Food Sex
Eh, a bit of porridge for your nerves after these tiresome days :D
Prompt: Food Sex
Pairing: Éowyn x Faramir
Words: 545
Warnings: Misappropriation of food, vaginal sex, nipple sucking, nudity, I might have misunderstood the prompt
Faramir stared at the bowl in his wife’s slender hands miserably.
Éowyn was radiant, beaming with pride, and he was loath to deflate her ebullient mood by appearing unappreciative and ungrateful when she’d gone to such lengths for him.
She was, unfortunately, known to be a subpar cook by any imaginable metric.
“Even I cannot ruin that one,” she chuckled, setting the wooden container down between his bare feet.
The greyish sludge looked inordinately unappetising, Faramir thought, but the complex, sweet aroma emanating from the sloshing mush made his stomach churn eagerly, nevertheless.
He’d just returned from a weeklong mission and felt a smidgen under the weather—it was proper and good that his devoted spouse had offered to whip something up to make him feel better, and he felt like a villain for having hoped that her offering would be more carnal than culinary in nature.
He’d missed her; her soft skin, her silken hair, her firm curves under his chafed fingers as he showered her with ardent tenderness…
“Go ahead,” she encouraged, a knowing smile still tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It’s only porridge!”
As soon as he lifted the beautifully carved spoon to his lips, she stood and unbuttoned her shift.
“To feast your eyes as well as your tongue,” Éowyn declared with all the undeniable power and dignity of her noble blood.
She was positively fearless, and—as so often since first meeting her—Faramir was overcome with admiration and profound affection for this stubborn, amazing woman he had the honour and pleasure of calling his wife.
To his surprise, the unidentifiable slurry she’d handed him was indeed perfectly edible and, after the long days spent on the road, even comparatively tasty.
Of course, his senses might have been swayed by the voluptuous pulchritude of Éowyn’s bare flesh, glowing faintly in the flickering light of the dying fire in the hearth.
At once, his hunger was stoked afresh, and he devoured his allotted portion with voracious haste without ever assuaging the burning need roaring in his guts.
“Is it sweet enough?” Éowyn asked with feigned innocence before snatching away the nearly empty bowl and letting the remaining porridge drip onto her naked body in a gesture so irreverent and titillating, that her honourable, studious husband pounced upon her like an unleashed beast.
Kissing and sucking on her thus bemired skin in the single-minded pursuit of that symphony of honey and heated flesh, he pushed her onto her back, heedless of the treacherous stains his own garb would bear.
He’d never believed that a woman might make him lose control over his moral principles so easily, but—as he tugged at his breeches haphazardly with one hand—he had to admit that Éowyn knew exactly how to lull him into a false sense of security before driving him over the edge of sanity ruthlessly.
As he pushed into her awkwardly, his sticky lips still latched on her right nipple, making her squeal and moan with delight, Faramir couldn’t help considering how shocked and disgusted his father would be if he knew about this unexpected, unorthodox intermezzo.
“I’ve missed you too,” Éowyn keened as she arched her back to draw him in deeper. “How do you like your humble welcoming feast?”
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@tolkienpinupcalendar Here's another one from me <3
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“Blessed”
Pairing: Éowyn/Faramir
Others: Aragorn
Themes: Soft | Fluff
Warnings: Nothing
Wordcount: 500+ words
Summary: Faramir speaks with Aragorn on the day of his wedding to Éowyn.
This ficlet was inspired by @thelien-art piece on Faramir and Éowyn.
Also available on AO3
Aragorn came to his chambers at the appointed hour. “The others have all gathered in the Court of the Fountain. Come, my friend, let us not keep them waiting.”
Faramir joined his king as they made their way down the long, vaulted halls he once played in as a child. “Never would I have considered such a day possible, your grace,” he pondered aloud. “And with such a lady, no less.”
“The Valar have indeed blessed you,” the king remarked, smiling. “Éowyn is a fine woman and a fierce warrior. She will make you a splendid wife.”
The steward smiled in return, his sense of anticipation only growing when two sentries opened the high, wide doors to the gardens. There were guests aplenty: members of the new king’s court, nobles from Rohan, even the queen’s brothers. Elladan and Elrohir were to remain in the city for a while before they left on one final hunt to cleanse the lands of Sauron’s fell servants.
