faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

Her eyes are kind, and he sees acknowledgement there. That is no small matter, for she has deliberately turned away from even that much these past days, whenever he has strayed too near the coundary of friendship that he now skirts and longs to cross.

But he sees also uncertainty, and he knows not if it is because of the strangeness of the day, of the moment, or because she does not know how to answer him. Hope and doubt smite him in turn, each succeeding the other. "Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom," he says quietly, and looks back towards the horizon with her.

Everything becomes abruptly still. It is not his imagination: the wind dies, all sound hushes, and all suddenly darkens in truth, as Shadowed as it has been in his nightmares. His heart almost stops in his chest, and even his half-confession of a moment before and her less than half an answer are forgotten in the great silence of the moment. There is no hint of sound, not birdsong nor speech, and it seems to him they both have stopped breathing. No thing living or unliving moves.

But no, one thing does: he seizes her hand, or perhaps she seizes his, and they stand handfast side by side as they wait in awe and terror. It could be any amount of time that they and the world stand frozen, minutes, hours, an Age.

And then above the distant mountains a great darkness rises, greater even than the one which has fallen over the earth, one that contains fire and lightning. It reaches to the sky as though it will fall over them and engulf all things, and a great tremor runs from its heart in all directions, shaking the ground beneath their feet. As though the tremor is was a great heartbeat the spell is abruptly broken, and things move and breathe again, and Faramir finds himself trembling. "It reminds me of Númenor," someone says, and with astonishment he realizes it was himself who said it. He would have thought he had no words, had forgotten them and all language entirely.

"Will they set trials?" He looks as though he more than half-expects her to say there are. "There are no more Simarils, so I cannot fetch one for you, but anything else I will undertake, if I must."

Once more his gaze is locked on her face, taking in the growing color in her cheeks, the way her lips part and the small noises she makes. All of him is stiff with tension, poised. She whimpers his name, and his cock throbs almost painfully in reaction.

He moves on to her third finger, then the fourth, then the thumb, paying each the same careful attention. When he finishes with those he kisses the palm of her hand, then the inside of the wrist. Something has to break soon, he thinks dizzily, aroused almost beyond his ability to bear. One of them. He doesn't know which. He doesn't care which.

He only laughs, taking his time, until finally, finally, he presses in and licks at her.

"I see you are impatient this day!"

He is obedient to her instruction, kissing her softly and obliging, hand cupping her breast and then fingers feathering over it to find her nipple and tease it.

"Like this?"

Éowyn sucks in a sharp breath, then holds it without even realizing she does so-- poised and steeling herself for whatever comes next. The hush that falls over them and the whole land is complete, seeming to still even the very beat of their hearts. She squeezes Faramir's hand tightly in hers as the darkness rises and surges, similarly without even noticing she does so.

And then, long at last; it is akin to a great sigh that follows the tremor that runs through the whole land, all of the City, the ground beneath their feet trembling. She gasps, lungs burning as she draws in breath again, her frame quivering the same as Faramir's.

"Of Númenor?" Éowyn prods after a beat, voice quiet and uncertain; questioning as she tries to understand what is happening, eyes still peeled on the horizon.

"That is well, for I have no desire for Elven trinkets," Éowyn answers a little wryly, smiling. Only she would call the fabled jewels responsible for so much strife and upheaval something so irreverent as trinkets. "As for your question... let us say that I should not put it past my kith and kin. We have but time before the funeral, after all."

"Yes," he says, his gaze too still locked on the far mountains, as though he might therefore discern what titanic event can have occurred there. That something has is unquestionable. The blow has fallen. But what blow, against whom? "Of the land of Westernesse that foundered and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."

He laughs outright as she dismisses the legendary Silmarils, ruinous in their beauty, as naught be Elven trinkets. It is perhaps as well that none of the Firstborn are near to hear of it, but he is vastly amused, and pulls her in close so he might kiss her head. "Then I am forewarned! What should I expect, or may you tell me? And will you be present to cheer me on, as I hope you would, or too busy with other matters?"

A cold shiver runs through her at the answer and unbeknownst to her, she shifts closer to him, her arm pressing flush against his and fingers of their clasped hands still entwined.

"Then you think that the Darkness is coming?" She swallows dryly, a hint of a shake in her voice. In that moment, she does not fail to recall that Faramir sees further and keener than most Men, fearing his words now in light of his gift. "Darkness unescapable?"

