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This story is rated «NC-17», and carries the warnings «Voyeurism, bent-over-a-table sex, a smidgen of het (but not much) ».
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Of Sins and Shadows (NC-17) Print

Written by The Vixenne

20 June 2009 | 4528 words

Title: Of Sins and Shadows
Author: The Vixenne
Fandom: LoTR – FPS
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn/Arwen
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Voyeurism, bent-over-a-table sex, a smidgen of het (but not much)
Disclaimer: The world of Middle Earth and all its denizens belong to the late Professor JRR Tolkien. The perversion factor is mine alone. This is not canon for I wanted Boromir to live, so he does (isn’t fiction amazing?).

Thanks to whoever gave me this plot bunny, but interestingly enough (and as usual) the characters ended up telling me what they wanted. I just wrote it down. I did get the salient points though, lol.

Written for the 2009 Midsummer Swap.

Request by Minx: A/F where a busy learning ropes as steward Faramir is pursued by someone else [anyone, canonical or omc, gondorian, rhunic, hardaric, man, orc, wizard, elf… possibly even two elven twins:) ] Enter jealous!A, who will win over F, somehow, and very very comprehensively… no place for the other character finally! The courtship with the the other character can be all nice or have elements of violence/non-con, up to author. Also up to author how far it needs to go before A steps in. I’d love it if there’s at least one scene with F being groped, held against a wall, either consensually or not, by Aragorn or the other character… and hard and fast sex over a desk with F being ‘pounded into desk’ by either one again would also be nice!

Faramir drained his second cup of honey mead in one gulp. Normally fastidious when it came to drink, his nerves were on a knife’s edge and while usually quite even-tempered, almost hesitant to speak an unkind word, he’d sent his manservant scurrying from his bedchamber.

Perhaps Denethor was right after all, Faramir thought coldly. I am not fit to hold the position of Steward.

In the same breath, the young man cursed his father using oaths that would have bleached the very color from his father’s face had the sire not done his youngest and despised son the kindness of removing his presence permanently from this life.

Life had been far simpler as an Ithilien Ranger, he mused as he poured himself a third cup. This time he sipped at it slowly, not wanting to risk attending the king with a sore head. He also spread a soft cheese on a piece of brown bread and ate.

By all rights, Boromir should have been Steward of Gondor. It was certainly what Denethor would have wanted. But the brave and noble warrior who had left on the quest for the One Ring was not the same man who returned. That man had become quieter, introspective, and haunted. Whatever had happened on the quest, Boromir would not share. Though it pained him, for the brothers had sworn never to keep secrets from each other, Faramir would not pry.

There was one secret his brother had not kept however. He had fallen in love.

Éowyn of Rohan, shield maiden and slayer of the foul Witchking, was Boromir’s chosen bride and they suited each other well. She also seemed to be the only person who knew how to banish his melancholy.

It had been expected that Boromir and Éowyn would remain in the White City as Gondor’s Steward and his Lady, but when he revealed his desire to dwell permanently in Rohan and for his little brother to assume the mantle of Steward, it felt as if all the air had been removed from the atmosphere.

“The walls hold too many dark memories here,” Boromir explained somberly as he and his brother stood high on the battlements. “I feel trapped, as if I will suffocate ere I tarry long. And Rohan is in need of warriors.”

“And what would you understand about feeling trapped, my brother?” Faramir’s response was bitter. “I shall have father’s vengeful shade as company.”

Had he spared a glance, Faramir would have seen the painful reckoning in his beloved sibling’s eyes. Instead, his own pain too great, he simply walked away in silence.

And when Boromir, once of Gondor, now of Rohan, rode away from the White City, Faramir was not there to see him off. His eyes fell to an unfinished letter that was meant to heal the breach, but Faramir was too weary, heartsore and confused to finish it.

