This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Darkfic (but not much angst), AU, rough m/m sex, a tiny bit of language».
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.
12 September 2011 | 3440 words
Summary: Not a sound. Not so much as a sound or it will be over, and this will be lost. If it exists at all.
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Warnings: Dark, but relatively angst free. Some rough m/m sex. A couple of bad words.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
A/N: I was going to say that I have no idea where this came from, but the more I think about it, the more I am inclined to believe that I, unintentionally, might have been inspired by the wonderful classic Swordspoint by Ellen Kushner (gay suicidal heroes anyone?) and perhaps also by The End of Mr. Y by Scarlett Thomas, which I recently read. Perhaps.
In any case, I hope you like it!
Ghosts Among Ruins
There was silence. And then the horse burst forth from the shadows.
It was a gaunt beast, bleak, almost translucent, in the perpetual night. A cold clatter of hooves rose to an echo among the ruined walls of the houses that lined the narrow street. The sound was only slightly muted by the gloom that lay over stone-upon-stone so heavily that it was beginning to dig its way into its very core. Almost white it was, the horse, a spectre of a kind. A phantom of days so vivid in memory and yet so ancient. But it had a hint of a mortal grey about it, too. Its nostrils flared wildly and its eyes were rolling in their sockets as it flew down the street; but it made no noise, apart from the unintentional when hooves met cracked cobblestone.
The man, for his part, stood completely still. He was as pale as the shadow of life that came thundering towards him, but he remained unmoving. There was tension in his shoulders, however, and his eyes over which his eyelids had hung heavy only a moment ago had had the time to both widen and calculatingly narrow to mere slits since the first rumble above him reached his ears. And in his breast there was growing anticipation; the closer the horse came, the quicker his heart beat. When they were close enough to one another – so close that he could feel the flow of terror that radiated from the wretched animal stain the thick air – the man felt almost giddy. He smiled when the massive body was upon him, the breadth of a hand away, and he very nearly forgot the warnings and laughed aloud as it rushed over him, pushed against him and through him all at once.
The collision was brutal. The man had meant to stand his ground but was forced to his knees at the onslaught. His breath was torn from him with the sensation that he imagined must be very similar to that of having a notched and rusty blade dragged up through one’s throat. With his insides burning, he was thrown backwards as the rush of clammy white flesh and crumbling bone and icy blood hit him. Then there was the odd sensation of a solid form passing through him, dragging itself through another existence that was he; and it lasted until the coarse tail cruelly whipped the back of his head and almost snapped it off his shoulders. The sharp bite of a hoof set his lower back screaming as metal met spine, and shoved him forwards again, as a parting gift, leaving him broken and blazing.
Then there was silence again; for an exhilarating second everything was a blinding white, and there were no thoughts, no questions, and no purpose. He drank it in, in deep breaths, until he choked on one as a hand grabbed hold of the neck of his shirt, mindless of any locks of hair, and yanked him upright.
“Have you lost all sense?!”
Like a pile of rags he was thrown up against a wall, so that his back collided with the stone. There was still pain but it was subsiding. Any bruises, purple like night-flowers, that would spread over his pale skin would be gone as soon as he laid eyes on them. They always were, and he knew not why that was so. He lifted his head and looked into a pair of grey eyes that were as dark as the sky above. “What?” he asked, almost lazily.
He earned himself another hard shove against the wall for that. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
He could not help but laugh. It was no crazy laugh, just a small burst of surprise tangled with the glorious excitement he’d just experienced. “Aragorn… That’d be rather pointless, would you not say?”
A sharp elbow jamming into his ribs was his first answer. And then a hiss, “We cannot know that!”
“No…?” He made a half-hearted attempt to worm himself free since being pressed into jagged stone with only a thin shirt to shield his skin was rather unpleasant. The other man’s hold on him was relentless, however, and so he quickly brought an end to his endeavour.
“No, we don’t.” With one hand, Aragorn pushed his head to the side and bared his throat a little to the ever-present shadows. His other was still on his chest, keeping him in place. “Be quiet!”