"No."

He looks at her then, and his expression is one of slowly growing wonder. "No, it was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days."

He squeezes her hand, marvelling anew at the feel of her fingers entangled with his. Although they have often held hands thus it suddenly feels a new thing, miraculous. "But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny."

He laughs a little in sudden amazement. "Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!" He bends and kisses her forehead, lifting their joined hands up against his heart.

In that moment a great wind arises, but unlike the torrents of this morning this one feels clean, a wind to sweep away an old season and herald in a new. And then the Sun bursts forth, bathing all things in golden light, and far off in the distance the river Anduin is a shining ribbon on the plains. Everything feels reborn.

From all over the city comes the sound of singing, and Faramir's heart too sings, but he keeps his lips pressed to Éowyn's brow, wonder-struck.

"Yes." It's more a sigh than a word, as she nips and teases at his mouth with her tongue, gasping a little every so often. "And--you used your mouth there, earlier--"

Around the time she said her legs wouldn't hold her anymore.

"Impatient--!" Her protest is cut off by a gasp as he finally continues where he left off earlier, but with tongue instead of hands. It is so intense she can barely speak, but Eowyn is stubborn. "After how you teased me--!"

But she cannot speak more, instead panting for breath, moving against his clever mouth and almost whimpering.

From fright and doubt, Éowyn's heart slowly turns to hope and marvel as Faramir goes on, unprepared when he suddenly stoops to press his lips to her brow in a gentle kiss after his exclamation; on a soft intake of breath, she closes her eyes and trembles anew, only not out of fear or chill. The great wind that rises and blows across all land tugs at their hair and clothing, and the Sun shows her brilliant face again, bringing light and warmth-- Éowyn feels it, but it cannot compete with the sensation of Faramir's lips, still pressed tenderly against her forehead, sending her pulse skittering.

Distantly at first, then growing in strength, come singing from the City below, the voices of men lifted in joy that wells in their hearts, though for what reason they could not name. Shock gives way to quiet joy also in Éowyn's breast. They are still standing here as before, hale, with the clear skies above them and the warmth of the Sun beaming down upon them. Could it be...?

And out of the East approaches a dark figure on wings, but no evil thing; for it is a great Eagle, wheeling over the City as it cries;

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!

Silent tears run down Éowyn's cheeks even as she smiles, caught up in the marvel of it all. Below, the people cheer, their singing growing ever stronger, ever more joyful. "It is over," she whispers, still having a hard time believing it is true. She cannot help but huff a tiny laugh, breathless and full of wonderment. "Frodo did it."

It is exquisite torture, and Éowyn is left quivering from head to toe when Faramir finally kisses her palm, drawing a little gasp from her. But then his lips press against the inside of her wrist, more sensitive than she had ever imagined until now... a visible jolt has her jumping a little, an unabashed and unrestrained moan spilling from her lips. Her eyes flutter shut entirely, but only for a moment-- there is heat in their dilated depths when she opens them again, an expression caught between hunger and fierceness crossing her face.

A second later, she's pulled her hand from his grip, instead tangling her fingers none too gently in his hair and crashed her mouth against his in a hot, demanding kiss, wasting no time slipping her tongue in his mouth to meet his and kissing him as if her very life depends on it. Her other hand bunches into the fabric of his shirt, fisting it as if tempted to rip this one off of him, as well.

"You are in the Mark now, my lord. You may assume it will be a test of strength and skill." Her smile at the kiss lingers for a moment, before she sighs, sounding a little chagrined. "Were I not the King's sister, this would not even be an issue. My father had to also pass some kind of trial upon wishing to wed my mother. I cannot help but find it a little foolish, truthfully," she confesses in a murmur, but at the same time knowing the old ways were difficult to change.

She has not broached the topic with Éomer yet, whether he intends to demand this of Faramir; but as it had always been done in the Mark, why not now? It is just the thought of Faramir having to prove his worth somehow to the Rohirrim, to be deemed worthy of her hand when she had herself already deemed him more than that feels... unjust. No matter what tradition dictates.

"In any case, we will both know more soon, I should think. And if or when the time comes, I would not be anywhere else but right there, lending you my full support." She smiles crookedly, evidently teasing as she goes on, "It is not too late yet to reconsider throwing in your lot with a Northern barbarian..."

