Faramir Fiction Archive

Under Pressure (NC-17)

Written by RubyElf

20 October 2011 | 40533 words

Title: Under Pressure
Author: RubyElf
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: violence, hurt/comfort

With Boromir and the hobbits missing, an attempt on Arwen’s life that endangers Legolas instead, and an army gathering at Gondor’s southern borders, Faramir’s unique abilities are called upon to help defend Gondor even while those he loves most are in grave danger.

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Faramir resisted the temptation to rest his head in his hands and doze off as he listened to the King’s advisors debating and discussing the current situation across the table. At the moment, none of them had any idea what the King and his army might find as they traveled south, or what sort of harm might have come to the Steward, and all of them had heard the rumors that Arwen was desperately ill, or worse. Only a few of the royal family’s trusted guards had seen her, and they were under strict orders to answer no questions about her health or her whereabouts. Several of the advisors had already made some comments in Faramir’s general vicinity that if either of the heirs to the line of Stewards would stop messing about and get down to the business of producing offspring, some of these issues might not be so problematic, which had forced Faramir to resist the urge to chuckle. They seemed to have come to the conclusion that the Steward himself, for whatever reason, served his King with a single-minded determination that seemed to distract him from any romantic pursuits, but the Steward’s younger brother, handsome and well-liked in Gondor and lacking his brother’s stubbornness and hot temper, should have been easy to marry off, even if for unknown reasons he and the Lady Éowyn had called off their engagement.

He did not feel inclined to discuss the situation with them at the moment, so he leaned back in his chair and attempted to keep his eyes open and maintain enough consciousness to respond if his name was spoken.

Faramir.
He sat up a bit; the voice was stronger and sounded more like Legolas than before.

I’m bored.
Not as bored as I am, Faramir thought, rolling his eyes and trying to direct the thought toward Legolas.

At least you can move properly. I’m stuck on the couch and I already read all the books you left for me, and I can’t get to the ones on the shelf, and…

Faramir smiled to himself. You’ll be back on your feet soon.

Not soon enough.

Please stop, Legolas. I have to pay attention.

The voice ceased, and for a moment Faramir thought he might be able to get through the rest of the meeting in peace. He had, apparently, underestimated how bored Legolas was and the lengths to which he was willing to go to entertain himself.

The man was attempting to listen to something being said about Boromir’s tendency to take situations into his own hands, which the advisors seemed to disapprove of, when another disturbance flashed through his head. This, though, wasn’t a voice: it was an image. Specifically, it was an image of a particular fair-haired elf stretched out on his bed, smiling, entirely naked, blindfolded, with his hands bound above his head with strips of cloth.

A few of the advisors glanced at the young Captain with concern as he jerked upright in his seat with a gasp.

“Captain Faramir?”

He shook his head, clearing the image away. “Excuse me. I’m just a bit tired. Please go on.”

He had just fallen back into the sleepy half-listening state when another image popped into his head. It was the same scene as before, but this time the elf had apparently got one of his hands loose, because that strong archer’s hand was now lazily but steadily stroking the elf’s hard cock.

He managed to keep himself silent this time, but just barely.

Good gods, Legolas. Please stop it.

A soft chuckle. You’re already hard just thinking about it, aren’t you?

Faramir scowled. Yes, and that’s rather inconvenient in a room full of Aragorn’s advisors!

Well, I told you I was bored.

Faramir sat back in his chair, remembering what Arwen had said about eventually learning to control the communication between them. At the moment, though, Faramir didn’t have time for “eventually”, so he closed his eyes and did his best to ignore any further distractions.

The next image, which did not seem to have any difficulty getting into his head, showed the elf again, still blindfolded, but now standing naked with his back to the cool stone wall of Faramir’s bedroom with his arms bound to the lantern hook above his head, the lean body stretching smoothly from long legs to arched back and arms wiry and tight as bowstrings.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Captain Faramir?” one of the advisors asked, frowning.

“Err… check. I need to check on something. It’s… important. I’ll be back shortly.”

He made his move for the door quickly, before anyone could notice the rather obvious effect of the elf’s efforts on particular parts of his anatomy. His hands clenched into fists as he strode down the hall; there were two things he was sorely tempted to do to Legolas, but unfortunately neither beating him or fucking him into the wall seemed like reasonable options considering his condition.

“Bloody elf tease,” he muttered to himself.

“I hope you’re not addressing me,” a soft voice said.

Faramir spun. “Arwen! What? No. The other elf.”

She smiled. “I assumed that was the case. Is he taking advantage of your bond to torment you?”

Faramir closed his eyes. “Ugh. Yes.”

“You do know that two can play at that game,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “And unlike you, Legolas can’t even come after you to make you stop.”

“Hmm,” Faramir muttered thoughtfully. “That’s a very interesting possibility.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You two are going to have some things to work out, and Legolas is not accustomed to needing help from anyone… or needing anyone. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Good,” she said. “Legolas and I are old friends, and I am fond of him, but he has pushed most others’ patience far past the limit. Something tells me, though, that he would very much like for someone to rein him in and test some of his limits for a change…”

Faramir looked up, alarmed and wondering if someone had told Arwen about some of the “games” that he and the elf played, but she just laughed.

“He chose you for a reason, young Faramir. And I think he chose well.”

“That depends,” Faramir said. “Right now I’d very much like to strangle him.”

She shrugged. “He probably deserves it. But wait till he’s healed a bit first.”

“What do you mean, making sandwiches?” Aragorn demanded, directing a sharp look at the scout who had just ridden up beside him. Behind the King, a line of captains waited for the scout to give his report and for Elessar to give them the plan of attack. The high walls of Pelargir and the river Anduin beyond were just visible from their hilltop vantage point, with the sinking sun casting golden and orange shimmers off the surface of the water.

