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Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel (NC-17)
Written by December16 June 2018 | 18315 words | Work in Progress
Chapter 3.
Éowyn approached the adjoining corridor once again and blew the candle out, lest the door on Faramir’s side should be open and they see her light. She needed to have the full surprise effect – she had to get at least some enjoyment out of this.
No wild cat was she, and no ranger, but she could walk quietly enough when she wanted to, and judging by the sounds coming from the other side, they would be too engrossed to hear even an Orc patrol. As she crept closer, she saw the door was indeed left ajar, the bedroom lit by the blaze of the hearth. She was well concealed and could choose her moment.
She realised then that she wanted to see first. To see what this brazen slut had to offer that the rightful wife did not have.
Biting her lip, Éowyn leant in to bring her eye to the door crack – only to shudder and look away.
She had seen enough.
The bed stood opposite the door, and the pair were square in the middle of the sheets, he on top. So she got slapped in the face with all his nakedness, his back, his arse, his legs, all of it bare for someone else. He was leaning low over his lover, moving slowly and thoroughly – rolling forth with his hips, each forward motion accompanied by a low heavy moan. The only part visible of the other party were the legs wrapped snugly around his waist.
So we like it deep: wide open and intimate. How nice. A dangerous quickening of her pulse sent even more blood to her temples.
She adjusted her grip on the sword, raised the blade level to her face, eyed the door considering whether to ram it with the back of her shoulder or kick it down.
And yet –
Something at the back of her head stalled and bucked, distracting her like a bothersome fly buzzing just out of reach. Something was off, and she leant in for a second look.
By all the horses of the Mark, those legs around his back.
Long, muscular shins dusted with a down of dark hairs. Strong tendons around the bony ankle. And no lady’s shoe would ever fit those feet.
Éowyn nearly dropped her sword.
That was another man in his bed.
And she had thought she knew him.
Even as the floor swayed under her bare feet, Éowyn suddenly felt like laughing out. She closed her eyes and rested her temple against the smooth wood, trying to digest this new truth. Her husband was still sleeping with someone else, that did not change. And yet… Somehow the ground had gone out from under her outrage, as though it were a little silly to be murderously jealous over horse-play with some soldier or servant-lad.
It was said men had any number of strange urges, and this was no doubt different from the passion he had with her, not something he could find in her arms, and maybe…
“Ah… yea… Ah… ra… gorn…”
For a blank moment, her mind refused to put the syllables together.
Ah, so. So much for a servant-lad. The back she had seen was not Faramir’s.
She stared in front of herself, unseeing, the previous urge to laugh now dead upon her lips.
How could anyone be so slow. She should have known from the start. He truly had no shame. Neither of them had any shame.
Did they not both know how she… that it… that she still, sometimes…
Éowyn squeezed her eyes shut against the unbidden recollection of just this morning. Turning a corner on her way to the hall, she had all but walked into Aragorn (she got used to addressing him and referring to him as Lord Aragorn, His Royal Majesty, and King Elessar, but in her thought he was always just Aragorn). His warmth, his scent, his presence had crashed into her like a tidal wave, and washed over her, and left her embarrassed and breathless, and she had hurried past. He had instinctively raised a hand to alleviate the collision, and for a long time afterwards she had felt where the pads of his fingers had brushed against her flank.
To think how conflicted, how guilty she used to feel. When Faramir returned from his rangering trips with the king in the woods, oh how fey and wild her passion would run. How she would fall to the bed pulling him on top of herself, hiking up her skirts and undoing his breeches before he could take off his shirt, so she could shut her eyes and smell the bitter smoke of Aragorn’s pipe-weed in the fabric of his collar as he entered her.
How she would shame herself for being curious for more, for having the obstinacy to desire the impossible, when she already had the best man in all the land. Yet such inebriant sweetness lay in this pointless, stupid fantasising. Lightheaded, skin-tingling sweetness that she had prayed would not show in the blush on her cheeks when she felt Faramir look upon her as she looked upon Aragorn.
All of that agonising – for this.
Why could they not have chosen someone else of all the possible options, were there not enough men in Gondor?
She should indeed storm in with her sword raised, if only to scare the living daylights out of the two of them and ruin their little picnic – they deserved that much at least.
Yes, she was going to do just that, right this very second.
She is going to kick the door open, and leap forth, and brandish her sword at their naked behinds, and make some very evil noise.
Any minute now.
