#Faramir x Éowyn

[edennill]

Ok, but Finduilas' star cloak???👀👀👀

(Sara Mrad, Winter 24/25)

I MEAN -

[i-did-not-mean-to]

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?”

-> Masterlist

@tolkienpinupcalendar Here's another one from me <3

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

“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. 

[anghraine]

Shipping Poll (part 2a)

Hi everyone! I belatedly remembered that I'd planned the first step of the next stage for today, following from posting the last of the previous stage yesterday (a still-active ot3-off: Luke/Han/Leia vs Elizabeth/Darcy/Colonel Fitzwilliam). The results from the earlier polls have been coming in, so it's time for the first head-to-head between winners of the previous stage.

May the best ship win :D

[boromirswife]

@giftober 2024 | Day 3: Gold

"I do not believe this darkness will endure."

[theladyeowyn]

“… it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still.”

[autistook]

March 20th - Faramir meets Éowyn in the Houses of Healing

[gramnel]

[velvet4510]

The thing about Éowyn giving up being a shieldmaiden is that those who complain about it are entirely missing the point.

What she truly wants is not to specifically fight and kill and kick ass in battle. All those things are representations of her actual desire: to be recognized.

She is constantly being cast aside and forced into the corner and left behind, and she wants to actually leave an impactful mark, a legacy, which the society of Rohan will not permit her to create. She directly tells Aragorn that she wants to do great deeds, and she is most afraid of losing her chance to do anything meaningful with massive ripple effects. She has the very human and very relatable need to be seen and noticed and remembered.

She sees all these warriors achieving glory and becoming the subjects of songs on the battlefield, so she thinks that’s her only way. And she fears that once the war is over, there will be no other way, that it will all go back to the way it was for her.

Then by the end, she learns that’s not true. She can do great deeds and achieve recognition post-war, and she does.

She becomes the Princess of Ithilien, a land decimated by war which means she and Faramir essentially get to start from scratch in rebuilding the land and the society. As Faramir’s equal partner, it is up to her, as much as it is up to him, to make the land beautiful again, to decide how it should be run, to shape it into a thriving place, to eventually mentor the next generation to take proper care of it all. She can introduce horses to the land and teach people to ride. She can teach self-defense because everyone needs to know that kind of stuff. She can do so many things and make so many major decisions for the benefit of so many people who look up to her and need her.

And above all, Éowyn can shape Ithilien to be what Rohan never was to her: a place where all women are seen and heard and respected.

And the best part is, she gets all the freedom and makes all the impact that she has always dreamed of, and yet she doesn’t have to deal with any of her responsibilities alone. While before she had no support in being Théoden’s nurse, and dealt with it all by herself, now she is surrounded by love and encouragement. She’s got Faramir there to always hold her hand. She’s got supportive friends in Aragorn, Arwen, and Merry.

Éowyn giving up being a shieldmaiden and warrior is not the equivalent of abandoning her dream; it is the equivalent of achieving her dream.

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: The battle was over, and Thorin Oakenshield awoke, naked and shivering, in the Halls of his Ancestors. The novelty of being dead fades quickly, and watching over his companions soon fills him with grief and guilt. Oddly, a faint flicker of hope arises in the form of his youngest kinsman, a Dwarf of Durin's line with bright red hair.

Author: @determamfidd

Note from submitters:

It's just such a great story. It took me over a month to read because I needed time to ingest the amazing writing and frankly fantastic world build. It did an amazing job to work with and build on the existing cannon and lore while being it's own absolute masterpiece. After I finished it, I sobbed for nearly an hour and had a near 3 week reading slump and I don't regret it for a second. 