And then they will join their grandfather and follow their father and grandmother on the watery path they took to the Blessed Realm. Faramir wondered if Arwen would miss her brothers dearly. He knew he missed his own, and fresh grief clenched in his heart when he realized Boromir did not live to witness their great victories or what came after.
I wish he were here, Faramir thought while he walked toward the White Tree. I wish Boromir was here to share my joy. Father too.
Faramir mourned his father as much as he mourned his brother. No one told him of Denethor’s end or the manner in which it came about until much later, after he had left the house of healing and was strong of heart.
“I wish you and Lady Éowyn nothing but joy in the many years to come,” Aragorn said, before turning to join his wife and the others that stood to bear witness to the exchanging of vows.
“My thanks, your grace,” Faramir returned, before turning to face the city elder who would preside over the exchanging of their vows. Then a minstrel strummed a soft refrain on his harp, a signal that the bride was making her way to the groom. Faramir found himself overcome with joy. It only grew when he turned to see Éowyn walking toward him, her arm around her brother’s.
She is as fair as the queen herself. Éowyn was garbed in white, with no other adornment save for a belt of pearls wrought in gold. Her eyes were fixed on her intended husband’s, as bright and warm as the summer sky. Faramir was enraptured.
“Greetings, husband mine,” the lady smiled, her face flushed with excitement.
“Greetings, my darling wife," answered Faramir, bowing respectfully to both her and her brother. Éomer bowed gravely before placing a kiss on his sister's cheek.
"I wish you nothing but happiness," the king of Rohan whispered, before he too turned to join the others.
When she placed her hand in Faramir’s they turned to face the elder. He beamed at them while he wrapped a delicate white sash around their hands, binding them together in the sights of the Exalted Ones and all those who had gathered in the courtyard. Then the ceremony truly began.
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Week 2 - Dreams
And here is the last chapter for Week 2.
I hope you've enjoyed this little excursion into a book I write about less than the others :D
Prompt: Dreams
Pairing: Faramir x Éowyn, Boromir x OC
Words: 2 030
Warnings: Kisses, plans for the future, goodbyes
After this very first excursion on horseback, Boromir understood his brother’s reticence to pick up the phone and establish contact with the outside world a little better.
His little cabin, the surrounding woods, and the absolute peace that filled their days were far too seductive and pleasant to willingly disrupt this fragile dream of peace by inviting in the trials and tribulations of reality.
On the second day since his impromptu arrival, Boromir nevertheless strolled out of the house resolutely under the pretence of getting some fresh air.
Instead, he called their father to learn who owned the rustic cabin in which they currently resided.
"You couldn’t have found another place—a hotel maybe—to play pretend in?” Denethor grunted, evidently still deeply displeased with Boromir’s sudden departure.
“No, I like it,” Boromir replied staunchly. “It reminds me of our childhood. I’ve not spent much time alone with my brother in the last years, and I relish the opportunity to learn about his experiences and discoveries.”
Even as he spoke those words, he realised how dangerously provocative it was to contradict his father, but—drawing strength from the last few hours—he stood his ground.
“As you’ve asked,” Denethor went on in a cold, undeniably cruel tone. “It is I who own the cabin. I cannot readily remember now whether it has been a gift or an impulsive purchase made in my tender youth, but it is mine.”
“Good,” Boromir replied calmly, wilfully ignoring his father’s attempts at getting a rise out of him. “Faramir seems very happy out here, and—had you not admitted that it is part of the family holdings anyway—I’d have offered to buy it from whoever holds the deeds.”
When Denethor didn’t reply, Boromir continued suavely. “I can, of course, still do so. Do you want me to make you an offer?”
“No,” Denethor barked. “You shall do no such thing. I cannot fathom what enjoyment you might possibly draw from a dilapidated hut in the middle of nowhere.”
Acutely aware of his father’s guileful ways, Boromir bit back the hot, hasty retort burning on his tongue—it would have been immensely imprudent to let slip any hint to Drea before he’d learned more about the charming woman he’d only just met the previous day.
“Faramir’s healing well—already, he’s moving more freely, and I dare hope that he might recover completely.”
“And to what is that miraculous change due?” Denethor hissed suspiciously.
