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This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Incest, non-consensual situations».
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Force and Consideration (NC-17) Print

Written by Minx

07 January 2005 | 4739 words

Pairing: Denethor/Faramir
Warnings: Incest, non-consensual situations
Summary: Denethor wants to teach Faramir a ‘lesson’
Feedback: I'd love it! greenrivervalley@gmail.com
Notes: Part of the Past Times arc that is to prequel One Last Time

Thanks to Iris for the beta and constant hand-holding!

Dedicated to Heilt for drawing all those amazing Faramir pics!

Archivist's note: Heilt made LOTR1&action=list&page=1&searchKey=Consideration&byTitle=1&byAuthor=1&byContent=0&byTime=0" target="_blank">theseLOTR1&action=view&unum=242&page=1" target="_blank"> fabulous pictures in response to this fic.

Faramir stood in front of his father’s desk quietly, waiting for the other man to look up from his papers. He’d learnt long ago that his father preferred not to hear him at all. A servant was stoking the fire, despite the fact that the day was quite warm. He often wondered if his father did this purposely, to make his guests feel uncomfortable. It certainly worked for him. He could feel his palms turning sweaty. He’d deliberately worn a high collar tunic but was now wishing he hadn’t as the thick velvet made him itch as the warmth spread through the room. He needn’t really have hidden his neck he thought, Denethor would know anyway.

When the servant had left, Denethor looked up. Faramir unconsciously stiffened when he rose, a tall imposing figure behind his table, hands clasped behind his back, his face hard, the eyes cold with anger.

“You were not in your rooms last night,” he stated, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

Faramir paused wondering what to say. He had not been in his room; that was true. Boromir was in the city too, and he had wanted to spend time with him; they got little time to spend together. Ultimately though, they had not really spent the time with each other. Boromir had taken his younger brother to a brothel upon discovering that his experiences with the female sex had been limited to put it mildly. Faramir had agreed partly out of curiosity but mostly because Boromir at his element rarely gave anyone an opportunity to say no.

Denethor he knew would not wish to see him; he rarely did while Boromir was in the city. It had been the practice ever since Boromir had joined the army. The Steward had in fact said in so many words when he had summoned Faramir the night before Boromir’s arrival.

“You can go back to being useless for the few days your brother is here” he had sneered, as Faramir had laid breathing heavily on the bed, struggling to hold back his sobs. Tears only angered Denethor further. He had been more forceful than usual that night, almost brutal, ensuring deliberately that Faramir had hurt, thrusting harder and harder into him until he had been forced to cry out, almost as though he wanted Faramir to remember the extent and manner of his control over him. Neither the father nor the younger son however had any desire for the elder son to know either the extent or the manner. Faramir had no idea how Boromir might react if he came to know that Denethor’s idea of control over his younger son had been to rape him at thirteen and continue doing so regularly till date. His own feelings were those of disgust and revulsion and he did not dare risk the chance that Boromir may feel the same way and never speak to him again. Not that he would blame him.

“No, my lord,” he finally murmured softly, “I was with Boromir.”

“You, sir, were in a brothel!”

How Denethor knew, he had no idea for they had gone dressed in the garb of common soldiers. However, it was known that he had his spies everywhere. Faramir flushed now somehow the fact that his father knew he had been there embarrassed him more than his actual experience at the brothel, which he had found to be short and in fact quite mortifying. The woman he had got had seemed affronted at his inexperience but had still shrugged and taken the lead, until he had realised that the kisses or rather the bites she was bestowing on his neck and chest even as he lay awkwardly under her, breathing heavily, would leave marks. His father, he had known even then, would not approve of their visit to this establishment. It had not taken long for her to lose interest after that.

“Yes, my lord,” he murmured softly, now, knowing there was nothing else he could do but admit to his fault, as always.

“A lowly brothel in the third circle!”

