Faramir Fiction Archive

Antidote (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 October 2012 | 2932 words

Title: Antidote
Pairing: Aragorn / Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Darkfic, non-con, OOC and nasty Gandalf
Disclaimer: All characters and places are Tolkien’s.
Author’s Notes: Written for the ‘Ravished’ prompt for the 50_darkfics community.
Summary: Aragorn is injured and the only antidote that can heal him has terrible side effects. A solution is needed

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Aragorn moaned as he shifted restlessly in his half awakened state. He felt strangely hot and his head hurt terribly and a dull bitter taste lingered in his mouth. He felt movement around him and tried to rise, but his limbs felt strangely leaden and his eyes seemed unwilling to open fully. He heard a soft voice, and then a harsh sound. A shaft of bright light suddenly pierced through his half closed eyes hurting causing his head to hurt worse. He groaned and turned his face away.

He rose abruptly, surprised by his unfamiliar surroundings and then cried out as his body protested – pain seized his head and shoulders and he felt himself slump back into the bed, against soft pillows and sheets. He was completely naked, he realised as he slumped further down, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

He felt hands on his shoulders, as someone raised him. A soft voice spoke encouragingly in his ear. Cold metal touched his chin and he gulped the cool, refreshing water with relief. He sighed as the gentle hands brushed away the hair from his face. It was not Arwen, he realised, for the body he leaned against was all hard planes instead of soft curves.

He pushed away the goblet, having had his fill of water and slumped gratefully against the other man. He felt a damp washcloth run over his chest and stomach and sighed gratefully.

As the hands moved lower he felt his body respond and leaned closer. A delicious feeling spread through his lower body and he moaned eagerly, as he felt his groin tighten.

“Love,” he said softly, leaning closer into the other man. He felt himself being laid back on the bed. He felt warm and flushed. The heaviness between his legs, once pleasurable now ached in a manner he could not explain. He found himself crying, a strange desire coursing through him. The sensation in his groin grew more and more uncomfortable, the heaviness settling in his very core.

He found himself thinking of the way once clever hands, roughened with years of warring, took care of his need, playing with his aroused flesh. He remembered how the delicious tightness of an oil-slicked channel felt around his length. He moaned and let his consciousness drift away.

Aragorn woke in the morning to bright cheerful sunlight streaming through the windows of his bedchamber, the trilling of the birds outside his window and the exasperating but never unwelcome sounds of his brothers arguing about weaponry.

“You’re awake finally!” Elrohir exclaimed, “I’ll get Arwen! How do you feel?”

“I feel very well,” Aragorn replied, “Why do you ask?”

And truly, he did feel very well indeed. He felt a vitality coursing through his limbs, unlike anything he had ever felt before. His head had stopped aching and the pain in his shoulders had come down to a dull discomfort. He blinked his eyes a few times and then rose slowly, mindful of his body’s protests. The room was large, with grey stone walls and floor, but furnished with only the bed a large shabby chair and a table by the bedside. A goblet full of water stood on the table. He pushed away the bed clothes and realised he was naked.

“What happened to me?” he demanded.

“You were injured in a skirmish with Haradric raiders,” Elladan told him, “You were unconscious for two days for the arrows were poisoned with an extract we knew naught about. Not even Ada knew what to do. You were fevered and unresponsive and we were all worried. And then Gandalf brought the antidote two days ago. The fever came down overnight and here you are; all perfectly fine again!”

He was more than perfectly fine, Aragorn declared, and again as he thanked Gandalf. Elrond still looked worried though, and it took repeated reassurances from Aragorn before he could look relaxed again.

“I was just lucky, I still had some of that herb left,” Gandalf had murmured.

“Where did you get that herb from?” Elrond shouted, “Whatever samples we had were all destroyed completely.”

“I had some of it left,” Gandalf retorted.

“You do not know the full effects of the herb!” Elrond hissed, as he looked down at the sleeping figure of his son-in-law, “Whatever made you give it to him?” He cast a distasteful look at a small heap of dried leaves.

“I do know the effects very well. I have studied them in the past. I had to give it to him,” Gandalf said calmly, “There is no other cure. The wound was deep and the poison was strong. This is the only antidote, you know that as well as I.”

“It will drive him insane.”

“It is the only antidote for the poison,” Gandalf repeated firmly.

“But the side effects-“

“Can be countered.”

“How? When he wakes up he will be – wild – out of control. It is said the herb is so potent it makes people…” he paused, “It forces them to give in to their urges, in a more violent fashion, perhaps. It can only be countered if he is allowed to give in to those urges.”

“We will let him give in to those urges then,” Gandalf replied calmly.

“They will be urges of a sexual nature,” Elrond gritted out, “Or perhaps violence among some.”

“Not Aragorn, I deem. His urges will more likely be sexual. We will just have to let him have an outlet to expend them.”

“An outlet??”