This fic is so good, it took me a month to finish and it put me in a two and a half week reading slump and I regret nothing except that I hadn't read it sooner

Submitter: @whats-she-gonna-post-next

[themoonlily]

How Éomer and Lothíriel's wedding probably went

Éowyn: storms in a month before the wedding and arranges the whole thing, is somehow prepared for and does resolve a dozen various crises behind the scenes while the bride and the bride-groom remain oblivious

Amrothos: annoying pranks during the stag night; is the cause of at least one or two crises, Éothain locks him up in a cupboard somewhere in Meduseld

Elphir and/or Erchirion: a lot of threats aimed at the bride-groom that are progressively less and less veiled; be good to her or else...!

Arwen: emotional support for the bride, the bride-groom, and occasionally father of the bride; will hold the bride-groom's hand to keep him calm

Aragorn: the Dad Friend who will give good advice and maybe help to adjust some piece of clothing just before ceremony; is instrumental to resolving at least a few crises behind the scenes

Éothain: will help to arrange a quick getaway when guests get annoying and has several cupboards ready to act as cells; shares a lot of embarrassing stories but also secretly cries during the ceremony

Faramir: makes a toast everyone will talk about for years to come; will hold the bride's hand to help with the nerves

Imrahil: is happy he doesn't need to deal with the incessant pining anymore; has not had a day off since last year and he is going to just enjoy this, thank you very much

[i-did-not-mean-to]

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

-> Masterlist

[brother-genitivi]

bye I’m unwell bc I’ve been looking at the clothes Faramir and Éowyn wear in that deleted wedding scene photo Miranda Otto posted and AUGHHH Faramir’s clothing has floral patterns,,,, the starry mantle of his mother’s he gives to her also has floral patterning on it. something about the floral crown Éowyn wears we first see at Théodred’s funeral and now we’re seeing it at the birth of a new age of peace at Aragorn’s coronation (and Faramir’s also wearing clothing with floral patterns). something something them growing a garden together in Ithilien. etc etc. sobbing

[sylveongender]

faramir and éowyn are t4t if you even care

[theladyeowyn]

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003) dir. Peter Jackson

[camille-lachenille]

Day 24 of All of Arda is Autistic:

Prompt: infodumping/shyness/wildflowers

Rating: Gen

Faramir/Éowyn

Éowyn followed her husband on the barely visible trails used by the Rangers, marvelling at how he was able to navigate this hidden path almost blindly; she felt like an Oliphaunt tramping along, in comparison. Faramir was scanning their surroundings with a peaceful focus, pausing every now and then to point out a plant that caught his attention, explaining its properties, symbolic and function in the wild. He wore a wide smile as he showed Éowyn the countless species that blossomed in Ithilien.

After a long walk, they exited the woods proper and came upon a rocky slope that marked the first steps of the Ephel Dúath. Faramir’s face lit up and he practically dragged Éowyn to a cluster of small, pale yellow flowers that grew amongst the bare rocks. “Look!” he exclaimed, beaming. “This is ithilgoloth, a rare flower that grows only in Ithilien. The Shadow almost eradicated it but it’s growing again!”

His enthusiasm for this frail-looking little plant was contagious and Éowyn crouched next to her husband to give a better look at the ithilgoloth. Faramir was delicately running a finger on the small leaves and long stem of the plant, radiating genuine happiness at the sight of this little flower growing back after the destruction of its home. In this moment, Éowyn understood that her husband’s knowledge for Ithilien’s flora was more than the interest of a scholar. It was a knowledge made of love for this land and an bubbling will to share it. And so, as she listened to Faramir talk about the ithilgoloth, Éowyn fell in love all over again.

This prompt was delayed by a surprising amount of research on Ithilien’s flora. My botanical knowledge is close to nothing when it comes to Mediterranean plants and it was surprisingly difficult to find a rare Mediterranean flower. Ithilgoloth (moon-flower in Sindarin) is my extremely amateur attempt at translating the French common name of the Biscutella rotgesii. This is a flower endemic to Corsica and it’s highly endangered. I figured that it was a good candidate for a flower that got almost destroyed by the Shadow’s pollution of Ithilien.