"That I had presumed," he says, not without irony. The Rohirrim are great believers in strength and shows of strength, and not subtle. More intelligent than they are credited by their Southern brethren, but not subtle. "I do not mind, beloved, truly. I would suspect that as with most wedding traditions it is less a matter or proving myself, and more a matter of entertainment--and such entertainment is usually at the groom's expense! But after the years of hardship both our people have endured, it seems a small thing. I trust I will not make too much of a fool of myself."

He will certainly endeavor not to do so, for all that he speaks lightly of the coming contest, for her honor as well as his own. But what matters most is that Éowyn herself think well of him, and that surety he already has.

When she teases him, he gives her one brief, raised eyebrow before ducking his head and kissing her again, just as passionately as earlier, utterly heedless of anyone who might be nearby. And then once he has begun it is difficult to stop. His hands somehow end up on her shoulders, then her face, as he makes a thorough job of demonstrating that he has no intentions whatsoever of reconsidering. It is several minutes before he forces himself to break away, breathing hard. "I hope that makes my wishes on the matter clear?"

He's moving for the kiss as soon as she is, as soon as she rips her hand from his grasp. There is no telling which of them reaches for the other first. Heat and need pound through him with a ferocity that leaves him almost unable to breathe, which is fine, because breathing would only be a distraction from kissing her.

He already had an arm around her waist. It's easy to grip harder, to stand and lift her with him, to move his other hand to support her underneath. There's a bed in the room. There's a floor, walls. They're all too far away, all of them.

He turns just a little and sits her on the table, pushing the tray to the side. It goes over the edge and crashes to the ground, and possibly something breaks, and he is only barely aware of it because now his hands are free and he can push her robe open and find her breasts, her hips, all of her, everything kept hidden while they made their clandestine run through the Great Hall.

His mouth trails down her neck and shoulder, not gentle kisses this time but biting and sucking on her skin as he reaches a hand between her legs, finds the sweet spot there and works at it, inserts two fingers and curls them inside her. If she wants to rip his shirt off, she is welcome to do it, so long as they need not stop.

"Frodo did it," Faramir echoes, his voice just as low and marveling. They have not spoken of Frodo save obliquely, in Faramir's case from fear that doing so might endanger him, that a spy of the Enemy might somehow learn of this most desperate, most secret plan, so wholly unexpected and impossible. He suspected she knew, and she must have suspected the same of him, but any attempt to draw near the subject he has steered away for that reason.

But now he laughs, a loud, ringing sound of triumph, and he picks Éowyn up by the waist and lifts her, swinging her around in wild delight. "Frodo and Sam did it! All is won, all is blessed, all!"

He would kiss her then, in this feeling of raucous, overwhelming relief, this sense that all dark is banished forever, he would kiss her and accept any consequences that came from it. But there is another shout from nearby, and they turn to see Merry running towards them, whooping and throwing a cushion in the air. Everyone who was in the Houses and able to is coming outside, to see the sun and join in the singing.

He lifts her easily, and oh, how the reminder of how deceptively strong he is has her blood quickening all the more. To say nothing of the way he drops her on the table; an impatient act, needy and hungry, like he can't wait a moment longer. It's an echo of her own eagerness, and she hums low from her throat in approval, shivering as the tray he shoves aside crashes to the floor. This is not gentle and careful-- this is something else entirely.

Good. She does not want sweet and tender now.

Crying out a little raggedly when he finally touches her bare body, her head tips back as his mouth devours her neck, her fingers digging into his arms, shoulders-- everywhere she can grip blindly. She spreads her legs wider when his hand reaches between them, like a complete wanton and not caring one whit. She's also beyond caring who might hear her, moaning her pleasure unabashedly when his clever fingers find her clit and rub. Arousal from before has her soaked and slick already, and his fingers slide within her heat with ease, drawing sharp little shout from her as he curls and presses them against her walls. It feels divine, amazing, but still not enough.

Once again, she is naked while he remains clothed, and this imbalance does not please her at all right now. A frustrated noise akin to a growl passes between her gritted teeth, one hand tugging roughly at the laces of his breeches. "Get rid of these right now."

"Like this?" He smiles at her, amd obliges, bending to attend to her with tongue and teeth.

His laugh is pressed against her, the vibrations pressed into her.

"Isn't that what my lady requested?" He teases, teeth just lightly pressed against her.