That had been Boromir’s idea too. The courtesans the high ranking lords normally went to, discreet young women, well-versed in many matters, were according to him better if one had experience. Faramir should go dressed as common man to a common brothel to get a real experience, he declared. Courtesans were too sophisticated. Besides, Denethor had for some strange reason refused to let his brother be acquainted with them for some time yet. Boromir had no idea why.

He had no reply to that. He didn’t need one though, for Denethor had risen with a swiftness that belied his age and coming across the table struck him across the face with great force. Faramir swayed on his feet, and dropped his eyes to the ground in an effort to hold back his tears. He didn’t even raise his hand in self-defence, it only worsened things. He had once felt he’d get used to this, but he never did. Each time his father struck him it stung anew. He would have a bruise to show for that on the morrow, he knew.

Denethor grabbed his chin roughly and forced him to raise his head, the strong familiar fingers pressing painfully into cheek and jaw.

“What were you thinking, you fool?” Denethor hissed, “For you to go spewing your filthy seed shamelessly among common whores across the city is bad enough but you must needs drag your brother into it!”

He didn’t reply. It was his fault he knew. He should have known Denethor would get to know. He should have dissuaded Boromir, and insisted on waiting till his father had approved a courtesan for him. Even if he had known his father wouldn’t.

“What was she like?” Denethor sneered, “She must have been quite a piece considering how soon you were out of her room!”

Faramir shivered despite the fire. Denethor spoke truly. It had been short and hurried and unsatisfactory for both parties. He had been desirous of leaving the place soon but had had to wait for Boromir to finish and his brother had taken his own time.

Denethor’s eyes gleamed like silver in the firelit room, boring into him so hard he knew the fear he felt was clearly readable.

“You cannot even bed a tavern wench properly,” Denethor taunted, “You are an abject failure in all matters, Lord Faramir, save one. Perhaps you should have exchanged places with her, after all, all you are good at is whoring yourself!”

He let go of his chin abruptly and Faramir stumbled backwards. He put out a hand onto the table for support but missed and fell heavily on his backside. But he ignored the pain that it caused the still sore and tender area as his eyes continued to remain riveted on his father who was bearing down on him now.

“But you needn’t worry,” he said silkily as he loomed over Faramir, “I shall teach you how to truly bed a common slut, they are more used to heavy soldiers’ hands than those of craven fools such as you. Get up!” he commanded as he reached for the collar of his shirt and hauled him up roughly, causing the fine stitching to rend.

Faramir leaned against the table for support, sick with worry and fear, as his father stared at his exposed neck, with the red and blue marks. Denethor leaned forward and ran his fingers lightly over the marks, smirking a little. Faramir froze as Denethor leaned closer in, his warm breath falling on his neck and jaw. He could feel his face and neck flush, he knew if it weren’t for the table he’d probably sink to his knees. A knot of fear settled in his stomach. Denethor continued to stare at his neck, looking almost amused and Faramir knew he’d noticed the quickening of his pulse; Denethor knew he was afraid. He dropped his eyes, willing himself to breath evenly.

The fingers stilled and then Denethor moved back. Faramir took a deep breath and finally let go of the table and looked up. Denethor held a package in his hands.

“Here,” he commanded, “Take this.”

It was a square shaped package, wrapped in cloth. Faramir stared at it, puzzled, as it was thrust into his hands.

“Undress,” Denethor said, and Faramir’s heart suddenly began to beat faster again. Surely his father couldn’t mean to-

*Not tonight!* he thought desperately. *Not tonight, while Boromir is here!*

“Your brother shall not be returning to his chambers tonight. You will dine here,” Denethor continued oblivious to the mute appeal in his younger son’s frantic eyes, “And you will wear that. Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked calmly as Faramir stood rooted to the spot.

Unsure of what to make of such developments, Faramir fumblingly undid the string tied around the thick cloth. His fingers felt numb and the string kept slipping off, so that it was a while before he could finally unwrap the thick covering. Denethor was tapping his feet in impatience by the time Faramir pulled out the contents.