The minute lapsed, but for some reason she still found herself where she was. Carefully hiding in the corridor, both feet firmly on the floor with no intention of kicking or leaping detectable in them.
Alright. This was fine. She was just not ready.
Éowyn made herself take a slow breath, then lower her tensed up shoulders. It was alright, there was no rush, they were not going anywhere.
She could find a better way to make them pay.
Éowyn considered returning to her room – what was the use of standing here like a twit? Except to leave was akin to acknowledging defeat. So she only moved to lean back against the stone cladding of the dark passage, wiping the cool sweat from her brow with her forearm.
Calm down and think, and try not to listen.
Aragorn had been surprised the previous time he had found her entirely not where everyone had expected her to be. She grinned, visualising his surprise tomorrow, when she would descend early for breakfast and to their puzzled questions reply that no, she had not arrived at six in the morning. She would smile pleasantly and inform them that, in fact, she had been home from late the previous evening. She would be all courtesy and politeness (she would even wear a flowery dress), and they would go pale in the face, and stealthily exchange glances, wondering if it was possible she had not heard anything.
She would torment them mercilessly, make ambiguous remarks in a perfectly innocent voice. If later tonight she saw Aragorn take out his pipe, tomorrow at breakfast she would get up to come and snake her arms around Faramir’s neck as though in a spontaneous expression of affection – but would draw back and look at him with teasing reproach, and tell him his hair smelled of pipe-weed – was he smoking secretly from her? Then she would glance at Aragorn with as much playfulness as the position of his steward’s wife allowed, and tell him he was corrupting her husband with his Northern ways.
But what if two could play this game? What if Aragorn would merely look at her with his twinkling eyes and say, “Ah, my lady, but your husband does so enjoy being corrupted, what am I to do?” Faramir, perhaps, would turn crimson to the hairline, and drop his toast on his lap and get butter and jam all over his tunic – but that was not the point.
She would feel like a complete idiot, not only cheated on, but ridiculed.
Or maybe her husband would not do food comedy. Maybe he would turn grave, and take her by the hand, and declare he had long since utterly and completely loved the King. It was in the stars, it was destiny, and nothing to do about it.
Then Aragorn would look upon her not with twinkling eyes at all, but with that awkward pity she had seen once before, when he knew that he was breaking her heart and chose to do nothing about it.
Éowyn breathed out heavily. She was in no state for coming up with clever strategies of revenge, this much was clear. With all of Faramir’s moaning, her mind was not at its sharpest – and as for the rest of her body…
However those two may be asking for a good whipping – the part of her from waist down could not fail to react in its own fashion, strangely spurred on by each evocative groan.
If she were to be honest with herself, there was something to the very concept – almost like a certain kind of… beauty? In their particular case at least. The only two men she had ever wanted – together…
Heat licked at the inside of her thighs as the images of all the things that the lords of Gondor might do to each other rushed before her inner vision in a parade of self-indulgent indecency. Suddenly she remembered she was still wearing that fine-spun joke of an attire and, more importantly, the reason she had put it on in the first place.
So that is what was bothering her to think clearly. Unsated lust.
How cumbersome. Well, she would have to get rid of the lust then.
Which was exactly why she had been going to see Faramir.
But Faramir was currently a little preoccupied.
Which meant…
Éowyn raised her brow.
She did like to think of herself as reasonably uninhibited, but…
She drummed the fingers of her free hand over her bare thigh.
The last time she went and let herself get all worked up because of Aragorn, it nearly got her killed – and left her feeling stupid for quite some time afterwards. She ought to do whatever it took to not make a spectacle of herself again.
It was such a mad night already, what with this horrible rain, and her running around with a sword in a huff, and the King bedding her man – and obviously doing it quite well, too… Why should she not add to it a little madness of her own? Not that this chance was likely to present itself again.
She lowered her sword and brought her face to the strip of light once more.
Now that she looked on not to feed her outrage, but to try and relate to this attraction between them, to explore the tension, to let it work on her – now that she looked on to enjoy the sight, she decided that it all was indeed rather an interesting proposition.
Power had always fascinated her – the power of strength and even, in a certain sense, brutality. With strength came freedom and a ruthless sort of honesty – I do what I want, however I please and with whomever I please. There was no pretense in strength, no need for subtlety and self-restraint.
All this healing stuff, dried flowers and tree bark – it sure did make for a more wholesome everyday life, certainly for a longer life – but it did not exactly match up when it came to creating thrilling fantasies. Understandable, that, given her upbringing. Sweetness, patience, gentleness – that was not what happened in her daydreams featuring Aragorn. What, indeed, could be a better epitome of everything that moved her than not one, but two handsomely made, mighty lords – locked in each other’s embrace?
