body. “I longed for you,” he says.
Faramir tentatively fingers his lip where Aragorn’s teeth bore into it. He heals quickly and soon there will only be a faint sting left. Then that, too, will melt away.
“I desired you,” he admits as he presses a kiss to his lover’s brow. “I always desire you.”
“Even when you sleep?” Aragorn’s arms steal around his waist.
“Most of all when I sleep.”
“Liar,” mutters Aragorn as he pulls Faramir close and buries his face against his neck. “You have no desires when you sleep, nor any dreams.”
He is right. As Anor circles the sky, Faramir is dead to the world and even himself. He is dead to Aragorn – just as Aragorn is dead to him.
“I love you.”
It is not Faramir speaking but the words could very well have come from him. He inhales Aragorn’s scent deeply before he makes any further move. His lover may be temporarily caught up in the moment, needing to reaffirm their bond, but the mood will change, and soon.
He knows so much about Aragorn – the way he feels, reacts, thinks, tastes… Yet he is addicted, as if his lover were a new one, recently randomly chosen on impulse.
“I love you,” he replies in response, seeing no reason to change the subject. “I love you.” He draws a small circle with his tongue upon Aragorn’s skin, near his temple. The man embracing him stiffens and his grip strengthens.
“I love you,” murmurs Faramir as he finds his way to Aragorn’s ear and traces its curve, still using only the tip of his tongue.
Hunger rises quickly within. It holds power over the wetness of the cloak and the incessant pounding of the rain against the window-glass. Nevertheless, Aragorn pushes them both away from the door and his hands briefly let go of Faramir to undo the clasp and then the heavy fabric falls to the floor.
“Where did you cut yourself?” His voice is raspy.
“Fingers,” Faramir informs him as he eagerly explores the body that has now become much more accessible to him. Aragorn’s upper body is only covered by a thick woollen tunic and a shirt, nothing more.
He still has a habit of commanding – and Faramir still complies. He lifts his fingers for Aragorn to see but there are no signs left. Not a thousand candles would have helped. Aragorn’s eyes narrow in displeasure and one of his hands travel down Faramir’s back demandingly.
“I see nothing.”
Faramir teasingly tugs at the tunic. “Disappointed?” He flexes his hand before the scrutinising gaze, all too well aware of the skin that he will find underneath the fabric.
He is drawn to it, like his mouth is drawn to Aragorn’s neck, his tongue and, when undressed, that tantalising part of his body where hip melts into thigh. He shifts uneasily in the embrace as he feels the telltale signs of arousal running through him.
The air is forced out of his lungs as Aragorn’s sharp teeth pierce the skin on his index finger. Hissing, Faramir bucks against his lover as his blood seeps from the small wound and Aragorn’s mouth closes around it to suck. He groans against the other man’s neck, using all of his strength to stop himself from biting. Not bite. Not so soon.
The throbbing feeling from earlier comes back full force as Aragorn continues to suckle his finger even though the flow of blood must have stemmed. Faramir grinds his hips against the hard body so close to him, and any thought that is not immediately concerned with this flees his mind.
When Aragorn is done with his finger he releases it heartlessly and focuses all of his attention on the robe that hinders his hands from roaming freely across Faramir’s body. Faramir, though, sees his chance and he dives sideways and presses his mouth to Aragorn’s, desperately seeking the taste of his own blood. His tongue pushes inside and sweeps up the flavour, sending the blood left in his veins rushing to his groin. Fiercely he kisses his lover and his hands are gripping Aragorn’s shoulders hard – hard enough to leave temporary marks, but he does not care. And neither does Aragorn.
His maker, his protector, his master and subordinate – the man who says he could not go on without Faramir is groaning into the kiss. Then he suddenly shoves Faramir aside, breaking the contact and with a heaving chest, he pins the younger man to the floor with his stare. Aragorn’s eyes are gleaming in the candlelight, so pale they look almost white. There is a streak of blood on his cheek and he breathes through his mouth.
Licking his lips, Faramir draws back but the exhilaration of tasting blood, even though it be his own, on Aragorn’s tongue, is now his master. His hands fly to the silken sash that encircles his waist and he fingers it experimentally, eyes never leaving Aragorn’s face, trying to predict his intentions before they are acted upon. Perhaps he means to say something, to taunt or tease, but he is given no time for in an instant, Aragorn is upon him, flashing his teeth and ramming them both hard against the opposite wall. The cool stone cuts into Faramir’s back, robe or no robe, and he seizes Aragorn firmly, spinning them both around in an attempt to trap his lover against the wall instead.