Minas Tirith, even without his father’s presence, was still a prison to him. But it was a prison comprised of too much to do, too many demands on his time and far too many on his mind. As a ranger, the only names he needed to remember were those under his command. As Steward to the High King, not only was he expected to remember the names of the various nobles and their families, but to know where each came in order of precedence. Already Lord Somesuch and Lady Whomever had complained to the king, affronted by the Steward’s obvious lack of protocol.

“Twasn’t a lack of protocol,” Faramir told Aragorn after the incident had been reported. “I simply do not like them.”

Aragorn’s reply had been a hearty laugh, something very rare in the days and weeks following the fall of Sauron. “I believe that the lady is still put out that I did not marry her daughter instead of Arwen,” the older man told him, the gray-blue eyes mischievous. The twinkle in them lessened the creases around them slightly, temporarily lifting the cares of the world away, even for a moment.

It was for that rare look that Faramir pushed himself, often to the brink of exhaustion. There were simply too many letters to read from all over Middle Earth—Sauron and his minions had left their blood-stained deeds behind them. The ones who had survived, still ran renegade and there were not enough soldiers to hunt them down.

In some places, there was not enough food to feed the people, or not enough shelter for the coming winter. Too much here, not enough there…

And a dawning awareness that his feelings towards his high king were far more than what was seemly for a steward.

Faramir tried to first to analyze, then rationalize these feelings. Analytically, he was a lover of men. He’d always known it, and took great pains to hide the fact from Denethor who would see it as yet another failure in his youngest progeny. He’d not taken many lovers in his years as a ranger; the problem being who he was. Few were willing to risk his father’s wrath should they come to his attention.

Somewhere though, Aragorn had become to mean more than deep friendship and respect. Perhaps it had been during Faramir’s recuperation in the Houses of Healing after the final battle of Minas Morgul. Aragorn had spent a great deal of time in his company, sharing fireside tales of skirmishes won and friends lost. They had bonded the way warriors often did, for only those who had been bladed and blooded understood what fighting truly meant. Perhaps all the time they had spent alone, sometimes into the wee hours of the dawn, discussing what needed to be done and where, or moreover, their hopes and dreams for a world barely saved from the brink of darkness. It was there that Faramir unburdened his soul concerning his brother and there when the hand of his king found his shoulders.

Night slowly fell around him. Unrequited love fell around his shoulders like a blanket.

The high king, Aragorn and his queen, Arwen, finished the last of their meal in tense silence.

Arwen’s patience had reached its breaking point. She had to speak.

“For Arda’s sake, Estel, if you want him, go and claim him.”

Aragorn looked up and smiled wanly at his queen. Elves did not view love and affection the same as men. He had lived amongst them for many years and understood the deep concern behind Arwen’s words. Her people did not understand jealousy or possession. For them, love was to be shared, not hoarded away like a miser’s gold.

For themselves, the love between was still great, but it was more in the way of friends rather than husband and wife. Arwen sometimes took her physical comfort in another’s arms, but Aragorn had only desired to lie in the arms of his steward.

“The king can do many things, my love. I cannot compel Faramir to desire me and I do not wish to place him in an uncomfortable position should he not reciprocate my feelings.”

Honesty and respect was what allowed Aragorn to unburden himself and just be a man, revealing his passions to his queen.

Arwen’s face was patient, gentle. “Our steward needs someone. He has too much pride and honor. He will not interfere with what he believes as the love between husband and wife.” Her eyes were wise and serene. “I’ve seen the way he gazes upon you and those times his thoughts are unguarded.” When Aragorn looked askance, she smiled, “No, I do not intrude in that fashion. It’s just that sometimes the thoughts travel of their own volition. He needs you, my love. He is alone and the one person in this world he adored is no longer the same man.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, drawing her slender elfin figure into his arms. “Boromir almost died in my arms. Finding life again changed him. He will always be a warrior, but one far more temperate.”