The scout shifted uneasily, and his horse stomped its feet. “My Lord, you asked what the Lord Steward was doing.”

“Yes, I did.”
“Well, that’s what he’s doing, sir.”

“Making sandwiches,” Aragorn repeated.

“Yessir. The hobbits told me to inform you that they are ham and cheese sandwiches and that the people of Pelargir make very good bread but their ham is too salty.”

Aragorn rubbed his forehead, hoping that the action might perhaps make this ridiculousness go away, but when he opened his eyes the scout and the captains were still staring at him.

“The ten men Captain Faramir sent are with him,” the scout said. “And also a blond-haired Sindarin elf and a party of what appear to be wood elves.”

“And they’re all eating sandwiches,” Aragorn asked, being unable to think of anything else to say at the moment.

“Errr… no, sir. I don’t believe elves eat ham, sir.”

Aragon sighed. “Just take me to them, please.”

“Sir, you should probably take at least a few guards with you…” one of the captains suggested.

“I need guards to protect me from my Steward, two hobbits, and some ham sandwiches?” Aragorn snapped, irritable. “Just take me to Boromir.”

Boromir and his small group had found themselves a comfortable spot along the bank of the Anduin, across the river from the field of discarded tents and weapons left behind by the Haradrim, who without Saruman’s command had made a hurried retreat to their southern homeland. Boromir had sent the wood elves across the river on one of their rough boats to commandeer several tents, in which most of the men were now napping as a result of the barrel of ale that the appreciative people of Pelargir had provided to their heroes, along with an ample supply of food from their markets. The wood elves had gone off under the trees and taken with them several baskets of exotic fruits that had come to Pelargir from mysterious locations far to the south; while these delicacies occasionally showed up in Minas Tirith they had never been seen as far north as Mirkwood, and the elves were not going to miss out on the opportunity to taste them. The hobbits were stretched out with their heads pillowed on Boromir’s rolled-up cloak, discussing their recent triumph and discussing ways to exaggerate the danger and excitement of it, while Boromir and Berendir sat with their backs against a log, Boromir absently sharpening his sword and Berendir checking the fletching on his arrows.

“What is your king going to say when that scout gives him his report?” the elf asked, smiling.

Boromir shrugged and reached for his mug of ale, frowning with disappointment on discovering that it was empty. “He’ll be all right.”

“I imagine he’ll be glad to find you unharmed and victorious over our enemies.”

“He’ll probably be mostly just irritated that I didn’t wait for him to show up and save the day.

Berendir raised an eyebrow. “You know, you don’t speak of him as most men speak of their king.”

“What? Oh… well, we are friends.”

“I didn’t suppose kings were supposed to have friends,” Berendir said. “My father doesn’t have any, as far as I know.”

Boromir frowned; the more immediate concerns since the elves had come to rescue them from the orcs had kept him from thinking about the fact that the wiry elf with the seemingly boundless energy sitting beside him was the same one he had seen, hollow-eyed and obedient, in Thranduil’s halls. The man wondered for a long moment what his companion had suffered in those halls, and for how many hundreds of years, but then Berendir cocked his head and looked at him.

“Something wrong?”

“No, no. Just thinking.”

They sat quietly for a moment before Boromir spoke again.

“Will you and your elves go back to Mirkwood now?”

“They’re anxious to get back. Silvan elves’ hearts are strongly bound to the forest of their birth, and they miss it when they’re away.”

“Mmm-hmm. And you, Berendir?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it, particularly. Legolas has been so many places, and I know he’s close to the elves in Rivendell and has friends among men, too… I had planned to ask him if he knew of any place where I might be welcome.”

“You can ask him yourself, when we get back to Minas Tirith.”
Berendir shrugged. “You seem very sure he’s alive. You didn’t see him, though… I didn’t know it was possible for an elf to be that ill…”

“Well, you can ask Ara… King Elessar about him right now, because here he comes.”

Aragorn strode into the clearing, stopping for a moment to look over the tents of dozing men, the empty barrel of ale, and Boromir’s smug grin.

“What the bloody hell have you been doing?” he demanded.
Boromir shrugged and laid his sword down. “Making sandwiches.”

For a moment he thought Aragorn might lose his temper entirely, and he relented and stood up and grabbed the other man by the arms and embraced him. Aragorn retained his annoyance for half a breath before he burst out laughing and held Boromir out at arm’s length.

“You and your brother’s fireworks and a pair of hobbits managed to get rid of an army of Haradrim?”

“We did more than that,” Boromir said, grinning. “And there’s a dead body waiting in the city for your inspection as soon as we’re done here. But first…”

He gestured toward Berendir, who was watching them curiously and with some worry.

“The poor fellow is most concerned about his brother. He says Legolas was in a rather bad state when he saw him last… is he all right?”

Aragorn’s smile faded for a moment at the memory, but returned as he spoke. “I don’t think it’s possible to be any closer to death than Legolas has been… but I do believe he’s on the way to recovery, and by the time we return to Minas Tirith, I do believe he’ll be well enough to tell you all about it himself.”

Berendir leaped to his feet. “He’s alive? He’s going to be all right?”

Aragorn nodded, laughing. “I believe he will be.”

Berendir grinned. “I must tell the others! They were concerned too… Legolas is well-loved in Mirkwood, even if not by my father.”

He darted away.

“Energetic creature,” Aragorn muttered, watching him go.

“You have no idea,” Boromir said, grinning. “Let’s leave the hobbits here to supervise things, and you and I will go and let you have a look at the instigator of all this trouble… or what’s left of him.”

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