Faramir Fiction Archive

Encore (R)

Written by Iris

14 May 2007 | 2190 words

Pairings: Faramir/Éomer, suggested Faramir/Aragorn, and a hint of Faramir/Éowyn (or lack thereof…)
Warnings: non-con, whipping, ambiguous open end
Summary: Faramir still dreams of his king.
Tried my best to to incorporate as much from the request as possible and write a lighter darkfic with Aragorn and Éomer, which isn’t sappy, but possibly a little sweet, if you’re in the mood to see it.

Many thanks to Minx for all her suggestions.

Written _{(as a replacement story)} for the 2006 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Bell Witch: Ideas: Faramir with human partner, known in canon, darkfic. Violence and non-con are fine, incest fine for darkfic. Even orcs and other creepy things are fine (must be the season.) For a lighter fic, still prefer Faramir with human partner. Not into sappy romance but I do read sweet things too (I’m so ashamed.) Aragorn, Éomer. Do not like Boromir/Faramir for anything like healthy relationship. Incest=darkfic to me. Smut not required, certainly.

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The tender, featherlight touches sent sparks of delight all through his body, down the back of his legs, making his toes twitch.

As the touches grew bolder, firmer, wilder, his toes were soon curled up in a permanent spasm, until—

“Aragorn!”

And immediately he was right awake, looking up into a pair of eyes that were a distinctly different colour from the ones that had been looking down upon him so lovingly just a moment ago. Another distinct difference was that the owner of this pair appeared not at all pleased to see him.

“So, now it is ‘Aragorn’, yes?” Éowyn asked annoyed.

“All day I watch you following him about, bowing as you go, going ‘yes, my liege’ and ‘of course, my liege; right away, my liege’, but now he’s Aragorn, is he?” she sneered while she whipped back the sheets.

“Since when are you and Elessar on such familiar terms?” she continued, and before Faramir could stop her, she had lifted the hem of his nightrobe as well. One quick glance at the sticky mess and she turned away. “I thought so,” she bit at him over her shoulder, off the bed now and into her dressing room.

“Well, go on, then! You’ll be late for your precious Aragorn. I know you never leave him wanting.”

“Sister, dearest, if you are supposed to be a picture of young matrimonial bliss, I may have to reconsider my own plans”, Éomer remarked while observing how his sister ferociously attacked one straw dummy after another with her broadsword. He’d seen her like this before, turmoil in her eyes as much as in the swing of her sword. Clearly a great injustice had bestowed her. Or at least, so she thought.

“Éowyn, what’s wrong? Are you well?”

Taking a break from hacking straw men to shreds, Éowyn hesitated for a moment before answering. “It’s Faramir. He’s often tired. At night. In bed.”

“I can imagine. He often works through lunch, and in the evenings as well—”

Éowyn gave him tired look.

“Oh— you mean he’s too tired. To—” He’d always been close with his sister, and her eagerness to be just one of the men made it easy to forget she wasn’t. But still, she always seemed far more at ease with these sort of conversations than he himself felt. He did wish she had a female companion to talk to about these things.

Still, he wanted to make sure he had understood correctly. “But he is only tired, yes? I mean, you have, er, consummated the marriage?”

“Gods, yes! It’s nothing like that!” Éowyn said indignant, rolling her eyes at him like he’d feared she would.

“Well, then I’d say it’s only natural for a man who works as much as Faramir does, to be tired. If he’d works less, he’d have more energy for, well, other pursuits. It’s that simple.”

Éowyn’s eyes glazed over again in that angry stare, and with a swing of her sword another straw man lost its outstretched arm. Perhaps it was not that simple after all.

“Or…” Éomer tried tentatively.

“He had a dream about someone else this morning. After he was ‘too tired’ last night. You know the kind of dream,” she gave him a knowing glance, “I know you know the kind.”

Éomer was taken aback for a moment. Why did she always have to bring that up again? But then he realized: “Someone else? How do you know?”

“He called out his name.”

“His?”

It was difficult to focus on his work this morning. He still had papers to go through before his meeting with the King, but he found himself absentmindedly reading the same section over and over again.

He knew Éowyn well enough to know she needed some time to cool off before it was any use talking about what had happened that morning. He had apologized of course — insofar as that was possible through a closed door — but he hadn’t had a chance to explain.

He’d had these dreams for years. The dreams were what had sent Boromir away on the quest for the King. But ever since Elessar had arrived in Minas Tirith, and he had first seen him in the flesh, the vague image of a king somewhere far away had been replaced by that of a real man, and the dreams had gradually changed, becoming more intimate, more explicit, until finally, this morning, well… he couldn’t control his dreams he kept telling himself, of course he couldn’t, but then why did he feel so guilty for them? He just didn’t know how he was going to face the King now without blushing, stuttering, or embarrassing himself in some way even worse.

And thus Faramir was sunk deep in thoughts — papers once again long forgotten — when he was abruptly pulled from his reverie by the king of Rohan, storming across his study. Before he knew it, Éomer was forcing his head back by pressing his riding crop up under his chin. And for the second time that day Faramir was shocked to be looking up into a pair of very angry blue eyes.

“Have you been untrue to my sister?” Éomer barked at him, and when he didn’t answer right away, unsure how to answer, Éomer added a “Well?” while forcing the crop further up, making it difficult for Faramir to answer at all.

