Faramir Fiction Archive

Sorrows and Desires (R)

Written by Minx

14 September 2006 | 4055 words

Title: Sorrows and Desires
Author: Minx
Pairing: Éomer/Faramir, Aragorn/Faramir, Éomer/Boromir (implied)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Slash, mild angst
Summary: A tryst in the stables

A/N: Much thanks to Iris for betaing

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The new stables were as yet mostly unoccupied when Faramir entered them early in the morning. The sun was yet to rise over the horizon and for a brief second he wondered why he’d squandered his sleep. But only for a brief second. When he reminded himself what he was doing there at this hour, he found sleep held less attraction.

He was early for the ride, he realised, and so he spent his time looking over the spanking new stables that had been built on the sixth level at Elessar’s request. They smelt of polished wood, and clean floors and hay. Merely a few of the stalls were occupied, and the few horses inside still slumbered, as no doubt did the stable boys. He noticed the familiar tack hanging on one of the nails and smiled as he ran his fingers over it. He knew if he would pick it up, he’d smell that ever familiar musky odour that he’d smelt on so many nights.

He heard footsteps behind him and was about to turn when he recognised the tread.

“You’re up early,” he said without turning.

“What luck,” the visitor said, grinning, and brought his hands around Faramir’s waist, “What are you doing with my saddle?”

Faramir smiled as he felt the other man’s beard tickle his neck, the familiar lips beginning to explore his jawbone.

“It smells like you,” he replied truthfully, as the other man’s hands began to pull at the loose tunic he’d tucked into his pants, letting a soft waft of cool air hit his bare skin.

“No, it does not! It smells of horse!”

“Do not all the Rohirrim desire to smell like ‘horse’?” he asked grinning, as he was whirled around to face Éomer, his tunic hanging out. The hands exploring his body underneath moved accordingly with him, the touch of the rough, warm fingers over his midriff sending tingling sensations coursing through his body.

“Typical Gondorian,” Éomer growled out before covering Faramir’s lips with his.

“Éomer,” Faramir cautioned pulling away, “We are outside!”

“No one comes here! These are Aragorn’s private stables, remember? And certainly not this early in the morn!”

“Perhaps,” Faramir replied, about to object but the desire in Éomer’s eyes was clear, and it felt so good to be wanted so much by another. He sighed and drew closer to the younger man, “I suppose you’re right… and the king’s personal stables… it does have a nice ring to it…” he murmured grinning wickedly.

“I knew you’d see it my way, soon,” Éomer muttered before attacking Faramir’s lips again, and this time his hands continued to work. He grasped the waistband of Faramir’s pants and pulled them down roughly, uncovering the swell of Faramir’s buttocks, and then pushing further down, brought his hands back to rest on them, kneading and spreading them with swift touches. The crisp air upon his skin made Faramir shiver, but not entirely due to the cold, and he pushed himself up against Éomer, rubbing his hardening arousal against him as the young king’s tongue continued exploring his mouth eagerly.

Éomer relinquished Faramir’s lips after a while, and pulled away a little, eager to explore the rest of the Steward’s lithe body. He kept one hand around Faramir’s waist, holding him in place, and with the other, began to undo the laces on his tunic. Faramir was older in age but Éomer was the larger in build and size.

“You wear too many clothes early in the morning,” he said grumpily, as he finally managed to undo the bindings to expose Faramir’s lean chest.

“You said we were to go riding,” Faramir pointed out, “Not that I don’t like your alternative!”

“Good,” came the reply, as the front of the half-undone pants was negotiated with, until finally they lay in a heap around the Steward’s ankles, “I’ve missed you,” Éomer breathed as his eyes raked over the familiar body, “Two days in Minas Tirith and we hardly get to spend any of it together, save two nights ago! I wish we’d been able to meet last night but the dinner with Aragorn began so late and went on for so long! Does he keep you working so late too?”

“No,” Faramir said thoughtfully, “Hardly ever. It’s usually the other way round… he keeps telling me I need to work less.”

Éomer snorted a little.

“What are you waiting for?” Faramir growled out impatiently and reaching for Éomer’s shirt began kissing his collarbone as he undid it.