He stared incredulously at the clothes in his hands. At first all that registered was the amount of satin and lace. A dress, he thought to himself. A woman’s dress. And... he nearly staggered when he noticed the other items. He almost blushed as he realised he was holding underthings, all made of satin again.

“Put those on,” Denethor said in a voice that left no room for disobedience, and then sat down on a nearby chair to watch.

He stared helplessly at his father.


“Have we not discussed earlier that I do not wish to hear your voice unless I ask to? Put those on! I hope you will know how to. I am told your lady friend last night didn’t bother to undress, but I am sure you will still now what goes on where?” There was no disguising the mocking tone in the cold voice now.

Faramir stared at the clothes he held. There were undergarments, some kind of frilly thin stockings like garment, another gauzy tunic-like item, and finally a dress that no lady would have dared wear to court. It was blue in colour with a startling low neckline, tight around the bodice and the waist, curving over the hips and then flaring out. The shoulders hung low, the sleeves small and dainty. There was also a small velvet purse that seemed to contain boxes of some sort.

He stared at the items dazedly. He could not be here doing this. This was all part of some morbid dream, some cruel joke his weary and overwrought mind was playing on him.

“Do you require help?” Denethor asked in a nasty tone, “Should I call upon the servants perhaps? They’ll help you undress.”

Any idea of resistance flew from Faramir’s mind. He had learned merely months prior that resistance was futile. He removed his clothes quickly. His father hated it when he was slow in his movements, and there was no reason to anger him further. When he had removed every stitch of clothing, well aware that Denethor’s gaze continued to rest on him and on the marks on his torso, he picked up the garments and filtered through them, trying to figure out what to pull on first. His father rarely waited for him to undress fully. To stand completely naked in front of him was unnerving. He usually merely undid his leggings.

He began pulling on the under things, flushing as he did so. Denethor’s derisive eyes bored into him as he fumbled with the laces in the bodice, much as he had done the previous day. He finally managed to get them done somehow and picked up the dress.

A knock on the door of the outer chamber made both men start. Denethor’s eyes narrowed as he rose. Picking Faramir’s clothes he thrust them into a cupboard nearby and then grabbing Faramir’s arm in a bruising grip he pulled open the door to his antechamber and shoved his younger son inside sending him sprawling across the hard, stone floor.

“I wish to see you ready by the time I return,” he said coldly and shut the door.

Faramir rose unsteadily and pulled the dress on mechanically but hurriedly, trying not to think. He heard the outside door open, and then a loud, booming voice that, at any other time, he would have welcomed. Now, hearing Boromir’s voice filtering in through the solid door, he simply froze. Boromir was outside, he thought desperately.

At that moment he wanted nothing more than to run out, fling himself in his brother’s arms and beg him for help, plead with him to save him from their father.

And yet, he knew he could never do that.

Boromir just needed to take one look at him right now to know what he had become. He mustn’t let that happen. Hot tears welled up in his eyes.

*Oh Gods! I hope he leaves soon… he can’t see me here like this!*

Boromir’s enthusiastic voice continued to filter in through the door as did Denethor’s voice softer, more measured but filled with an unmistakable pride. Boromir was chuckling now, standing perilously close to the door of the antechamber, and for a brief panic-filled second, Faramir expected the door to swing open, and his brother, the brave and dashing Captain-General of Gondor to walk in and see him standing there in a tight, voluminous, decidedly tacky blue dress.

Faramir stood frozen stiff, in the centre of the room, and stared at the fire in the tiny hearth, trembling despite its warmth, trying to concentrate on the flames, anything but dwell on his current situation. Then, Boromir’s voice became progressively distant and finally, the outer door slammed shut and the connecting door flew open. Faramir turned in trepidation.

Denethor took in the flushed, panic-stricken face and the tearing eyes and snorting contemptuously threw the small velvet bag that Faramir had left on his table at him.

