for withoutswords

[nearamir]

It has been some time now since the wedding revels, since he became a married man. It still comes as a wonder to him, his own good fortune. Some part of him still half-expects it to be taken away, for some higher power to tell him this is not meant for him, never was, that he must return to take his dues.

So far, that moment hasn't come.

Even so, he still has duties, duties which call him away from Minas Tirith and from her. Days away in Ithilien, evenings poring over maps with some of his men, and meetings with his father. Such meetings have a toll on him, though he tries to hide it; leave him taut and overly self-conscious, more careful than ever of every word and every step.

On this occasion, he is returning from such a meeting - not only that, but from some days away on the marches. He hasn't seen her since he left, and that is a grief to him, but now his duties are dispatched, his time his own. Their own. The thought brings a smile to his face, despite that air of tension, as he pulls his hair back over his shoulder and opens the door. "Éowyn?"

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[withoutswords]

She has been kneeling over his thighs; now she laughs, a low, almost wicked sound, and bends over him, still holding herself high enough that their bodies don't touch except at the legs, though the fabric of her chemise brushes against him, light as a whisper. "You beg?" Her smile is as teasing as the rest of her, hovering only a few inches above him, just out of reach. "You, a man of Gondor, from the line of Stewards, with all its pride and nobility?"

[nearamir]

"I, thy husband." He shivers at the touch of her chemise, intimate as a kiss, and his tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. "I who am in thy power. Aye, I beg."

Though, from the way he is blushing, it is not so simple. There is a part of his mind, loud and hard to quash, which reminds him that yes, he is of Gondor; yes, he is of the line of Stewards; yes, to be so easily overcome is a weakness that perhaps shames him.

But he finds, to his surprise, that he is not ashamed. It is love, not cowardice, that brings him to this pass, and though he would be embarrassed if anyone else were to know of this, still he is not ashamed.

[withoutswords]

She has no wish to shame him; on the contrary she thinks him above it, so worthy that no shame could touch him. This is but a game, and the games of man and wife are of no consequence to any save themselves.

But for herself...it is a dizzying thing, to have his need for her be so great that he begs for the privilege of touching her.

She is a little merciful. She keeps herself held high but bends enough to brush her mouth against his, as lightly as the cloth of her chemise brushed him a moment before. If he wishes to do more, he may. For this moment.

[nearamir]

Of all things, Faramir has never been a greedy man. Still, there is greed in the way he stretches up to meet her mouth, to kiss her more soundly than she kisses him. Greed tempered by obedience, by the constraints of the game they play, but greed nonetheless. Nor will he pull away, although it is not an easy position to hold, stretching up as he is without the aid of his hands.

[withoutswords]

She gives in for a few moments, returning his kiss with as much greed, as much impatience. But she is a shieldmaiden, and knows something about willpower and when to hold back from a strike, and after too short a time for either of their liking she pulls away, wearing a small, satisfied smile. "I could find other uses for thy mouth." Her skin is flushed as she says it, not from embarassment but arousal.

[nearamir]

Faramir looks up at her with something like awe in his eyes, flushed and panting, sweat prickling at the base of his neck.

"It is thine to use as thou wilt," he replies, with a little smile of his own. "I am at thy command, lady." Lest that wasn't clear enough, by his place beneath her and his obedience to her orders. He finds there is something not only thrilling, but comforting, to that: a sense of freedom from the burden of leading.

[withoutswords]

"Then I must set you a task." Her gaze is scorching, her breath as quick and even as his. Her pale skin flushes more at the thought of what she is about to do, wondering if he will like it. "And see that you do your utmost to complete it."

She pulls herself off of him, moves up the bed, hesitates a little--then straddles his face, carefully lowering herself so that his mouth can reach those most secret parts of her, which already ache for attention.

[nearamir]

He hesitates a moment, only a moment, breathing in that thick and animal scent of hers, trying to catch hold of his thoughts and be sure he understands. But it is a hard move to misunderstand, in fairness, and he raises his head a little to meet her, running his tongue along the length of her sex. The taste is strong, intoxicating, her musk thick and sharp in his throat.

For a moment, he explores her with his tongue, running along the creases and folds of her, and then his lips fasten over her clit, half-kissing, half-suckling, and he sets to with a will.

[withoutswords]

She draws her breath in with a sharp hiss, closing her eyes and gripping the headboard of the bed with one hand. In this position she is entirely dominant, and he obedient to her wishes. And his mouth, ai, his mouth, hot and wet and finding the places that most ache. She moans, moving against him, rubbing herself against his tongue.

[nearamir]

She fills his mouth, his nostrils, the heat of her pressing down against his face. It is an ecstasy he would not have thought likely, this surrounding, until all the world is narrowed to the sweet-sharp taste of her and the muscles of her thighs against his face, the sound of her breathing and the wetness on his tongue.

He presses up against her a little more insistently, leaving her clit for the moment to push his tongue inside her, running along the ridges of her walls.