“Faramir needs you, my love. He simply doesn’t know it yet.” When Aragorn opened to speak, Arwen placed a delicate finger upon his lips. “Hush, my lord. I believe I have a plan to bring our very busy yet lonely steward to his destiny…”

Evening could not have come at a more blessed time and Faramir had been ready to retire to his rooms for hours. His face ached from all the false smiles he’d been forced give, his throat tight from all the words he’d bandied about, saying much and promising little. Worse, it seemed to him that his king’s eyes had been lingering upon him far longer and far more often than usual. The look he gave was one that Faramir could not fathom.

A cheerful fire blazed in the hearth and after removing the heavy robes and the seal of his office, Faramir sat down for a quiet night of a light repast, a little reading and then the warm comforts of his bed.

He poured himself a little wine, sipped at it, then stretched out his weary muscles, releasing all the aching tension of the day. Clad in a comfortable short tunic and trews, he made to sit down and enjoy the small but hearty meal of baked fish, a colorful collection of vegetables, freshly-baked bread and a fruit trifle for desert.

The knock at his door came unexpected.

“My queen.” Faramir’s eyes widened. “Is there something amiss? Is the king well?”

Her smile was kind, and she was calm. “My lord Steward. May I come in? I believe we have matters to attend to for the king will be leaving for Osgiliath shortly.”

Faramir bowed and ushered her into his suite of rooms. “I was just about to dine. I could call for a servant to bring more, if you are hungry.”

“Thank you, but I have already dined this night. Perhaps just a little wine for now.”

“Of course.” Faramir poured an extra goblet and presented it to her as he continued to talk. “I believe that he is to meet with my uncle Imrahil and several other delegates from Dol Amroth. I also believe that you and I are to meet with a delegation from Bag End.” He grinned, remembering the small but valiant hobbits who’d been the heroes of Middle Earth. “Merry and Pippin have written to tell me that they have a surplus of grain they are willing to give to the towns hardest hit by famine. They—”

Arwen approached Faramir, eyes slitted and body sleek as the fabled hunting cats of the East. There was no place to retreat, and the whispering susurration of her emerald gown captivated him. Her lips were moist.

Her fingers reached out to skim along Faramir’s jawline. “I have desired you, my Steward, since mine eyes fell upon you.”

Faramir swallowed. The High Queen was breathtakingly beautiful and her touch singed his skin, but in an instant the only image that came to mind was Aragorn. He wanted his King, always had.

“Aragorn and I have an arrangement. He is kind to me and I love him, but we do not meet each other’s desires.”

But the king certainly couldn’t possibly share his feelings; Faramir was certain of that and was slowly learning to accept it. Yes, he thought as Arwen’s sweet scented breath fanned over his face, light whisper-kisses of air that promised more if he wanted it, she was lovely and obviously willing, but even her ethereal elven beauty did not stir him.

“My lady, your attentions do me great honor,” he began, his voice amazingly strong considering the situation. “I feel compelled however to…”

And before he could tell her what he felt compelled to, her clever and knowing hands had undone the lacings on his breeches and his cock was in her silken grasp. Faramir gasped, her strokes soft and sure, nails lightly grazing each inch. He moaned again and he heard her high chuckle, like chimes in a breeze. “You feel compelled to not harden for me, my lord steward, how unkind of you.”

He could not speak as her lips lightly brushed against his own. Faramir tried to still her hand, tried not to open his lips for the kiss. He didn’t want her to know his secret—that women did not rouse his passions in the way men—especially one man in particular—did. Her fingers were skilled and firm, but they were far too soft, too delicate, though they felt good on his heated flesh. Not a single scar or thickened callus from sword or bow; not the sure and demanding strokes of a warrior seeking and taking pleasure in the touch of men.

Oh, but had they been his king’s hands…

Just that thought alone hardened him. He allowed his mind to drift, to imagine the grey-blue eyes, sleekly muscled body, the rough scratch of beard. He saw Aragorn, heard the deep throaty rumble of his voice seducing him with his deft masculine strokes. He pushed deeper into the hot, hard fist surrounding his swollen flesh. His lips fell open, slack, calling silently for the high king to claim him… Aragorn…

“Ah… Aragorn!”