“Perhaps you should fix your face!” he said.

Faramir looked up at him in confusion, and then at the contents of the bag that had fallen onto the floor - little boxes of powders, he noted with dismay.

“Go on,” Denethor said in a voice that Faramir knew would tolerate no disobedience.

He knelt down and picked up the face powder and hurriedly rubbed it on his face, and somehow managed to apply the lip paint. The other jar contained some kind of cream and he stared at it puzzled.
”You’d better use some of that,” Denethor said derisively, “Since you do after all whine like a wench at the slightest discomfort! We wouldn’t want Boromir to wonder about anything tomorrow, would we?”

Faramir lifted the jar of cream hesitantly, then glanced towards Denethor, who merely stared back impassively. Swallowing, he took some in his fingers and lifting the skirt, lowered the stockings a little. There was very little in the jar he realised, he would have to be economical. He had never prepared himself in front of Denethor before. He had learnt early on that Denethor would not give him the time to do so, and so he had taken to hurriedly preparing himself in his rooms every time he was summoned to meet Denethor alone. He had not done so today assuming that Denethor would not want him while Boromir was around. But he’d been wrong, of course. He tried as unobtrusively as possible now to prepare himself but that was an impossibility when his father stood right in front of him. He still knew he must present a pathetic sight, scissoring his fingers into himself.

No wonder his father felt his uses were few.

He wiped the cream clear out of the jar and swallowed again. It was not enough, he realised desperately, and he was still in some discomfort from the last time. He’d be in pain after this he knew, not enough to restrict his movement, but enough to ensure he would ache for a few days at least. His father was staring at him, a bored sneer the only expression on his face.

When Faramir was done, he pulled the stockings back on and lowered the dress and stood up straight. Denethor nodded grimly in satisfaction.

“You look quite fetching, Faramir,” he said snidely, “It’s a pity I forgot to get you ribbons for your hair!”

Faramir’s shifted his gaze to the floor.

“Come here,” Denethor ordered and swept back into his study. Faramir followed him in.

“The correct way to treat one of those women is with the right mix of force and consideration,” Denethor said pleasantly as he forced Faramir’s chin up, “You can’t damage them. It’s inconsiderate. What would they do otherwise after all?”

He then grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him against the table. Faramir fell back his fingers scrabbling on the polished wood for support.

“You give them enough pleasure to ensure they will give you your money’s worth.”

Denethor tugged at the shoulders of the thin dress, ripping the sheer fabric off, and then tore apart the lacy vest underneath, to reveal Faramir’s left nipple. He bit into the tiny nub, causing Faramir to cry out, and then tore at more of the lace till Faramir’s slender chest lay completely exposed, the skin pale but for the marks left there the previous night. Denethor glanced down at them, smirking all the while as he ran his hands over the mark, and then slowly deliberately pinched the reddened skin causing Faramir to hiss in pain. The sound seemed to amuse him for he suddenly lowered his head and bit at another mark directly above Faramir’s right nipple. Faramir hissed again. Denethor raised his head and smiled cruelly at his fearful face.

“Subtlety is oft lost on them. They like a man to be a man,” he said and sent his hands exploring under the dress. Hands groped beneath the petticoats and the thin stockings that covered Faramir’s groin. More fabric was torn as Denethor’s long fingers attacked the gauzy material, pulling it down.

He then stood back and turning Faramir roughly around so rapidly that the dazed man barely had time to process what was happening, yanked the silken belt off the dress. Then he pushed him facedown on the table and pushed the skirts up so they were bunched around his waist. The stockings were hauled down some more and his legs were spread wide.

Denethor scissored two fingers quickly into him, and then before Faramir could adjust to the intrusion pulled them out and entered him in one swift, painful motion. Faramir tried to muffle a soft moan as he was grabbed by the waist, the strong fingers digging into him and lifting his slender hips off the table. Denethor continued pushing into him, grunting heavily in his ear.