“Aragorn…” He was tired now. Not very much, but a little. He tried to relax and he remembered to keep his voice down. “Come, let us–”
But the other man’s voice had started to shake, and it cut harshly through the air even as it fell to a ragged whisper. “Quiet!”
He was slammed against the stone anew. Aragorn’s eyes were as wide as the horse’s had been, and his lips were trembling. In fact, so was his hand as it desperately tugged at his shirt. “Shut up, Faramir,” he hissed, his breath coming in small gasps. “Just, be quiet!”
He had no option, really, but to oblige. Aragorn’s hands grew frantic as they tore at Faramir’s clothes. A knee dug itself between the latter’s thighs and drove them apart. Their shirts and breeches and leggings were already soiled and some more rough treatment would hardly make a difference, but they were also the only items of clothing they had, and tearing laces and fastenings apart was ultimately a bad idea.
Faramir squirmed as Aragorn pushed against him while simultaneously trying to force open his shirt. “Listen…”
“No!” Aragorn’s eyes were flashing with a mixture of hunger and fear. They were paler now, taking on the slightest hint of the mad moon that sometimes sailed above them. “I need you to be quiet, Faramir.” His chaffed lips descended on the soft skin of the younger man’s neck, hard enough to mark it but restless enough to forget to do so.
Faramir’s vision blurred as Aragorn worked his way up to his ear and suckled his earlobe. There was a stale smell of forgotten caverns clinging to his lover, and muddy paths and dread. He let it surround him as well, and he easily left the lingering traces of fresh linen and kingsfoil behind.
Aragorn was already using his teeth, scraping them against the sensitive skin and breathing so heavily into his hair that Faramir felt his knees give way. The one lodged between his thighs prevented him from sliding to the ground but he could feel himself melt into the scarred stone and again his eyelids grew heavy. Aragorn’s hands were on his hips now, bringing their groins together with force. Faramir, upon discovering the state the older man was in, whimpered in response. Immediately two trembling fingers flew to his mouth to press against it.
“Hush!” Aragorn’s face was once more before his own. There were signs of battle in it still: he sported a cut on his cheek and the ghost of a bruise near his temple. Then there was the never-resting light in his eyes; it fed on panic, Faramir had figured out, and was so very much alive. “No sounds!”
Faramir gave a small smile and he rubbed himself against Aragorn, even though he was weary. “But you feel so good,” he whispered, watching how the words made his lord go, for a heartbeat, almost as pliant as he himself was. “I want you to know…”
“No!” Aragorn covered his mouth with his own.
The kiss was uncompromising. Faramir was forced to open up as Aragorn drove his tongue deep into his mouth, preventing any more words from reaching the night. He kissed the younger man uncontrollably, drawing a bit of blood as teeth grated against lips; and he sucked and twisted his tongue in a fashion that had Faramir silently begging for more. Anything that made him feel so powerless and so desired was grace; there was a plea in his very bones to be free of all demands and obligations, and there was such a tantalising promise hidden in the way Aragorn made him burn and bleed, and ache and explode.
Hands were all over him. Aragorn shoved one between their bodies and palmed Faramir’s arousal while pushing his own against the back of his own hand. There was not nearly enough friction. Using up the last of his energy, Faramir thrust into the hand that finally cupped his hard length and would have groaned had Aragorn not prohibited it. The hand cupped hard, the touch on the verge of becoming painful. And then the kiss ended.
Panting, Faramir, tried to stay upright but failed and, on some level, was not surprised when Aragorn let him fall to his knees before him with the stone cutting through his shirt and clawing at his back. There was no hesitation in the way that Aragorn shoved his still covered erection into his face. The hard bulge pressed against Faramir’s cheek and through the leather he could smell what lay on the other side: frustration, desire and the suggestion of a release so profound that only the final downfall of the world could match it in strength and anguish.