Suddenly everything halted and Faramir, shamed and shocked at his outcry, instantly extricated himself from Arwen’s grasp.

“My queen… I…”

Interestingly, the queen didn’t appear to be insulted. Her eyes seemed to sparkle as if sharing a great joke or sharing a secret knowledge with herself or someone else.

If anything, she appeared to have confirmed something, but what? And why?

The answer to his questions came as she turned to address the shadow behind her. “My lord, I believe that it is your touch our Steward desires.”

Aragorn watched from the shadows as his queen tried her best to seduce Faramir and was failing wonderfully.

Memory indeed served him well as the hidden alcoves of the citadel shielded him from his steward’s gaze. His own cock swelled to almost painful hardness when Arwen undid Faramir’s breeches, revealing a thick member surrounded by a thatch of reddish-bronze. Aragorn had to stifle a groan of longing, wanting to be the one to make his steward’s cock thicken and come alive. It was apparent that all of his queen’s erotic blandishments were not having the expected effect. If anything, his poor Steward looked hopelessly confused, and even a little frightened, as if he expected the king to suddenly appear from out of thin air and demand an account.

Suddenly something had changed in the handsome steward; his cock had hardened and he began thrusting his hips vigorously into her fist. Aragorn didn’t know or understand and watching the beautiful man caught in the throes of passion only fueled his need. He had to have Faramir now. He wanted Faramir aroused by him, not by his queen. The deception served him right—he should have come right out and declared his love, he should have…

“Ah… Aragorn!”

“My lord, I believe that it is your touch our Steward desires.”

Faramir’s confused gaze followed in the direction of the queen’s words. Silently, Aragorn emerged from the shadows, his form one powerful wave of hunger that slammed into the steward and left him breathless.

Faramir groaned. He’d heard. He knew.

But why?

And why was Aragorn looking at him so strangely, as if he wanted to continue where Arwen had left off?

Cool air at his groin reminded him that his arousal was still quite visible to both his king and queen, and ironically had not abated.

What does one say to their king in such a state? All the works of royal protocol had no answers.

“I will take my leave of you, my lords,” Arwen said, the mysterious sparkle in her wise eyes and the wicked smile on her face even more curious. “I bid you both a pleasant evening.”

She swept out of the room with characteristic elven grace and closed the door silently behind her.

“I don’t understand,” Faramir finally began, hands shaking. “Why were you watching us?”

Aragorn drew in a deep breath. He didn’t want to waste words. He wanted Faramir. Later he would explain and apologize. “I needed to know.”

“Needed to know what?” The steward’s voice remained amazingly steady. “Tell me, my lord.”

But all Aragorn saw was the beauty in the clean masculine lines, the shimmer of bronze highlighted by hearth-fire. He saw the mark of elvish blood and the gracefulness of Faramir’s spare gestures. At that moment, he was not a king, but a man possessed.

“I admit my cowardice,” Aragorn replied. “I hold the entire world of men in my grasp, but I could not reveal to you the depth of my desire. Do not blame Arwen for my lack. She only wanted me to see with my own eyes what I have always known in my heart.”

“You saw my shame.” Faramir’s eyes fell to Aragorn’s still erect member, straining against the confines of his trousers. “You were aroused by it.”

“I saw your need. I wanted to be where Arwen was.”

Faramir’s anger kindled. “Your queen tried to seduce me and you watched in the shadows knowing full well that it was you I wanted. You heard me cry out for you.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Leave my chamber now if you please.”

But Aragorn, so close to the object of his need stood fast. “You will have to eject me by force ere I leave without having what I came here for.”
“You will, when the Dark Lord returns and no sooner,” Faramir retorted. “Unless you plan to ravish me against my will.”