“He’s…riding,” Boromir replied hesitantly. He was wracking his brains for a way to cut short this tiresome conversation when he saw Drea and Éowyn walking up the path, carrying a big basket of firewood and an icebox between them.
“I’m ever so sorry, Father,” Boromir said hastily, “but there are visitors at the door I must attend to. I’ll call you back soon. Bye!”
Before Denethor could protest or ask where his seemingly all but healed brother was, the retired soldier had clicked away the call and hastened towards the approaching ladies.
“Ah, Boromir,” Drea exclaimed in an adorably breathless voice that made him feel like a proper hero for relieving them of their various burdens and walking them up to the cabin. “I was hoping you’d be in.”
Not knowing where else he would go, Boromir gave a small shrug that made the muscles in his shoulders bunch in a way that drew even Drea’s polite gaze inexorably.
“If my baby brother keeps getting visits from charming young women, I have to stand by—as a chaperone, so to say,” he joked.
At once, Éowyn turned around and looked at him sharply. “Did that coquettish thing from the ice cream parlour stop by?”
Eyes widening, Boromir realised that he’d committed a faux pas and was quick to backpedal. “Not to my knowledge,” he said hastily. “I meant you ladies.”
His clumsy attempt at flattery made the adventurous horsewoman throw her head back with hearty, unguarded laughter. “I’m many a thing, Boromir, but I hardly think that one would call me particularly charming.”
“A grievous oversight and mistake,” Boromir muttered as he heaved their supplies up the steps to the patio. “May I ask what it is you’re planning for tonight?”
“This old shack has a marvellous fireplace in the back garden,” Éowyn explained with self-assured resolve. “And I thought you might enjoy a good, old-fashioned barbecue.”
Her eyes were gleaming with something that made Boromir’s stomach clench nervously—she knew, he thought instinctively before chiding himself for being so foolish. How could the woman know anything she’d not been explicitly told?
Then again, Faramir was convinced that the wonderful horse farm down the road was a magical place of miraculous healing.
“That’s kind of you,” he said feebly and rapped his knuckles against the doorframe to warn his brother of the imminent ambush.
“Oh, hello!” Faramir appeared, a beatific smile on his sun-tanned, relaxed face. “I didn’t know that we had planned something for today.”
He and his brother had a habit of sitting in comfortable silence while nursing oversized mugs of steaming tea, and—while he enjoyed the age-old, soothing intimacy—Faramir was looking forward to a livelier evening.
When the fire was lit and lovingly marinated slabs of meat sizzled on the old, sturdy metal frame affixed over it, Faramir leaned back in his rickety garden chair with a deep sigh.
“You look better,” Éowyn commented dryly.
“Well, thank you, I guess,” he replied, feigning vexation. “I don’t want to know what you thought of me when first we met then.”
As if to be contrary on principle, Éowyn held his gaze and licked her lips slowly.
“I thought that you were too handsome to look this tired and sad. Your posture was that of a doter, but your expression reminded me of a lost child. It was…heartbreaking.”
To Faramir’s shock, Drea nodded emphatically.
“Well,” he chuckled uncomfortably. “In that case, I must thank you for being so generous and welcoming to so pitiful a wretch.”
“Nonsense,” Drea said calmly. “We’ve all gone through rough patches. I’m just glad you seem more like yourself these days—you look…content.”
“I am,” Faramir exclaimed, staring into the dancing flames. “I wish I could stay here forever.”
A low, shivering sigh passed his lips, and Boromir nearly jumped out of his chair with eagerness—he’d always protected and defended his brother, and it filled him with pride and happiness to be able to do so once more.
“You can,” he said just a smidgen louder than was necessary. “We own this place, which means that you can stay here for as long as you’d like.”
Blinking up at his brother, his role model, his eternal hero, Faramir looked like the very picture of incomprehension. “What do you mean?”
“Father owns this place. It’s just like him to send you off to one of his secret holdings—mayhap, he’d hoped that you’d renovate the cabin for him. Who knows? Either way, am I not right in surmising that you don’t plan on returning to active duty?”
Faramir averted his gaze—he’d always claimed that he’d go back to the armed forces once he’d healed up, but then his recovery had been stalled and delayed for so long that nobody truly expected him to be hale enough ever again.