“That stall over there,’ Éomer breathed out as Faramir’s lips flitted over each piece of skin that he unravelled.

“What about it,” Faramir grunted out his hands fumbling with the laces on Éomer’s pants.

“It’s empty.”

“So? Is that all you speak of? Horses?”

“Nay. I thought how beautiful you would look as you lie there screaming in pleasure as I push myself into you.”

Faramir stopped his exploration of Éomer’s body to look into his eyes, his own grey eyes shining brightly, “Well, why are you waiting?”

The floor was hard but Faramir couldn’t care. There was some straw, and that was enough. He discarded the shirt and the pants in a corner and lay on his back, spreading his legs in invitation. Éomer searched for something to raise him with but found nothing in the stall other than another saddle hanging on one wall.

“Whose saddle is this?”

“Aragorn’s – why?”

“I’m going to ride you on it,” Éomer said calmly, and raising Faramir a little slipped it under his hips. The steward was surprised at first but then soon started giggling. Éomer smiled wistfully at the sound.

“You are beautiful when you laugh. Just like Boromir.” And then he wished he hadn’t said that. It was bound to make both of them very sad.

Faramir sighed at the unhappy look that crossed Éomer’s face and sitting up, held out his arms. The young king fell into them, and resting his head on the Steward’s shoulder forced himself to swallow the tears.

“Take me,” Faramir said gently, taking Éomer’s hand in his and slipping it between his raised legs.

The upturned saddle raised him up enough for Éomer to be able to push into him, a little saddle oil easing the way.

Éomer watched Faramir’s eyes cloud over as he pushed into him, swiftly. Boromir had liked it like that. And though Faramir didn’t scream for him to push harder and faster as Boromir used to, Éomer was sure it was what he wanted, so he pushed harder and faster into the achingly tight passage, before drawing back, and pushing again swifter, harder, feeling the muscles clenching around him.

Faramir found himself breathing heavily as Éomer entered him. The young king was large and Faramir no longer had even the few liaisons he had had earlier. Éomer grunted over him, his balls slapping against Faramir’s buttocks, his fingers digging into his waist. Faramir gritted his teeth and took it, unwilling to take away even this much from Éomer. He knew, even if the younger man was still to understand it, that there was little else he could do for him.

Boromir, he knew from snatches of conversation overheard in barrack rooms and elsewhere had always liked it rough when with a man, and as far as he knew Boromir had been Éomer’s only male lover in the earlier days when Théoden and Denethor had pushed for greater contact between the two lands, and even afterwards. All of this of course was much before Éomer had met Faramir in those wistful months after the war had ended, with both of them losing so much from it. Shared loves and sorrows had brought them together and closer even than their betrothals to Éowyn and Lothiriél would have.

Boromir had been much more too to the younger man, and it was not surprising to Faramir that Éomer missed him so much, and the loss ached in him as much as it did in Faramir. Éomer’s silent grieving had gone unseen by most, but Faramir had realised it for what it was and resolved to help relieve that ache as much as he could.

He knew though that sooner or later, Éomer would be bound to realise that Faramir was not the solution to his troubles. And then these secretive trysts would come to halt. It would probably be good for Éomer but Faramir wasn’t sure what he’d do without them. These trysts made him feel wanted and loved in a way that marriage to Éowyn did not. Oh she loved him and he loved her but this was different.

He pushed those thoughts aside as Éomer pulled out a little, and then thrust in harder, and faster. The occasional discomfort was there yes, but then soon, very soon Éomer would hit him in that one spot that made these rare trysts of theirs worth waiting for. The golden light of dawn filtered in through the nearby window, bathing Éomer’s body in it and Faramir marvelled again at the beautiful young rider who had chosen him of all people to share his sorrows with, and wondered how long that would last.

“Faster, Éomer,” he cried out softly but urgently, his own fingers now gripping Éomer’s waist and his legs wrapped around his strong lower body, pulling him closer and closer.

In the stall nearby, the tall horse that Elessar rode nickered softly as it pushed its head over the partition.

Éomer grinned at the noise, “Silly horse,” he said softly, as he drove deeper into Faramir’s beautifully willing body.