Aragorn’s face morphed wolfishly and faster than even a skilled ranger such as Faramir could move, he was wrapped in a steel-like embrace. “I will have you, my Steward. I will have every inch of you and have you begging for more.”

Faramir held himself still though his heart beat a rapid tattoo inside his chest. The room became too warm.

Suddenly his vision was encompassed by lips moving slowly towards his and then his mouth was taken hostage. Ah gods, the taste of wine and fine pipeweed and the even sweeter taste of his lord. Arwen’s kiss faded into a distant memory. It threatened to drive Faramir out of his senses until else nothing existed, but his anger at being played with would not be so quickly abated.

If Aragorn wanted him, he would have to claim him—and thoroughly.

So Faramir roughly pushed the taller man away and stepped back. Aragorn looked shocked, then his eyes narrowed dangerously as Faramir wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as if he’d tasted something horrid.

“You think me some maiden to swoon over a kiss, my lord Aragorn,” Faramir taunted him. “You think that after everything that’s happened, I am supposed to just give myself to you because of a kiss? Your lady wife kissed me as well you saw, and I had no inclination to indulge her.”

Aragorn simply and arrogantly allowed his gaze to fall upon the very clear indentation outlined by his stubborn steward’s breeches.

Faramir laughed sarcastically; he was challenging his king and the act thrilled him. “That, my lord, means nothing. You may have kissed me, but you cannot know of whom I may have envisioned kissing instead. I have always wondered about the new King of Rohan… he’s certainly man enough.”

Aragorn saw nothing but pure rage. How dare his impudent steward challenge him this way? It excited him, more than even watching from the shadows. He had to have Faramir and he would—right now.

Both men, trained as rangers in the twin arts of stealth and surprise, were fast. But Aragorn, far older with the blood of the Dunedain flowing in his veins, had a lot more experience. Before Faramir could say another word, he’d been spun around and pushed forcefully down on the table, his hands held behind him by Aragorn’s.

“Man enough, eh,” Aragorn whispered thickly against his ear. “I will make damn certain you never have cause to doubt my manhood.”
“So you claim,” and wickedly Faramir rubbed himself back against Aragorn, daring him to do as he promised. The taller man pressed his erect cock between the clothed crease of Faramir’s buttocks. Such heat, and they were still dressed. The friction of their bodies as they moved was driving him mad. They’d waited far too long.

Grasping the material in his hands, Aragorn ripped at Faramir’s breeches, forcefully yanking them down until the tight, sun-kissed globes of his well-defined buttocks were in his view. He traced patterns over the skin, feeling the man shiver beneath him. His fingers sought and parted the flesh until the tight ring that lay in the center was on full display. His lips followed where fingers and hands led.

Faramir moaned shamelessly. Anger had long since given over to need. The king wanted him, and he wanted his king. He wanted to be ridden, taken hard. He’d allowed no one that pleasure, but he would for his king, his love. And when the tip of Aragorn’s tongue found the tight heat of his hole and began lapping at it, making him wet and hard and needy, Faramir thought he’d die of the pleasure.

Forgetting everything save what was being done to him, Faramir urged Aragorn for more. “Please… for pity’s sake, my lord…”

Aragorn took pity on his quivering lover. Bending over him he whispered eagerly, “You will be mine, sweet Faramir.”

Quickly unfastening his breeches, Aragorn slicked himself with an unguent Arwen made of crushed spiced seeds and oil. The substance served a dual purpose—to ease passage and to softly warm the skin. His other fingers, also coated in the oil, toyed with Faramir’s tight entrance then slid inside, exploring and opening deep until he found the place inside of his lover that made Faramir arch. He tortured his steward thusly for what felt like hours, enjoying the sight of Faramir begging and ready.

Aragorn removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock, swollen to the point of agony. All he needed was to stretch the guardian muscle until it allowed him full entry into Faramir’s hot nether region and then he’d plow into the man until they were both lost. The head of his cock widened the tight opening as Faramir panted and pleaded beneath him. Each inch that he gained was closer to the goal and once there, he waited.