“Oh surely you understand? Let him lie with someone!”

“You would have him go to Arwen? I will not allow it!

“No, not Arwen. It will be beyond her to sate him. But there are others who may be found willing to do so.”

“Who would be fool enough to agree to that?” Elrond asked sharply.

“Someone who would be willing to serve his king in any capacity,” Gandalf replied calmly.

“His?”

“And he could be told that such a task would be all that is needed for him to prove his loyalty to those of the king’s kin who doubt him still.”

“Who do you speak of,” Elrond demanded, worried eyes flickering over to the king’s bed.

Gandalf opened the door and beckoned a page.

“Fetch the Steward,” he told him.

Faramir entered the king’s chambers quietly, and closed the doors behind him. He smiled as he realised the king was awake, and standing by the window, a sheet wrapped around his lower body. His bare body glistened with sweat in the pale yellow light.

“Sire,” he said gently, “I am glad to see you awake!”

The king turned at the sound of his voice. He looked so different today, Faramir thought as the grey eyes turned towards him, full of energy and vitality, such a change from the pale, still figure carried in two days ago on a pallet after that fateful skirmish.

The older man let his sheet fall aside.

Faramir gasped as the king stood completely naked in front of him. Even in his recovery, he looked beautiful, his frame lithe and well-muscled. He drank in the sight of the man he’d been in love with from afar all these days, taking in each perfect sinew and muscle. He found his eyes drawn immediately to the king’s lower body, and felt his own body respond as he stared at the large aroused member standing erect. The king was even more spectacularly well-endowed as he’d imagined.

He took in the curve of the full engorged length, and felt his mouth go dry…. he had dreamt often of the king and he, their naked bodies wrapped around each other, pleasuring each other… the king was far, far more magnificent that he had imagined. He moaned as he felt his own body respond.

“Faramir!” the king said, and smiled.

Faramir reluctantly drew his gaze upwards and felt a strange inkling of sensation, almost like fear. Elessar’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, and a trickle of spittle trailed down from his mouth. He moved forward.

“I’m glad to see you here…”

Suddenly, Faramir wasn’t really sure whether the king was healing as well as Gandalf had said.

“Aragorn is healing well now,” Gandalf had said a few hours earlier, after they had exchanged greetings.
I know you will be please to hear that. Unlike some others, I will not shame you by asking where your loyalties lie.”

“Mithrandir!” Faramir protested.

“Hush, child, I know you well. I know just as well the talk that abounds. Elrond and his kin may heed the words of trouble mongers but I keep my own counsel. As thankfully does Aragorn. It is clear he dismisses these unsavoury rumours about you and Denethor’s influence on your thoughts. But the talk remains…”

Faramir frowned and made to reply but Gandalf forestalled him.

“And now after this attack on the king, it will only increase.”

“I love Elessar,” Faramir said quietly, the underlying passion clear in his soft words.

“I know, child. And you will do anything for him, will you not?”

“Of course,” he said promptly.

“I know you love him greatly, more so that perhaps he could return to you,” he said gently.

Faramir nodded quietly, flushing a little.

“Would you perhaps help him by staying with him this night and seeing to all his needs?”

“Certainly.”

“It will not be easy. He may be – difficult. But you must take care of him. It will help allay all the talk, Elrond himself will see to that.”

“Sire?” Faramir said, a little doubtfully, “Would you not rather lie down a while?”

The king sprang at him in one swift motion. He felt himself being thrown back against the floor, landing with a crash on his back, barely managing to save his head from the impact. He lay winded on the floor, his back and neck aching. The king crouched over him.

Faramir raised himself, instinctively reaching out a hand. But the king brushed his hand away. He leant over him, one large hand gripped Faramir’s shoulder hard, pressing him down against the cold floor.

“I would certainly like to lie down!” the king said softly. Grey eyes glinted ferally and a cruel smile flashed across the handsome features.

“Sire…” Faramir whispered hoarsely. Elessar seemed strangely terrifying. The grip on his shoulders tightened, and the king straddled himself over Faramir’s lower body. The younger man bit back a gasp as he felt the king’s hard shaft brush against him. A sliver of steel glinted in the king’s other hand. Faramir swallowed as a small knife was brought close to his face.

He felt his own arousal go limp.

“You talk too much…. a mouth like yours has far better uses,” Elessar smirked, and ran the knife over Faramir’s lips. The edge felt sharp and the taste of metal filled Faramir’s mouth.

Faramir found he was breathing heavily now, in short gasps. Metal and fingers lingered over his lip, and trailed down his neck to his throat.