“You don’t have to,” Boromir said fervently. “You’ve worked so hard on getting better, there’s no need to risk and squander it all. The war is over, and you deserve to reap the fruits of your labour.”
“But father…”
“His dreams are not yours, we both know it, so I forbid you to ruin your life to please one who will never be satisfied.”
“What about you?” Faramir recognised the signs of valiant self-sacrifice in the way his brother’s mouth tightened into a hard line and his eyes became flinty with determination.
“I shall return to the city,” Boromir sighed, holding up a hand to stop the flood of remonstrations and pleas burning on Faramir’s soft lips. “It’s where I belong! I shall take my place at Father’s side and keep him in line.”
His fiery gaze mellowed progressively. “And every so often, I shall flee the grinding machinery to come out here and have beers and barbecues with my little brother and…” He threw a questioning glance at Éowyn.
“You’ll always be welcome,” she said, touching two fingers to her brow. “You’ll find us either here or on the ranch, but I think you suspected as much already. Either way, swing by whenever you like, grab a horse, and heal.”
Boromir nodded gratefully while Faramir stared at the beautiful woman with unconcealed confusion and raw hope.
“Don’t be a fool, Faramir,” Éowyn laughed. “Even you must have realised by now that you’re meant to be here. If you want that, of course.”
“I do,” he whispered insistently, afraid of the magnitude of his own desires. “Oh, how I want that.”
“And if your father expels you from his hut, you simply come over to our place,” she added resolutely and winked.
“Is that…Is that the kind of invitation I think it might be?” Faramir squeaked.
“I’m a horse breeder, Faramir. No need to play coy with me,” she guffawed and boxed him in the rips tenderly. “Just…don’t dither too long. I think I’ve shown admirable restraint and composure, but even my patience will run out at some point.”
“Will do!” Faramir gave back in the clear, sharp delivery of one used to taking orders and fulfilling them to the letter.
“As for you,” Boromir said, turning to Drea. “If you ever feel inclined to return to the urban wilderness and find yourself in need of a job, give me a call. My father is a cantankerous, old fool, but I have the creeping suspicion that you’d know just how to take him.”
“I’m good with stuffy people,” Drea agreed with quiet dignity. “I’m a hard worker, but…”
“When it gets too much…” Boromir promised. Emboldened by all his most cherished dreams being so close he could almost taste them on his tongue, he took her hand. “When you need a break, you send me a memo and we’ll take the company car to come out here. Deal?”
Squeezing his massive paw in her dainty hand, she nodded. “Deal.”
Thus it was decided and so it was done.
In time, Faramir found the courage to linger after the filling even if slightly tasteless and exceedingly heavy dinners Éowyn was wont to prepare.
Éomer, understanding when he was not wanted, gave him another nod—friendlier and tinged with reluctant admiration now—before retiring to his own quarters in one of the sprawling annexes of the main building.
“Your brother has called,” Éowyn said casually as she handed her houseguest a dripping wet plate to dry.
“Oh? He’s called you?”
“Not exactly,” she giggled. “He’s called Drea. Apparently, he’s not only organised a job interview for her but also claimed that he’d found the perfect apartment for her.”
Faramir, who was certain that this mysterious flat was another one of their father’s multiple holdings merely smirked—he’d been right in his initial assessment that Boromir would take an instant liking to the delicate damsel.
“So, Drea is leaving us?” he asked, surprised at the earnest regret welling up in him.
“It’s time,” Éowyn replied kindly. “I suspect that we will see more of her before long. Don’t you?”
Nodding, he stepped back so she could sling her wet, warm hands around his torso and squeeze the irrational sadness out of his hale, strong body.
“Someone else has called, though. I wondered…” she murmured into the space between his shoulder blades.
“Yes, dear?”
“Maybe, if it’s not too much to ask, you might give the young lady a few riding lessons on Frieda? That horse is besotted with you!”
“The horse, hmmm?” he teased.
“I won’t win a fistfight against those hooves,” she sighed dramatically. “The farrier was here only yesterday. I know when I’m beaten.”
Turning around, Faramir kissed her slowly and tenderly dragged a wonderfully calloused thumb along her sharp cheekbone in a loving caress. “You’re my favourite,” he hummed conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Frieda, though.”
@fellowshipofthefics
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