No one to the rescue…but Denethor finds Faramir after Marek’s through with him

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Chapter 12: A New Day[edit]

by Bell Witch


Marek smiled at the unconscious young man beneath him. The King of Gondor might want Faramir, but the Prince of Harad would have him first. And it would be a night to remember.

“Wake up, my little one,” Marek crooned, running his fingers through Faramir’s hair. “I don’t want you to miss even a moment of what I’m going to do to you.”

He was rewarded with a throaty groan that he could imagine was one of passion and not pain.

“Even the noises you make are beautiful—when you are not stuttering or baulking.”

Marek ran his hands over Faramir’s back and down, slipping two fingers between Faramir’s buttocks to brush gently at that most intimate opening. The reaction was immediate.

“Stop, stop it,” Faramir cried hoarsely. He tried to pull himself forward and away from the Prince of Harad, but the man’s weight rested on his legs and he could not move. “Get off of me!”

“I will not, not until I have tried you.”

Faramir struggled uselessly, his head aching with the effort. Aragorn didn’t really want him: it was a painful thought. But this disgusting creature from the South did not know that the King’s declaration of interest was a ruse, and Faramir grabbed it as a shield.

“You can’t! Did you not listen to the king’s words? He claims me as his own, and will be most displeased at you for doing this. He knows I have not been with any man.” Faramir waited, practically holding his breath in anticipation of an answer. He hadn’t expected the low laughter.

“He will not care that he is not the first. Did I not say that he would likely appreciate my efforts in breaking you in? I am sure he would find your resistance to his advances as irritating as I do.” With that, Marek moved his fingers, pushing them slightly into Faramir.

It hurts, it hurts, was all Faramir’s mind could understand. He choked out a small scream before clamping his teeth together in a fierce grimace.

“Lie still, boy, or the pain will continue. If you cease in your futile attempts to thwart me, I can make this quite pleasurable for you.”

The ranger paused for a moment, and Marek grinned, reaching into his robes for a small jar he’d placed there earlier. So the king had delayed him slightly—there would be no more interruptions. One finger teased before sliding in. A second oiled finger joined the first, and still Faramir remained quiet. Had he gone unconscious again? Marek leaned forward.

“Are you enjoying this, my little pure one?” He heard heavy breathing from the body below him and chuckled. “You find it pleasant, as I knew you would.”

“I do not,” Faramir hissed, twisting beneath his attacker and striking out with his arm. Marek grunted as the elbow caught him in the gut and, for a moment, Faramir thought he would make it.

“Curse you,” Marek shouted, throwing himself on Faramir’s back. Faramir’s head hit the floor and he could do nothing as Marek raged at him, parting his legs and driving into him with a violence that brought tears to Faramir’s eyes.

“Little fool,” the Southron repeated. “Is this more to your taste?”

But throughout the assault, Faramir made little noise. He was too dazed with shock and pain, and could barely tell from one moment to the next whether he was being used or if his attacker was resting until, at last, it was over and he was alone.

Faramir curled up into himself on the stone floor and passed out.

The sun was fully up in the morning when a loud pounding on his door roused Faramir from blessed darkness. For a brief moment, he could not remember what had happened and why he was naked on the floor. The memories rushed back to him and he closed his eyes, face reddening with anger and shame, flaring brighter when the door opened and Denethor stepped into the room.

“How dare you shame us further by not seeing the delegation from Harad off! Have you no sense of duty at all? Faramir!” The Steward’s voice stopped as he registered what had happened.

“I am s…sorry, father,” Faramir began automatically, stopping when Denethor’s hand cupped his bruised cheek. The Steward spoke as though in a trance.

“Was it Marek who did this to you?” He frowned when Faramir nodded. “Aragorn said that you were better off without him. The king is wise. While he may not want you for himself, it is just as well that you will not go to Harad. Prince or no, he should not have done this!”





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