He could push him off, Faramir thought dazedly… clenching his fists against the hard floor… But this was his king. He couldn’t raise his hand to his king…

“Please… I don’t understand…”

“But I’m anxious to have a taste of your lovely body,” the king continued, and tore at Faramir’s tunic in a swift, forceful motion with the knife. The bindings flew loose, and the fabric tore easily. Faramir took a shuddering breath, his chest heaving painfully. Elessar moved, one hand still on Faramir’s shoulder, still holding him down and then he felt the other hand inch down his body. He jerked a leg, and made to rise, to somehow slip away from under the king

Cold metal snaked down his abdomen, slipping under his pants and he stilled immediately. The knife moved down, ripping away the ties, brushing his limp penis lightly. He froze at the brief touch, his breath catching. And then with a swift jerking motion, Elessar tugged the knife up, and slashed it across Faramir’s groin cutting away the cloth completely.

Faramir moaned. He lay bared in front of the king now, his torn clothes gathered at his arms and thighs. The grip on his shoulder loosened.

“That’s quite a fine body you hide away under these ugly clothes,” the king commented, “Can’t see why you wear them.”

He raised Faramir’s legs and spread them apart, his grip hard and bruising. Faramir squirmed, flushing uncomfortably as he was exposed completely to the hungered gaze.

“Very fine indeed,” Elessar murmured, his voice laced with desire.

His fingers stroked all the way down Faramir’s trembling inner thigh, halting over Faramir’s flaccid penis. He tugged at it painfully, fingering and squeezing the pliant flesh. Faramir’s breath hitched and he whimpered slightly, his trembling body unable to respond to the king with anything but fear.

Aragorn snorted and let the unresponsive shaft slip out of his fingers, still soft.

He then cupped his hands under Faramir’s buttocks, spreading them apart and pulling him forward. He stroked Faramir’s exposed entrance, prodding a finger into the tightness, his nail scraping the sensitive flesh painfully. The steward gazed at him fearfully.

“This looks most enjoyable,” the king declared, and moved forward till the head of his swollen penis rested at the tight opening.

He entered Faramir in a swift painful motion, thrusting his length hurriedly into the unprepared entrance.

The younger man cried out as the pain cut through his dazed mind. He felt his shoulders held down again, his aching upper back pressed onto the floor, as his body curved to take in the length. His legs were pushed higher up and pain flared through his entire lower body as the king’s girth pushed deeper into his unprepared channel.

He grunted in pain as the thrusts continued, the king pulling out and pushing back in, his fingers pressing into Faramir’s waist and hips pulling him in. Fingers grasped his lifeless member, tugging viciously at it, squeezing it, seeking to force him into an arousal that he could no longer feel. He felt hands over his chest and stomach, nails raking his ribs, teeth pulling at his nipples painfully, marking him all over.

He heard soft moaning sounds that he realised soon were emanating from his own throat, for the king only let out loud joyous shouts with each thrust.

And then finally he felt the king still, and then the warm spurt of his release coat his channel. Elessar pulled out as suddenly and painfully as he had entered, his release trailing out of his Faramir’s entrance, intermingled with a trickle of blood from where the stretched skin had torn. He sat back on his haunches between Faramir’s legs. He reached out and dipped his fingers in the sticky liquid trickling out. He ran it lightly over Faramir’s thighs, abdomen, and chest, a mic of white and pale pink.

When he was done, Faramir made to rise, dazed and shocked, only to be shoved back again. He stared in horror at the king’s shaft, rigid again, nudging between his legs…again.

“I enjoyed that,” Elessar told him calmly, “If I had known earlier what a charming little thing you were, I’d have given into your pathetic, begging eyes and opened my bedchamber to you many days ago.”

The king’s ardour showed no signs of flagging through the night. He would release himself inside Faramir, the hot stickiness filling up the torn channel, and pummel him in his groin, tugging his limp penis and testicles repeatedly, as though to force him into arousal, he twisted his nipples cruelly, raked his nails over his ribs and back, and nipped his teeth along his collarbone, his hip bones and his inside thighs.

And then within mere minutes he would begin to harden again, turn Faramir around and enter him yet again, grabbing his hips, and pound him into the hard floor.

The younger man remembered little after the first two times. The rest of the night passed in a haze of pain and misery

When Faramir woke, he was in his own bedchamber, clad in a nightshirt. His torn clothes were nowhere to be seen. He’d been bathed, but the signs of the previous night were clearly visible on his body. Bruises marked his entire body. His nipples were swollen and red, the skin broken where the teeth had bitten deep, tiny flecks of blood glistening on them. His waist, hips, groin and thighs, even his penis were covered in purpling marks where the king’s fingers had dug deep into the skin.

Aragorn stared at Faramir curiously. For some days now, the younger man seemed to move and work slower than usual. He wondered if he’d been injured too during the skirmish, but that was apparently not the case. And he avoided speaking to Gandalf completely.

Aragorn shrugged. The Steward continued to do his work well. And he no longer seemed to look at Aragorn with that disturbingly devoted gaze that had quite worried the king. Perhaps seeing him injured, had reminded Faramir that he too was human after all. His other concerns, whatever they may be, had nothing to do with him.

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