With the feral growl of a predator, Aragorn pushes away from the wall and drives his knee between Faramir’s thighs. The brutal hit to his groin causes Faramir to double over as pleasure washes over him and he is forced to cling pathetically to his tormentor.
“Making it easy for me?” Aragorn is smirking. Before Faramir can catch his breath, a new shove of Aragorn’s leg draws a long moan from him.
“Challenging me?” In one swift move, Faramir grasps Aragorn’s tunic by the neckline and tugs, ripping all the fastenings but successfully conquering it. His hands immediately land on the flat plane of the stomach underneath, now only separated from him by the thin shirt.
Aragorn drags his nails down Faramir’s back wantonly. He circles his hips and Faramir at once becomes fully aware of his state. The vein running along his throat underneath the skin is pulsating as his energy is rising. Faramir runs his tongue along it, so tempted to sink his teeth into it… So very tempted… Wild ideas chase through his mind; he would have Aragorn on the floor, spread out underneath him, and Aragorn would be sheathed deep inside him as Faramir leans down to bite…
Oh, so very sweet it would be!
His teeth scrape against the soft skin and the spinning world slows to a stop. He smells the mud and the earth that has embraced his lover during the hours of light. He is trembling himself as his lips press against the throat. The drumming of the rain comes back to him, but the roaring storm could not stop him, only one can do so… Faramir parts his lips and with his tongue tip he massages the vein.
With a whimper, he instantly slumps against Aragorn who wraps his arms around him. Only now is Faramir conscious of his lover’s body shaking and his shallow breathing.
“Hold…” repeats Aragorn once more, in an unsteady whisper. “Not yet… not like this.”
Faramir pulls back a little, needing to briefly close his eyes to calm down. When he opens them, he catches the flash in the bright gaze before him. “Where?”
He knows he will not be told. He knows he will be taken by surprise. But he cannot resist so he edges even closer, bringing his groin in contact with Aragorn’s. “Where?”
His only reward is another flash in his lover’s eyes before a wicked grin curves Aragorn’s lips. He lets go of Faramir and brusquely shrugs off his tunic. Then his fingers land at the lacings of his breeches but they freeze mid-movement and Aragorn’s body remains wrapped up in cloth.
Faramir raises an eyebrow. “I will not have you dressed,” he says, and cannot help the scepticism that creeps into his voice.
The grin is not wiped from Aragorn’s face. He stands completely still for a moment before he lunges forward and spirals them both through the dimly lit hall. His hands tug violently at Faramir’s robe, forcing it off his shoulders and down his arms. Efficiently trapped by the fabric, Faramir can only follow where Aragorn is going. He finds himself flying through an arched doorway, and he catches a glimpse of candle flames before he is twisted around and brutally thrown down upon the first steps of the stone staircase. The air is driven out of his lungs and he chokes once, maybe twice, before he can draw breath again. He is immediately joined by Aragorn who hovers above him, looking like he wants to stretch out upon the stairs. “You will not,” he purrs in Faramir’s ear, licking a trail down his throat in an excellent imitation of what the younger man did to him. “For I will have you.”
The idea of being thoroughly fucked here sends lust pulsing through Faramir, but he scrambles into a sitting position and backwards he crawls higher up the staircase. Aragorn lets him go but his eyes follow his every move. Halfway up, Faramir stops and with a smirk he lays back, finally allowing his robe to slide off completely.
He can see the hunger in Aragorn’s eyes; the way they glitter is inhuman. They still call themselves ‘men’ but it is a lie. Yet, the craving of the flesh is still the same.
Or maybe not.
Faramir cannot, or will not – having purposefully forgotten perhaps – remember a time when he was satisfied with merely gentle lovemaking on a soft mattress. Between sheets that smelled of sunlight and fresh flowers in bloom. He is reclining on the stairs now, suggestively parting his legs, as the bloodlust is making his skin itch with anticipation.
Aragorn lifts his chin. “I killed seven of them. They had slashed the horses’ necks at night.”
Faramir shakes his head and brushes his hair from his face. “Did anyone see you?”
“And the orcs?” Faramir’s hand slides down his belly and brushes against the soft hair that embeds the base of his semi hard length. “Fuck me.”
“They did not live to tell the tale.” Aragorn advances on him and there is a growing bulge in his breeches. He takes one step at a time.
“So Eldarion’s kingdom is safe?” Faramir hisses as his fingers ghost over his balls and his head falls back a little. “Fuck me.”