Faramir’s hands were clumsy, having attracted sleep when he paused to simply breathe, and half blind he fumbled with the lacings. He would have swayed had he had more space. In the end, his hands fell back to his sides and Aragorn’s anxious hand grabbed him by the back of his head and pressed his face into his thigh. Faramir heard and sensed the knots being dealt with, and he wished he were not so tired. When he was permitted to return to his task, the coarse leather of Aragorn’s breeches rasped against his cheek as he turned his head. The hard shaft had sprung out to greet him and dimly he decided to waste no time on sweetness. Faramir, his knees grating into the cobblestone, leaned in and took as much of the throbbing flesh in his mouth as he could manage, but Aragorn was too hot, too hard and too big, and Faramir choked, letting the cock slide from his lips. Wedged as he was between the wall and his lord’s body there was not much he could do but to turn his face away and hope Aragorn would pull back. And he did so, but only for a short moment.
Holding his cock by its base, he pushed it against Faramir’s mouth. He said nothing, but his harsh breathing together with the action was order enough. The heated skin scorched the younger man’s tongue and when he swallowed around it, Aragorn bucked, barely able to quench a moan. Faramir closed his eyes and made to suck a little harder. There was pain in the way Aragorn’s fingers tangled in his hair but it chased the softness that was wrapping around his senses away and he managed to lift his hands to Aragorn’s hips. His lover bucked again, shoving more of hos cock into Faramir’s mouth and the younger man dug his fingers into the older man’s backside and did not protest.
With the pain and the saltiness came more heat. It began trickling through Faramir at a slow but steady pace. It wove into the daze and if he for one moment had thought himself to be back in the white, sweet-smelling sea with the gentle voices, he was now absolutely certain that it had only been a trick of sorts. His teeth grazed the pounding flesh and the heat cleaved his spine into two and came sizzling to his loins. His own body’s responses made his breeches very tight over his own groin, and he wished he could stroke himself, fuck his own hand like Aragorn wanted to fuck his mouth. He had nothing to set against that demand and so he relaxed his throat and dropped the pace in order to be able to find his balance. He was given no more time to prepare before Aragorn seized control.
The older man drove in and out of his mouth, uncaring of the younger man’s head moving dangerously close to the stone. He set his own pace, obliterating rational thought and, eventually, the need to breathe. Faramir clung to him, sucking when he could, but mostly providing wet warmth and some type of friction.
It ended brutally. Aragorn, again taking his cock by the base, pulled it out of his mouth. It was leaking profusely at the tip now and glistened among the shadows and the sickly light that spilled down from a mock image of the moon, tossed into the low sky above the broken towers and rooftops. Faramir could not hold back a groan as Aragorn rubbed the head of his cock against his swollen lips, and then, heedless of any stubble, against his cheeks.
But he did not come. Faramir was hauled up again and, this time, found himself with his chest flat against the unyielding wall. His lacings were swiftly conquered and cool air fingered his arse as Aragorn parted the abused cheeks and probed the entrance to his body.
Faramir pressed his face into the wall and shivered as Aragorn’s hot breath sifted through his tangled hair. “You must be quiet now,” he rasped. “No noises…” his whisper grew urgent as he pushed the tip of his arousal against the forbidding muscle.
With his eyes already squeezed shut, Faramir nodded, not caring that his cheek stung where the stone dug into it. With his leggings sliding down his thighs, he was able to widen his stance a little and took a deep breath.
There was pain again as Aragorn breached him. Pain enough to make him want to cry out but he bit down on his own tongue and found that the metallic taste of blood went well with the nauseating burn. He choked on a sob as he was filled, and there were tiny silver stars twinkling at the edges of his vision. The only stars he ever saw in this place.
“Hush…” Aragorn was shaking as he sheathed himself completely in the darkness. His voice had cracked and he, too, sounded close to tears. “Please, Faramir, no sounds.”
Faramir was hard against the wall, harder than he had ever been before and he knew that somehow Aragorn could feel that. Of the times, he was not sure if they were many or few – time had a way of twisting around itself here – he and Aragorn had done this, now was the most painful, and the most liberating.