As she watched, Aragorn’s unfaltering rhythm began to hypnotise her just as much as it must Faramir, and for a moment it seemed to her she might be content to merely observe their play. Someone else, in her place, perhaps would have been more than content indeed. Except Éowyn recognised a familiar pang – envy and resentment, the exact same combination she had so often experienced in the past, when the men of the Mark (and on one occasion a certain man of the North) would gather to go and do some big, important, manly thing, and tell her to stay home and mind the chickens.
She was not the sort to tolerate exclusion well – and this time least of all. On her own territory, in her own house, by her very own man – he should have known better. May as it be a little deprived to be looking for pleasure in spying on her unfaithful husband, so be it, you make do with what you’ve got. As though of its own accord, her palm began to thoughtfully caress her belly below the navel.
Indeed. Why not?
If she were to benefit from their little enjoyment, she ought to make haste, for the two of them were picking up speed, and Faramir’s moans acquired a note of urgency.
Aragorn raised himself up, no doubt to be able to increase the amplitude of his thrusts. This let her see his strong lean shoulders – every muscle in them working – and the back of his straining neck, the man’s long dark hair parting at the nape. His head was bowed low, and she wondered about the expression on his face. And then Faramir… oh, just to see into his face now. What did it feel like, to be had by Aragorn?
Clearly, it felt good enough to fight for even more. He threw his arms over Aragorn’s back, digging his fingers into the older man’s shoulders for better leverage to push back at the King’s pounding hips. She could see the frustrated hunger in his grip, and was not altogether surprised when he gave up to instead grab his royal lover right on the backside and push down with all his strength.
She would not make it like this, not with the head start they had had on her. Drop all preambles and get to the point. That whole day, what she had seen at the village, and all her riding, and thinking of Faramir had prepared her well. Now this unplanned little show – she must be ready for the final dash.
Normally, it was nice to delay the sweetest part, to have him start with light caresses on the lower abdomen and upper thighs. To wait for her flesh to fill with deep heat, to burn for touch, to prepare for a profound release. Not this time – she had to hurry.
She set to it with determination, not averting her gaze from the men for a moment as she stuck her left hand down the waist-band of her bloomers. At once her index finger sought out the very point of her pleasure, right at the top of her feminine entrance. This area had to be treated with care, gently stroked to blood-swollen fullness, tickled and teased at the base and the sides, where the sensations were so very diverse. She had no time for all that – she could hear Faramir practically weeping by now, his grip bound to leave bruises on the King’s buttocks. So she placed the pad of her finger on the very tip, this tiny spot that was always responsive, even when she was simply washing herself in the morning.
It brought the result in barely a minute, like it sometimes did.
A quick spasm grasped her thighs and pelvis, and her breath caught as a spark of pleasure skipped through her.
One spark.
That was it.
She had ruined it, merely skimmed the cream, achieved nothing but breaking off the tip of her desire. This release, if it could even be called such, had done nothing to slake her need. The passion had retreated deeper into her body to build up for something truly rewarding.
Something truly rewarding would require far more than a bit of hasty fondling.
In a last ditch effort she tried to keep going, but it was no use. The extreme sensitivity of her flesh was gone, and would have to be patiently coaxed back to the surface. Which would take time.
Time that she did not have.
They were going for the prize. The ever self-possessed Aragorn grew frantic and desperate, and his breathing likewise, whereas Faramir did not seem able to stop moaning long enough to take a breath at all.
A feral growl, this one from the king, and Aragorn slammed into his steward with such savage force as though with this last stab he actually wanted to pierce the man through – and Faramir echoed the King’s release with his own cry of rapture.
They slumped down, with Faramir’s legs keeping a limp embrace around Aragorn’s back.
Éowyn all but cursed aloud. They had left her out after all.
Now that she had nowhere to hurry, she withdrew her hand from between her legs and steadied her breath. Knowing her husband, once he was at it, there was no stopping him till the small hours.
She would only have to wait.
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This is simply fantastic! I really do have a soft sport for Eowyn and you’ve written her wonderfully, I love how she goes from anger to disbelief to curiosity right through to arousal!
— Eora Monday 13 September 2010, 19:35 #This was very hot ;), and beautifully written, and I can’t wait for this to continue (I want to know what happens when Faramir and Aragorn realise they were being watched!)