“Well, if it isn’t my steward and my dear friend!” the sharp voice shocked both of them. Faramir’s legs fell from around Éomer’s hips while the Rohirric king turned to stare over his shoulder and gasping, pulled out of Faramir so suddenly that the steward cried out.

“I-I’m sorry,” Éomer gasped out, distressed at the look of pain that flashed across Faramir’s face.

“No, I’m fine… I … Sire,” Faramir replied. The surprise had vanished now from his face and his usual inscrutable expression had returned.

Éomer was gaping at the king of Gondor, who stood in his riding clothes at the door to the stables.

“Is that my saddle?” he asked politely.

Aragorn had heard noises in the stable as he’d neared the entrance and while his mind had considered lovers as well as horse-thieves, it had considered stable boy lovers, not his steward and the king of Rohan. Definitely not his Steward, he thought, as he looked over the nude form of the other man.

“Yes, Sire,” Faramir replied quietly, in response to Aragorn’s question, and pulled the saddle out from underneath him.

“I thought so,” Aragorn said slowly, still staring at the two of them, especially at Faramir.

Éomer’s expression was comical – at once fearful, ashamed, and confused.

Faramir’s was unreadable as ever. He sat down on the hard ground, wincing a little and stared back at Aragorn. His slender body was covered with reddened marks where Éomer had kissed him, and his soft hair was mussed and filled with bits of hay.

He looked, Aragorn decided utterly desirable, more so than he usually did. If he’d know Faramir had inclinations that ran this way, he’d have acted earlier.

Well, it was still not too late.

“Well!” he said strictly.

“Sire?” Faramir gave him a puzzled look.

“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me! I saw what was happening. I’m sure you have a perfectly reasonable explanation. Let’s have it!”

“There is no explanation!” Éomer blurted out, half in anger, half in fear.

Aragorn’s stared at him calmly, “You were, to put it a little crudely, riding my steward on my saddle, and both of you I thought are happily married men. And you tell me there is no explanation?”

“No, there isn’t,” Éomer retorted.

“Well, I’m sure you can dredge up some explanation for the benefit of your wives!”

“Wives?” Éomer’s voice turned into a squeak.

“Yes wives. Faramir’s wife Éowyn who also happens to be your sister. And your wife, Lothiríel who also happens to be Faramir’s cousin.”

“They don’t know,” Éomer said desperately.

“Perhaps not yet, but they will,” Aragorn said calmly, his mind working quickly. Éomer hadn’t known Faramir very long, he was sure of that. And he’d always thought from what he’d heard from Éomer and the little, Boromir had spoken of Rohan, that there had been more than a little something between Boromir and Éomer. He’d been watching long enough to realise that there wasn’t as much between Faramir and Éomer. He’d known enough men who sought comfort this way, he had too himself, but Éomer he thought sought more. And something in the way Faramir looked and the way he spoke to and acted around Éomer, in that gently protective manner told him Faramir knew that as well.

“You wouldn’t,” Éomer said after a moment.

“Why not?”

“Look, you mustn’t. It will… it could… destroy things between…”

“Yes…?”

“Between –” Éomer stammered a little more and suddenly Aragorn could imagine Boromir would have had an interest in the young man, if nothing because he was ever protective of those whom he felt needed to be cared for. And why Faramir even now was flashing him a quietly concerned look.

“Well I could reconsider,” he said slowly, still watching Faramir. He really should think about this.!

“You could?” Éomer spoke up eagerly.

“For what price?” Faramir asked, a little too quickly.

Aragorn stared at the Steward in surprise.

“He doesn’t need a price. He has everything,” Éomer remarked sharply.

Not quite everything, Aragorn thought and rapidly thinking a little more of what he had been observing these past few days, made up his mind. Perhaps he could have a little fun with these two young men. Serve them right for being silly this early in the morning, and for what they might have done to his saddle!

“Faramir,” he said calmly, “I want Faramir.”

Faramir let out a strange sound.

“What?” the rather thunderous shout came from Éomer, “No!”

Aragorn shrugged, trying desperately not to laugh, and wondered how long he could continue his little jest.

“I don’t care,” Éomer stormed, “I won’t let you hurt him. You can tell whomever you like. I can handle Éowyn.”