“Hard,” he begged, in no more than a faint gust of air, “deep…”
“Quiet!” Aragorn’s hand flew to his mouth again to cover it. “They’ll find us… They’ll hear us…” He pulled almost all the way out of Faramir before slamming into him with such force that what was left of his voice dwindled into a harsh exhale. “He’ll know…”
With Aragorn’s hand preventing him from speaking, Faramir could only nod again, an awkward jerk of his head. His senses were fleeing him now, or perhaps awareness was being reduced to the lower part of his body, where he was joined with Aragorn – the man who had set out to save him but ended up merging with him, in the dark. Faramir pushed back, impaling himself on Aragorn’s hard cock. The hand left his mouth to fall to his waist. Faramir ground his hips into the wall, with the other man pushing deeper and deeper and deeper… The ruined City towered silently above them, and there were no lights and no voices – just like Aragorn wanted.
He fucked Faramir desperately, but also with some determination. He held the younger man nailed to the wall of the crumbling house, held him close and yet not too close because then he would have no room to move. His thrusts grew harsher and Faramir’s skin was coated by a cold sweat. He was drowning in ragged breathing and pounding blood and when Aragorn pulled him back enough to curl his hand around Faramir’s straining cock, he tasted blood again, but he knew not the source of it.
Aragorn’s pace was cruel and addictive. His calloused hands raced against the burning skin, and tugged and twisted until Faramir was weeping. He knew he whimpered, he must have, for Aragorn’s warnings were all around him again: “Quiet… quiet, dearest Faramir… He’ll hear you, he’ll find you in the shadows and bring you back.” His thrusts into Faramir’s trembling body were irregular now. “He’ll find me too… Mithrandir.”
Faramir could not stop. He pushed back again, pushed into Aragorn’s hand, high now on the building tide. He could not die here – Aragorn might be uncertain, but Faramir knew – and here he needed not succumb to any other madness than his own. Here there were no hopeless missions and no other threats than his own soul breaking. And if it did, and he lacked the power to heal it – or was forgotten by the gods who were supposed to be love – he would only know a deeper sense of freedom, he thought. And as he felt Aragorn tear through his body, he wondered if it was not already too late, and he wondered if it was the same for Aragorn. If it were so, if they were truly lost, and all he would ever know again were the thrusts of Aragorn’s cock, every shattering stab of pleasure, and every tremble and shiver, then he would be thankful.
Honour was no longer, he had decided. There was no redemption. If this was what it meant to lose, then Faramir had no interest in victory.
When he came, he bit down on his knuckles, making his teeth penetrate his skin. He could feel his inner muscles clamping down, catching Aragorn in an iron grasp. The older man could not move when his searing hot release shot forth into Faramir’s body. They stood perfectly immobile for a moment before they tumbled to the ground, and Faramir felt as though the blood in his veins had been exchanged for fire. Aragorn fell on top of him, his cock still buried to the hilt in his body. Gasping for air, Faramir’s nails scraped against the broken stone and he let his mind dissolve.
When he came to, Aragorn had pushed him down onto his stomach and had draped himself over him. There was wet warmth as a tongue teased his ear and Faramir shivered. With his cock gone soft Aragorn could not do much fucking but he tried, slipping in and out of the limp body at a slow pace. Faramir slid a hand under his cheek and felt the weariness of the world seep into his bones and muscles. And the tears that had not yet dried on his face.
“Don’t let him…” His voice sounded so weak as it met with the ground.
Aragorn ceased his movements and came to lie very still. Faramir’s hole was loose now as the guardian muscle had failed in its task. “Sweetest?”
He always seemed to calm down after sex; afterwards, he was less afraid. Faramir tried to stay with him, tried to hold on and not slip away, but it was hard. Words came to him very slowly and he spoke with much difficulty. “Don’t… don’t let him find us. Please… No more… healing.”
Cold fingers twined around his free hand and dry lips left kisses near his temple. Aragorn’s voice was strained but it held. “No more, dearest… No more.”
Dazedly, on the very edge of conscious thought, Faramir wondered what Aragorn was seeing while his own eyesight faltered as sleep finally claimed him.
For himself, he did not expect to see another dawn.
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/ghosts-among-ruins. 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: alecia , LN Tora