Faramir’s hips ground painfully into the hard wood as Denethor’s entire weight pressed down on him. His hands clung to the table surface for support for at times the force of the thrust was such that Faramir felt he would simply be pushed forward. Denethor simply thrust in repeatedly, ignoring the gasps of pain that Faramir could not help but emit now.

And then finally it was over. Faramir felt the warm liquid spurt inside him, and then Denethor’s fingers went lax. The wet sticky release trickled down his inner thighs as Denethor pulled out swiftly. The steward walked round to a bowl of water kept in the corner and began to clean himself, as Faramir slumped down onto the ground, panting in small gasps, the tattered pieces of the dress billowing around him.

“Well done Faramir,” Denethor said coldly, “You’ve once again managed to prove your only use!” Faramir stayed slumped where he was.

“Leave now,” the steward ordered as he pulled on his pants.

Faramir got to his feet shakily. The skirts fell down in an ungainly heap around him. One shoulder of the dress was completely torn so that the sleeve hung right above his elbow, revealing the torn vest and his marked chest. Denethor’s release snaked down his legs, pooling uncomfortably into the stockings that had slipped down to his thighs. He looked around for his clothes and then realised Denethor held them.

“What are you waiting for?” his father demanded.

“M-my clothes...,” he managed to mumble, still somewhat dazed from the entire experience.

“You will wear these,” Denethor told him calmly, “The guards think I have a bit of skirt inside this room. You can use your cloak to cover yourself. They’ll escort you outside. I’m sure you can find your way back to your chambers later.”

And then he walked out of the room.

Faramir stood numb until he heard the voices of the guards outside the outer door. They mustn’t come in to get him, he realised frantically and looked desperately at his clothes. The stockings he realised he could do nothing about, save pull them up and hope they would stay on. He did so, shuddering at the stickiness that clung to him now. The undervest was beyond repair. He tore it off and threw it into the fire angrily, his only lack of restraint during the whole episode, and then arranging the torn dress over his chest, quickly wrapped the cloak around his shivering body and stepped out.

The guards were waiting outside; he kept his head lowered and pretended to ignore their lewd remarks. They were merely teasing. He knew, for none would go so far as to do worse to the Steward’s bedmate for the night. The walk seemed the longest he had ever taken; the stockings were terribly uncomfortable now. He held the cloak wound tight, ensuring that the hood covered his face completely.

He tried to maintain his composure as the guard gripped his arm and led him down the passage towards a side staircase that led out of the buildings. They came across a landing and Faramir heard more footsteps and realised with a sinking heart that there were a few more guards around.

“A fine filly, Halor. What was she like?” He felt a hand slap him lightly on his backside and jumped even as the guard’s grip on his arm tightened.

“She’s earned her week’s fill, haven’t you, dear?” the other guard laughed as he continued to lead him away.

And then, the clear voice rang through when they stepped onto the staircase.

“Well, Halor, you sly old fox! Still the ladies’ man are you?” Boromir’s sounded extremely happy and more than a little drunk.

Faramir’s heart nearly stilled right then. He shrank into the shadows and pulled away from the guard.

“It’s good to see you back here, My Lord,” the guard replied formally, “As to the *lady*, uhm…” he coughed discreetly and nodded towards the passage they had come from.

Boromir laughed loudly, “I didn’t think he had it in him still! And from the lower circles! She must be a fine bit of skirt.”

“Perhaps you’d like to try her out, Sir,” one of the other guards suggested laughing. Faramir gasped at that, and shrank into the alcove, drawing the cloak around him. He tried again to extricate his arm from Halor’s grip.

“Oh, I don’t think I could live up to her expectations now,” Boromir said, still laughing, but stepped closer all the same. Halor’s grip slackened as he smiled broadly.

It was all Faramir needed. He pulled away desperately and then raced down the stairs. He heard Halor coming behind him, yelling out laughingly over his shoulder, “You scared her away her, Sir!”