Aragorn settles between his legs and his breathing deepens quickly. His gaze has settled on Faramir’s cock that twitches at this initial contact. “Yes.” He watches intensely as Faramir continues to explore his own body. “Still safe,” he affirms hoarsely.
“Fuck me.” Faramir grasps his length in one hand and strokes it once. His skin is cool, not affected by the desire that is mounting within. He lets out a sigh of pleasure and a few of the candle flames flicker downstairs.
Aragorn’s lips have parted and his sharp teeth are revealed. He reaches out and he caresses Faramir’s pale skin forcefully. You can tell by the way he moves that he is affected too: he leans down closer – not too close, but close enough to note every tiny shift in the scent that is Faramir’s. First, there is the smell of pure lust. Then of rock and of water; he must have bathed earlier. “Can I not taste you first?” he mumbles ingratiatingly, letting his eyes travel to the smooth skin just above the younger man’s heart.
Faramir strokes himself a second time and he hardens significantly, and the pleasure intensifies. “No…”
Aragorn descends upon him. His hand is slapped aside and his cock is being roughly handled. Faramir groans as blood pools in his groin and he arches up against his lover. His blood, Aragorn’s blood… So many times they have drunk from each other that now they are one and the same. But Aragorn will not let him touch him, not this time around. Faramir watches through half-lidded eyes as the older man fumbles with his lacings, finally tearing them to pieces, and he pushes down his breeches to let his erection spring free.
His eyes are white now and the pupils nearly drowned in the brightness. He strokes Faramir’s length a few more times, pushing back the skin from the head, smearing the wetness, twisting the tip and making Faramir scream. Then Aragorn grips him by the shoulders and hauls him up, but this time Faramir is ready for him. It is not the first time, even though fucking on the stairs might be new to him.
He is harshly slammed against the stone and his skin is torn in the process. He can feel the blood trickle down his back and Aragorn’s fingers smearing this fluid too. His body reacts before rational thinking can intervene; it is instinct, not intelligence that makes Faramir crash against Aragorn and bury his teeth deep in the flesh before him. He bites down hard on a shoulder – not his favourite spot but it will do – and he sucks. Sucks hard.
And Aragorn fucks him. Still dressed, Aragorn drives deep into his body, using raw passion as lube and bathing his hands in the blood that covers Faramir’s back. The stone steps are not gentle to either of them but Faramir’s tongue is lapping at the wound and Aragorn is thrusting wildly into him, and he is famished.
“Turn,” he groans against the bloodied shoulder but Aragorn will not listen.
His pace is ruthless; he is shoving Faramir against the stairs time and time again, filling him so completely that to anyone else it would seem impossible. When he strikes the hidden spot inside the channel, Faramir cries out and nearly bites again. He clings to Aragorn, pulls him down, and the next thing he knows is sharp pain as teeth sink into his throat. His head swims as Aragorn sucks, drinks madly, and colourless skin is stained red. Their bodies come together once more and the smell of blood is everywhere around them. With a cry that is no more human than he is himself, Faramir explodes and sends his release forth. Aragorn’s mouth on his throat slips downwards, but only the slightest, as Faramir’s inner muscles coaxes him too, to empty himself, and he does so with a roar. All throughout the house, this still-standing ruin, the candlelight dances madly, casting its light across the walls, the floors, the ancient furniture. With his senses swirling, Faramir claws frantically at Aragorn’s skin and the sucking stops abruptly, and Aragorn crashes down upon him and it is over.
Faramir is staring into nothingness. He is calm, having licked the remaining blood from Aragorn’s shoulder and lips. He is sated. Outside the rain is still falling but the storm is moving on.
His lover shifts on top of him. He presses a kiss to Faramir’s chest, choosing the familiar spot near his heart. “We still have hours before sunrise…” His voice is low and he speaks slowly. He enjoys the aftermath, he always has. His pleasure mounts after the first time – the first time after each day that is. Their first time was long ago.
Faramir lets out a sigh but he cannot refrain from smiling. “Will you be leaving soon?”
He already knows. Still he asks.
His hand sweeps down Aragorn’s back and even in this current state he makes sure it is an action fuelled by love.
Aragorn kisses his skin again but makes no further move. A last flare of lightning illuminates the house and then darkness embraces them again.
Faramir closes his eyes.
The last thing he felt that day, the day when he was turned, was not the blade scraping his insides, and it was not the agony of death seizing him.
It was Aragorn’s bloodied lips upon his own.
NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]
Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at http://www.faramirfiction.com/Fiction/blood. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!
Thank the author
The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: Anastasiya , Anastasiya