Aragorn was about to retort acidly that he would never hurt Faramir, when Faramir spoke up.

“Éomer,” Faramir’s expression and voice had both turned very small and scared. Aragorn stared at him, worried that he may gone too far.

“What is it?” Éomer asked anxiously and moved closer to the Steward.

“He mustn’t… he mustn’t tell.”

It sounded too scared, Aragorn thought suddenly, and Faramir was not one to get scared. He gave him a suspicious look.

“I will handle Éowyn.”

“Yes but uncle Imrahil. Éomer he will be angry, and more than that he will be very hurt. I’m – I fear, Éomer… please don’t let anyone know. I could not bear it if he were to be offended with me. He is all I have!”

“But Faramir…”

The Steward rose, slowly and winced as he did so. Aragorn frowned as he watched him. A slight touch of remorse showed up in Éomer’s eyes but Faramir pulled him close and kissed him gently.

“We must do as Elessar says. We cannot risk Lothiriel’s anger I cannot risk my relationship with my uncle.”

“But Faramir…”

“Hush, it shall be all right. I am yours, my king, to do as you will with.” He said it in a matter of fact tone, but Aragorn’s sharp ears attuned to soft sounds, heard the restrained excitement in the words.

Aragorn looked into the bright grey eyes. Faramir clearly knew what he was doing. This was no jest. He felt a surge of excitement course through him.

“Éomer, I think you can leave. Faramir, get rid of that stupid saddle.”

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir murmured dutifully, and lifting the saddle with some effort placed it to the side.

“Faramir!” Éomer almost shrieked, “I cannot let you do this! You cannot go to him unwillingly!”

“I am not unwilling,” Faramir said softly, and Aragorn smiled gladdened to hear the thoughts expressed so clearly in words.

Éomer stared at the two men, a little confused and Aragorn thought suddenly that he looked very much his age. Faramir’s words had awakened an excitement in him, but Éomer’s distress was only too clear. The young king clearly cared for Faramir in his own way, and that Aragorn could understand. Éomer was beginning to look very worried now. He ought to end that worry… he’d learnt what he needed to.

“Don’t worry, Éomer,” he said softly, “I would never hurt Faramir. I was but speaking in jest.”

“A jest! Oh! You will leave us then?” Éomer asked eagerly.

Faramir’s eyes were unreadable as they settled on Aragorn’s face but the king thought he could read a hint of remorse? No, disappointment. He took a deep and heavy breath.

“No. I would still like to spend some time with Faramir now that he has expressed himself willing.”

Éomer frowned unhappily and glanced at Faramir.

“You are sure you wish him to – to…?” he asked worriedly.

Faramir flushed and nodded.

“There, that’s settled then. I’ve become rather fond of you, Faramir dearest, can I call you that? And I’d like to kiss you and pleasure you right away. So Éomer now that you’re done here, would you rather leave or sit quietly and learn how to pleasure a man without rutting him so much that he spends the whole of the next day wincing at council. Oh come Faramir,” he held a hand out as the Steward began to protest, “You think I haven’t realised why you were so uncomfortable on the council chairs yesterday?”

He hadn’t prolonged his meetings and the dinner the previous night without reason.

“I hurt you?” Éomer asked, sounding almost childlike in his frightened concern.

“No –” Faramir began.

“I’m sure you didn’t mean to,” Aragorn said gently, although he could see the bruises that were now beginning to form on Faramir’s lower body. Faramir, was one person whom he thought could do without any more hurts, unintentional though they may be.

He gently moved closer to Faramir and slowly pulled him into his arms and kissed him lightly on his lips, and then his jaw and then his ear. Faramir felt the lips on his face and sighed slightly, knowing that it would take little to get him to melt in Aragorn’s embrace. There was after all nowhere else he’d wanted to be since the day he’d woken in the houses of healing to this man’s voice.

“You are far too precious to be hurt ever,” Aragorn whispered softly in his ear and then making him lie back, gently nudged his legs apart and ran his fingers lightly over his hardening groin.

Éomer stayed, watching worriedly as he pulled on his own clothes, still worried that this entire surreal scene might all turn out wrong.

But then Aragorn seated himself between Faramir’s legs and lowering his head took Faramir in his mouth slowly and gently.