“No my lord, I guarantee you, I have not,” he finally managed to choke out.

“My sister tells me differently,” the king of Rohan said, and then just as easily as he’d pushed Faramir back, he propelled him forward over his own desk, “whom do you think I will believe?” In one movement he pulled his brother-in-law’s tunic up to his neck, and with the same hand pushed Faramir face-down on his desk, while with his other hand bought the crop down across Faramir’s now unprotected back.

Pinned, shocked, and momentarily stunned by the sharp, searing pain radiating from the spot where the crop had landed, Faramir had to fight his reflexes not to kick back and fight himself free. He may not be behaving very royal just now, but Éomer was still the king of Gondor’s chief ally, and striking him simply would not do, not under any circumstances. “My lord, please, will you not allow me to explicate?” he tried, struggling to keep his voice steady while the crop rained down on on his aching back three, four, five more times.

Éomer took a break to admire the design he created on the long, lean back in front of him. Still keeping Faramir pinned down with one hand and the pressure of his body, he used the very tip of his crop to ever-so-gently trace patterns on Faramir’s back, dragging out some of the minute drops of blood that had formed here and there along the reddening welts.

“All right then, tell me,” Éomer challenged, still mesmerized with drawing bloody patterns, “my sister informs me you have been having, shall we say, rousing dreams about my dear friend Aragorn. Tell me, does he take you to the bed of your lovely queen, or rather to my sister’s bed?”

He dropped the crop to the floor and ran both hands from Faramir’s shoulders all the way down to his hips, smearing out any lines that had been there. “Or—” Éomer all but whispered, both hands on Faramir’s hips now and jerking him back against his his own body, “or does he perhaps, in your dreams, bend you over this very desk?”

Pressed against the desk by Éomer’s body the way he was, Faramir could clearly feel that thought excited the man pinning him down. With his upper body no longer held down against the desk, Faramir tried to stand up, twist away, but Rohan’s king still had a firm grip on him. He tried to protest, “No, none of those. And my dreams are inconsequential! They’re only dreams!” but he wasn’t certain the other man was still listening.

Then Éomer hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Faramir’s leggings and without bothering to undo the ties, peeled them down, just a little, to just below his buttocks, leaving Faramir feeling even more trapped and terribly exposed at the same time. He did however take the time to undo the ties of his own leggings, and to extract a cupped handful of oil from the lamp on Faramir’s desk.

Faramir’s first instinct was to call out. There were guards posted nearby: the king had insisted he’d move into a study close to the king’s own, having grown tired of waiting while messengers fetched Faramir to explain this or that. But then what when guards arrived? Accusing the King of Rohan of — what, rape? — would create an even more serious incident than kicking him would. He knew the laws on rape; he had drafted the bill himself after Elessar insisted they’d be tightened.

Faramir closed his eyes and braced himself. He would keep quiet; it was the only thing he could to. He would keep quiet and relax and take deep breaths and divert his thoughts, and this would all be over soon enough, and no one would ever have to know about it. He would work late and retire late again for the next few nights until the marks on his back faded. That would displease Éowyn even further, but there was no other way about it. Éomer surely would never bring it up, and he was to return to Rohan in a matter of days. So no one would know. All he had to do was keep quiet, and let Éomer work out his anger or frustration or whatever it was.

“Faramir, I expected you in my— oh… pardon me.”

Faramir’s heart sank in horror.

“I’ll be done shortly, then he’s all yours,” Éomer smirked up at his fellow monarch, winking at Aragorn to ensure there was no chance of missing the intended double meaning, and all the while never stilling the movement of his hips.

It took a few seconds before Aragorn blinked and broke his stare, “Erm… I… That’s quite alright, thank you… It’s not that urgent… I— It can wait.”

“Hear that?” Éomer leant over and hissed directly in Faramir’s ear, “He does not want you. You can stop dreaming now.”

Aragorn, already half on his way out, turned back to regard his steward. “Faramir, are you quite all right?” he asked worried, but before Faramir could answer Éomer choose that moment to emit a loud groan and slump down over Faramir’s back.

It seemed Aragorn didn’t know how quickly to avert his eyes and make his escape. “Faramir, I still expect you in my study,” he called out from the hallway.

“What was it that I saw in your study earlier? If you and Éomer are lovers, I will not interfere, that is not my place. I’ll leave you to sort that out with your bride and her brother. But to me it seemed there was more to it that that.”

Faramir looked down at his hands, subconsciously biting his bottom lip, trying desperately to come up with an acceptable answer.

“I can ask Éomer if you prefer. He seemed quite ready to share earlier, that is, if I understood him correctly,” Elessar offered, smiling in a particular way that Faramir had never seen from him before. If possible, it made Faramir even more nervous than he’d already been.

“He— that is, I—” Faramir started, unsure where he was going. As he had feared, it seemed impossible to face the King without blushing and stuttering, but now not only because of the images from his dream, but also for what images Elessar might be recalling right this minute.

Grateful for the first time in his life for his experience with presenting his case under any circumstances, however intimidating or humiliating, he told his story, from the very first dream all those years ago, to today when Elessar entered his study.

When all that needed to be said was finally out, the king smiled that strange smile again, before he said, “Please, call me Aragorn.”

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