“Tell me you want this,” Aragorn groaned hotly in Faramir’s ear.

“Possess me, my lord. Take me hard!”

Permission granted, Aragorn stormed inside, riding Faramir hard. The younger man pushed back, hungry for more. Aragorn grasped his cheeks and spread them wider as he pounded his lover hard and deep and everything coalesced to this moment where he didn’t know anything save this pleasure. It was decadent and sweet and though violent in its way, there was a gentleness that only men knew between them. Warriors and lovers, Aragorn took and gave equally as Faramir moaned and demanded still more. There was nothing regal or seemly bent over a table at another’s mercy, but neither cared.

So hot, so hard. Aragorn felt the familiar sensation pooling at his groin signaling release. Gods, it was too soon and Faramir felt so good. All that heat and the combined scents of sex and sweat; the way he felt beneath him without the slightest hint of passivity. Faramir’s body rocked against his, bringing him closer.

“Aragorn… don’t stop damn you! Please, don’t ever stop…”

And he didn’t want to but it was all too much. Aragorn gripped Faramir’s hips and swerved and pounded and drove home deeper, striking the place inside of his steward’s body that made the both of them cry out and curse in their shared hunger. Another thrust and the climax came, nearly blinding him as he released what felt like years of seed into Faramir’s body.

Slumping bonelessly on top of him, he felt a gentle touch of lips on his cheek. His eyes met the younger man’s.

“You and I have a lot of talk about, my lord.” The radiant smile took some away of the seriousness of his words. “And I want to know everything.”


Aragorn was in Osgiliath, inspecting the rebuilding efforts of that brave and war-torn city. Arwen and Faramir shared duties of governance until his return. One late evening after the last missive had been read, Arwen poured mead for both of them and they sat companionably as the stars emerged one by one in the dark fall sky.

“I suppose I never had the chance to apologize, my lord steward,” she began, her eyes looking into the distance as if measuring her thoughts. “Then again, I suppose I never will, for after all, what I did was to bring you and Estel together. You men can be so stubborn when it comes to love.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you will forgive us our poor understanding,” Faramir teased politely, then sobered. “I feel as if I should apologize to you for being so at peace.”

Arwen gazed deeply into him; he shivered as if his entire soul was visible. “I would not accept such an apology, my lord steward. Aragorn and I are friends and even something closer, but his heart belongs to you. My heart has many rooms and all of them are quite comfortable.”

With those words, Arwen rose gracefully and swept from the room. From the corner of his eye, Faramir saw one of the tenants of his lady’s ‘rooms’.

“Éomer,” she sighed into his kiss. “Come, tell me news of Rohan.”

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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4 Comment(s)

This is wonderful! I love the ‘smidgen of het’ and feisty, scheming Arwen, as well as the miraculously-undead-but-moody!Boromir. And of course your two leading men are just perfect together!
Thank you so much for this!

iris    Sunday 21 June 2009, 20:32    #

This was wonderful. Loved how Arwen got them together. Good to know that elves understand love. Thanks.

— balrog    Monday 22 June 2009, 5:35    #

Oh my! this is just perfect!! I loved every bit of it. you got everything in including the grope againt the wall!:) I loved Arwen’s sneaky deviousness, and his rather prolific love life:)) And Faramir is just plain yummy! I love his weariness and the hint of bitterness in the beginning, and the fiery reaction to Aragorn later, and I loved Aragorn as well. He does so much without doing much after all:) And ooh… yummy hot pounding lovin’ over the table was just perfect! thank you ever so much! huggles And thank you too for throwing miraculously undead!Boromir:)

— Minx    Monday 22 June 2009, 15:13    #

Hehe, love plotting Arwen! Seems to take a caring wife to bring two thickheads together ggg. Hot stuff, they really needed it badly

— phytha    Thursday 25 June 2009, 0:23    #

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