Éowyn gasps in surprise when Faramir suddenly snatches her by the waist and lifts her, instinctively wrapping her arms -- trying to mind the broken one -- about his neck and shoulders for support. Surprise gives way to her own laughter only a beat later, not only for the wonderment of this victory over Mordor, this new beginning, but also in reaction to Faramir's utter joy. She smiles warmly at him once he returns her to her feet, gratified to see him so happy; he deserves to wear such expression of joy and contentment always. They are still holding each other, she realizes, when Merry's voice rings out and breaks the spell. Éowyn laughs softly and kneels, accepting and gladly returning an enthusiastic hug from the hobbit-- Merry's more moderate nature set aside in favor of elation.

The gardens fill up with folk in the hobbit's wake, healers and patients alike, all caught up in the mood of revelry that begins to well up, singing and wondering; the end of the war. For so long they have all fought, it seems, that to finally have their Enemy fall feels now akin to a dream. There are tears on many a face, of joy and relief, or in remembrance of those claimed by this war. Éowyn wipes lingering moisture off her own face, smiling and exchanging words and agreements over myriad of is it not a wonder, my lady? thrown her way-- many are similarly eager to claim Faramir's attention. And so it goes for what seems like the longest time, until finally there is a call to luncheon-- a somewhat finer feast as what could be arranged on short notice to celebrate.

Not subtle in the least. Much as Éowyn takes pride again in her house and heritage, she is also aware of the differences between Gondorian and Rohirric cultures. She may make all the barbarian jests she can, case in point, but she would be lying were she to claim she had never wondered -- in those brief moments of doubt when their separation weighted most heavily on her -- if perhaps there was some truth to the jokes. It is not in her nature to wonder and doubt thusly, not very often at least, but some things were simply too important to take for granted.

"That could never be possible," she denies with a smile to the possibility of him looking like a fool, knowing it is a response only an utterly smitten person would make and not caring one bit.

She cannot feel bad for teasing him with such a reward! For she can hardly call it punishment, either. Sighing against Faramir's lips, she matches his passion every step of the way, tangling one hand in his hair like she has a habit of doing. When they finally break apart, her cheeks are pink with a flush and she also has to catch her breath for a moment before attempting an answer.

"A most persuasive argument, my lord. I am much convinced," she breathes on a happy chuckle, gazing at him warmly but with some solemnity, also. This is no longer a tease, but a legitimate concern. "And what of your own folk? Are they still content to see their much beloved Steward wed a Northerner and set her up as mistress of Ithilien?"

Slaying an enemy as mighty as the Witch-king in battle was all well and good, but that only went so far, the way she sees it. In her mind, she has a duty just the same to prove to the people of Gondor that she would make a worthy wife to Faramir-- to say nothing of her role as the future Lady of Ithilien.

He needs no further urging. He reaches for his waistband only a heartbeat after she does, not bothering to untie the laces properly, just shoving downwards and over. Fortunately he had only loosely tied them earlier, and even rigid and erect as he is he can manage.

But more than that, he does not do. He's undressed enough. He knows she's ready. The table isn't an ideal height for this, but it will serve, and neither of them can wait. Faramir takes himself in hand, pulls her hips forward, bends her back.

He thrusts in deep and hard, groaning loudly enough that anyone in the hallway outside will have stories to tell. He withdraws almost at once and pushes in again, setting a punishing pace with a ferocity he never knew he was capable of. Her hands grip him with the same desperation and roughness--neither of them wants sweet and gentle, not now--and he grunts against her neck, his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. One arm is an iron bar of support against her back, and he leans on his other hand on the table. Her legs wrap around him, and he can feel the strength in her thighs--a rider's strength, a fighter's, clenching around him, a match for his own. Knowing that undoes him utterly.

He only barely manages to hold back until she comes first, and then crashes into his own orgasm with a harsh shout, clinging to her for dear life as it hits, harder than any he's ever known. It's a wonder his legs hold him afterwards.

Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post

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have you read The Bride Price, btw?

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i have!! :3

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Probably we shouldn't go that extreme buuuuut it might be fun?

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i think the eagle is supposed to show up a bit later than this, but i don't care tbh

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maybe not that hardcore, yes, but some kind of contest etc would be fun

I'd be at a loss for what should be involved though, I admit. Aside from horsemanship.

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Shhhhhh it's a minor detail though lord knows how we fill the rest of this day.

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probably someone will pull faramir away soon bc oshit the king is coming and the city is Not Ready

hmm, i'm gonna try to do some research on this. we'll come up with something!

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