Faramir ran faster than he ever had the cloak still clutched tight, laughter and Boromir’s voice still echoing in his ears. Halor finally caught up with him at the doors, and shaking his head, escorted him outside past the smirking guards at the doors.

His heart beating wildly, Faramir slipped into the grounds around the citadel and managed to sneak his way to the tree outside his window. His clothes and the dull ache that pulsed through his lower back made climbing painfully difficult but he managed somehow to clamber over the window sill and stumbled into his antechamber to wash himself, willing himself to not think of what had happened.

When he came out after changing into night robes, he slipped into his bed and finally released the tears he’d held at bay. They did nothing to alleviate his distress though and he finally fell into an uneasy sleep, waking only when Boromir came into his chambers early next morning, his entrance loud as usual.

“Good morning brother!” his voice echoed loudly in Faramir’s aching head.

“Boromir,” he greeted softly, sitting up slowly.

“I though you would be awake!” Boromir said as he slouched into a large chair in front of the hearth, “We were to breakfast together here remember?”

He’d forgotten that, Faramir realised, as he shrugged and rose sluggishly off the bed.

“Hurry up and change. The kitchens will be sending it up soon. You are quite slow this morning! Are you well?”

“I slept late,” Faramir mumbled and swiftly entered his anteroom to change before his brother had the chance to say more.

Boromir however was by the door when he came out. Faramir stopped short and stared at him, his mind numb, “Breakfast is here. Where were you last night, anyway?”

“The third circle again!” Boromir exclaimed with a broad grin.

“No,” Faramir said blandly, having managed to regain his composure now, “Father knows we went there. He disapproves.”

“Really, brother dear?” Boromir asked and then leaned forward and ran his thumb slowly over Faramir’s lower lip.

The younger brother froze in shock and fright and then staggered back. Boromir was smiling as he looked at his thumb.

“Or is it suddenly the fashion for men to paint their lips in Minas Tirith now?” he asked cheerfully holding up the residual scarlet paint that had remained on Faramir’s lips, “Or do I guess that you and father reached an understanding on the matter of courtesans?”

All Faramir could do was stare at the red paint, a gesture Boromir took as a shy agreement. Still smiling he held his thumb closer. Faramir continued to stare at it, feeling dazed and almost silly as Boromir laughed and suddenly dabbed the paint on his nose.

“Excellent! You do look nice now!” he said approvingly, “But this is good news! I am glad to hear it! Come and eat now.”

Faramir nodded timidly.

“But … father doesn’t seem to abide by the same principles himself!” Boromir informed him with a snort as he returned to the chair and picked up a piece of bread, “He had a wench over yesterday and I can tell you she was not one of his usual ‘ladies’! Some base-born whore no doubt! No wonder he was in such a hurry to get rid of me when I called on him earlier!”

Faramir felt a constriction in his stomach that worsened as Boromir continued.

“She was quite comely, though! Tall too. Pity she ran off, I’d have liked a turn with her!”

Faramir tried to block out his brother’s voice and picked up an apple his heart thumping wildly.

“He must have an appetite for rough and tumble stuff, eh?” Boromir smirked, as he reached for some cheese, “Halor tells me he came out looking excessively satisfied. She must have served well, that one. You should have seen the state he left her in! Poor wench could barely walk, though she sure fled when I neared. He certainly has lost none of his prowess over the years!”

“I suppose he hasn’t,” Faramir murmured softly and sighed heavily as he sat down opposite his brother.

He could, after all, still hurt Faramir as much as he had been able to seven years ago, if not more.



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2 Comment(s)

Noooo!!! Poor Faramir. Make a happy ending continue!!! Please.

— Laivindur    Tuesday 25 September 2012, 19:33    #

Thank you Laivindur. the happy although unfinished ending is there in Wlak no more in the shadows… I hope you like it:)

Minx    Thursday 27 September 2012, 22:02    #

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