Faramir Fiction Archive

Cold Comfort (NC-17)

Written by Vanwa Hravani

20 December 2008 | 1999 words

Title: Cold Comfort
Author: Vanwa Hravani
Assignment: You asked for Faramir/Elf h/c with hot sex and a happy ending. I, ah, interpreted the ‘Faramir comforting’ part. Hope you like it. Happy Holidays!
Disclaimer: Not even the bunny belongs to me, though I liked running my hands through its fur.
Pairing: Faramir/Melpomaen
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Little bit o kink; consensual? Hmmmm…
Timeline: Totally AU – as presence of Mel would suggest. Ithilien, post-Ring War.

Written for the 2008 Midwinter Swap.

Request by anorienparker: Faramir/Elf, hurt/comfort with Faramir doing the comforting, hot sex, happy ending

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Ssshh. It’s just me.

The Ranger’s voice comes soft behind me as he enters the darkened room. I strain my ears but hear nothing as he crosses to where I am. A hand lightly rests on my bare shoulder and instantly grows more firm, calming, holding me in place when I flinch. His touch is gentle as he strokes the hair back from my forehead, encounters the cloth tied there. The other hand finds the knot where my wrists are bound behind me. I don’t want to be seen like this and bow my head. He moves to my side and places a chaste kiss where his hand had been, and hooks a finger under my chin to raise my face. I can feel the glow of candlelight against my cheekbones. I smell his scent – anise, clove, sun and leather. Faramir. It should comfort me, but now it sends a finger of ice down my spine. I am glad I cannot see the look in his gray eyes.

You’re going to be okay.

I want to believe him but I can’t stop shaking. Though I try to control it, fear claws at my belly; my mouth goes dry and a trickle of sweat escapes my armpit to slide down the bare skin over my ribs. Please don’t let him see it.

But he does, and places the palm of his other hand against it, trapping the droplet, and spreading it back into my skin as his hand moves upward to grasp my shoulder, pressing.

Just breathe, Mel, he whispers. Just relax. You’re going to be fine.

He extends his fingers and slides them down the sensitive skin of my neck until my throat is cupped in the V of his hand, and he hesitates. A calloused thumb brushes thoughtfully across my pulse. He presses slightly and I know he can feel my blood pounding there, if he cannot also hear my heartbeat as I can. Too fast.

Just relax. I’m going to take care of you.

The words just a stir of air as his lips hover by my ear. I try to swallow the lump in my throat, knowing he feels the contracting muscles beneath his hand. A whisper, steel on leather, and cold slides up my temple, under the cloth. The knife pauses before cutting the cloth, then instead retreats to press where his thumb had been, against my throat. A hard-edged line that feels impossibly thinner than it ought. The blade must be very sharp. I freeze.

No one’s going to hurt you.

I almost cry out at this, but swallow it, letting out no more than a whimper.

His other hand, flat against my shoulder, begins a slow slide down my body. The palm first pulls at the skin of my neck, stretching it taut against his blade. I know this knife. It is ever on him, a part of his dressing. Less a tool than an extension of his hand. Dangerous and beautiful. Such a wound would not easily close.

He is behind me now, and I feel the softness of his hair falling over my shoulder as he leans to watch my face. Soft and strong; gentle and dangerous. Such disparate sensations to be so close to one another, so often hidden. So it is with him.

His palm slides lower, possessive and sure, across the muscles of my chest and one nipple. Without slowing he grinds the heel of his hand against the tightening nub and against my will, I gasp. The blade presses harder at my windpipe.

Shhhh.

One long finger and a bow toughened thumb find the other bud, rolling it between them, sending spasms of pain through my arms, to my spine and thighs. This time I bite my tongue. He exhales and I know he is smiling. How his face must look. Candlelight turning his hair amber, dancing on the angles of his cheek and brow. Eyes lidded, shadows pooling in the hollows.

Turning his hand, he draws the back of four fingernails down my side, following the slant of my ribs, lightly, so lightly.

His hand bears down. Now flat against my flesh it slides between my legs, fingers first, finding the channel between my thigh and groin, a sleeve of skin.

What are you afraid of?

The blade turns in his hand — flat against my throat. Broader than I thought. And still cold. It must be thick to stay so cold. Sharp. Presses it against my flesh — now two lines of skin on the blade – under my chin, another two inches lower. A slight shift of my head will force the lower edge against my pulse. I feel it falter. I strain to keep my head back and still. Feel him smile again.

That’s it. Just let me take over.

A finger strokes the crease where my thigh and calf press together, toying with the boundary. The downy hairs of my thigh are electrified. At the apex now, the hand cups my sac. Warm, comforting; so safe, so vulnerable. He waits, making me aware how much he holds in his palm. I do not breathe. His long fingers curl again to stroke the tender skin on the sides, to trace where it joins my body, the steely tendons there, under butter soft skin.