When he’d finished, Faramir came quietly with soft moans as always and yet this time Éomer realised they didn’t have the raw edge that he always thought was excitement.

“Th-thank you,” Faramir said shakily to Aragorn, who had pulled him into his arms, much as he always used to Éomer, and yet his eyes were shining and his voice sounded breathlessly happy.

“Thank you,” Aragorn replied gently, “For trusting me.” And then he kissed the younger man.

Faramir was so unlike Boromir, Éomer thought, and wondered how he had been so foolish. If Boromir had been there, the lovemaking would have been unrestrainedly passionate, loud, fast and swiftly intense. Like it was with Lothiriél, he realised blankly. Faramir needed to be loved intensely yet slowly and gently.

He needed love to be as it had been with Boromir, wild and unrestrained, something for him to drown the troubles of the day in, but he’d never wanted to hurt Faramir in any way, not even the slightest bit. Faramir would have known, he realised, and yet he’d said nothing, instead letting Éomer recover from his loss in the only way he could think of. It was so like Faramir to do that, for Éomer’s sake.

Aragorn and Faramir parted from their embrace and stood up. The Steward glanced up at Éomer worriedly and moved towards him. Éomer stared back at him, and sighed.

Faramir wrapped his arms around him.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Éomer said tiredly.

“You didn’t,” Faramir said, “You made me feel liked and wanted when I was in despair.”

“I needed you too, then,” Éomer admitted, “You were kind and loving and you pulled me out of my sorrows.” And he’d introduced him to Lothiriél, he remembered.

They stood in their awkward embrace for a while.

“I’ll leave you two for now,” Aragorn announced suddenly, “I’m famished and I need some breakfast.”

Aragorn was never quite sure what happened after in the stables after that. Éomer and Faramir were as friendly as earlier but their physical intimacy appeared to have ended. And neither seemed overly sorrowful about that.

Lothiriél joined her husband in Minas Tirith and Aragorn found that all the tales he’d been hearing from Rohan about the nocturnal doings of the young king and queen were quite true indeed. And that they were not always nocturnal. Faramir and he continued their own explorations. With Arwen away and Éowyn in Ithilien, they had all the time to do so.

He didn’t broach the subject of the day in the stables with Faramir until some nights later as they lay on his large bed.

“That was not a nice thing to do to Éomer,” he said.

“What?” Faramir murmured burrowing deeper into the pillows and pulling the covers to his side.

Aragorn calmly tugged them back to his side, “Pretending you were scared of Imrahil!”

“But I was,” Faramir replied honestly, “I was scared of hurting him which he would have been if he’d known. Éomer is married to his daughter, my cousin!”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, “You know that is not what I meant! You came to me only too willingly even before I revealed it was jest, and don’t say you didn’t. I saw that look in your eyes. You were not undelighted, and don’t deny it.”

Faramir sighed and rolling over, snuggled up against Aragorn’s naked chest.

“I would never deny it. I was extremely delighted,” he said simply, “I wanted you then, as much as you wanted me I daresay.”

He can read the hearts of men as shrewdly as his father, Gandalf had once told Aragorn of Faramir.

“You looked umm… very desirable.”

Faramir shrugged, “So you desired me, I desired you, where is the error in that?”

“What of Éomer? What happens to him? His desires?” He knew the answer to that too, having seen the naked grief in Éomer’s eyes at the news of Boromir’s fall. But he needed to know if Faramir knew of it too.

“What desires Éomer has I cannot quench,” Faramir said quietly, “Nor can I help him forget. He sees too much in me to be able to forget. Lothiriél needs to help him, she can give him what he desires, only too well. As for forgetting that too, she will help him do. They are yet young and have been married barely months. Give her time, he is already learning how to grieve and to let go.”

“My wise and kind Steward,” Aragorn murmured.

Faramir snorted, “I ought to thank him though,” he murmured sleepily.

“For what?”

“I wouldn’t be here in your arms if it weren’t for him, would I?”

“Oh you would… maybe a tad later, but you would. I don’t think I would have lasted longer.”

“Well, we’ll thank him for the time he saved then,” Faramir declared and kissed Aragorn.

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