His arm across my chest, hand forcing my head back as he palms the blade with the other. It slides, finds the crease of my thigh. The knife now hot, smooth, sliding under me, caressing, with fear. I cannot help but groan. My terror excites him. Blindfolded, I can smell it. I stiffen in response, aching.

He is in front of me now, pressing me back until I lie upon the hard stone floor. It feels gritty and I cannot forget where we are. My arms still bound behind me force my pelvis up, my weight on my shoulders to ease the pain. I feel him, his leather hot and damp between my legs. The friction – and the scent of sweat and suede mingling. Rawhide laces. Then skin. His length sliding, teasing against my entrance – just a moment – pulling away. I whimper. Hot friction sliding up, grinding against my own taut length, so hard. I open my mouth to gasp, to lick my lips – and feel it.

The knife just there, sliding over my bottom lip, toying with my tongue.

Let me in, Mel.

He is forcing me – I am begging – mouth wider now, tongue reaching, desperate for the slick metal, the threat. Licking, needing – more – I whine and he stills his motion, pressing his shaft along mine, crushing my sac against me — sweet pain — as he watches. I can feel him, hear his breath catch. I moan in ecstasy – letting him fuck my mouth with his knife. Oh gods, this knife…

It’s gone. My mouth left empty, wet, wanting – my tongue searching, reaching up into empty air, finding nothing. I can’t feel him, sense him. Where…?

You can trust me.

Searing pain engulfs my cock, instantly canceled by a wave of pleasure, fullness, two slick fingers thrust deeply inside. Bending, twisting til stars explode behind my eyes, light in my blindfolded world. They pull out only to thrust back in, wet now with my own juice and sweat. He adds a third beside them and opens me, stretching, baring my secret parts to him. I feel it near, near my face, but his fingers are fucking me rhythmically in – out – in – out – in – pressing that bundle inside me with every stroke, going and coming.

I am keening quietly, quietly. We are still in danger. I am still afraid. But I can’t stop. The terror, the sweat, the dirt, the darkness – they heighten my senses; add to my need; stiffen my aching cock with forbidden excitement.

Just trust.

My lips open as I pant, giving in to dark pleasure, and it is on my lip, sliding over my tongue. The knife. I welcome it. Tasting… salt… musk… Faramir’s precum smeared on the blade with… blood. My own. A flash of understanding. The pain on my cock as he entered me. He feeds me my own blood, mixed with his juice. Our essence blending. I suckle the knife, mindless of the small cuts on my lips. I never knew… I cannot stop –

He breaches me, hips slamming home against my thighs, spreads me further, granting himself deeper access. It hurts. I love it. Moaning in ecstasy. I know he is watching my face. Know he sees me writhe, reaching for the blade, straining back against him, meeting his thrust, driving him deeper inside me. Muscles gripping him, pressure building. I cannot –

Let go.

Exploding in the darkness – wild colors and light. Set free. Arching back til my ass leaves the floor, straining ever upward, into him as he fills me completely. I can feel his thrusts in the base of my skull. Rock back onto my shoulders and head, my chin to the ceiling, gasping in ecstasy, a growl building in desperate crescendo, silently screaming toward release. Wave upon wave of unfettered pleasure seizing me, lifting me, throwing me back against the stone as he pounds brutally home. I see him in my mind, head thrown back now, no longer watching me as he takes his own pleasure, overcome, undone. Hot juice fills me as he throws himself against me, grabbing a handful of hair to drag my head down and crush my lips on his, tasting my blood. He licks my lips hungrily, growling as he seeks the coppery taste, sucking my tongue in, moaning his own release into my mouth, into my bones.

With a shudder he collapses against me. His sweat damp hair falls against my neck, ragged breath harsh at my ear.

He stills. I swallow, and wait.

With a sigh, Faramir pushes himself upright and slides from my body. He lifts off only to lean back between my legs, catching his seed as it leaks from inside me. He cleans me with his tongue, laving my burning passage. And then runs his tongue up my spent cock. It stings.

His breath hot on my face, a quivering kiss. Again our mingled scents, mingled tastes – earth and metal. He pulls away to run the tip of his soft tongue along my temple, catching a droplet of sweat.

Come, Mel. Let me get you to safety, he whispers huskily.

Gathering me in his arms, he wraps his own cloak around me and lifts me to his chest.

I’m unaware of the twisting hallways he carries me through, but feel the change as we leave the building for the bright sunlight. Other voices approach. The Rangers.

“Captain Faramir! You found him. He is injured?

“I think not. Merely exhausted.”

“Who would have thought they could hide so long in the old library? Must have thought no one would ever come there.”

“Help me cut his hands loose please. The knife at the back of my belt.”

“Yes, sir…”

“… Uh, Captain, there’s blood on it. Did something happen inside?”

“Nothing to worry about. It was nothing.”

I am grateful the blindfold still covers my eyes, catches my tears.

Soft curls brush my cheek; Faramir’s lips at my ear.

I’ve got you now.

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