Faramir Fiction Archive

The Marital Bed (R)

Written by Iris

01 November 2014 | 2598 words

Title: The Marital Bed
Author: Iris
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: het, mentions incest
This could do with a bit of a polish,but since only today is Minx's birthday,cleanup can wait.

Faramir and Éowyn share secrets.
Written to celebrate Minx’s birthday. Have a lovely day, darling!!

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Suddenly Éowyn turned to face him, propping herself up on one elbow, looking at him with that stare that he recognizes immediately, after three months of marriage. She’s still flushed, covered in a sheen of sweat and her hair ruffled, but there’s no doubt she has something important to say.

And yet she doesn’t. His blushing bride seems to be hesitating just now… maybe even embarrassed? Well, there’s something new, Faramir thinks, raising a bemused, quizzical eyebrow.

She’s biting her lip now, narrowing her eyes slightly, in doubt whether or not to…. He doesn’t get to see her like this often, doubting. If she does, it’s usually about which line of attack is preferable, whether in sparring or during a game of chess. But she’s adorable when she does, he thinks.

“I have a confession to make,” she blurts out suddenly. Yes, well, that much he had guessed. But she doesn’t say what she needs to confess, biting her lip again and now even looking away from him. He waits patiently for her to continue, and as time stretches on wonders if he should ask or—

“I wasn’t a virgin when I came to you,” she finally all but whispers.

Well, he wasn’t expecting that! Had she been fretting over this? Why would she think he’d –what – think less of her somehow? Regret marrying her?

“Nor was I,” he decides to answer, deadpan, flippant almost, trying his hardest to convey this is not an issue for him at all. Wasn’t she the one who was always complaining how unjust it is that mores are so different for men and women?

“But you’re a man,” she answers, surprising him further, “and much, much older than I am. It would have been peculiar for you to still be a virgin at the ripe old age of thirty-seven!”

His young bride likes to tease him about their age difference, calling him an old man and such. Each time she does, there’s a fleeting moment where he thinks he ought to point out that he’s less than half the age of their king — considerably less than half – and she doesn’t seem to mind that age gap at all. But he knows better than to open old wounds; he has nothing to gain by reminding her that he might have been her second choice.

So he just shrugs.

“Aren’t you going to ask who it was?” she asks after staring at him expectantly for some time.

He doesn’t particularly care. Definitely doesn’t care to tell her about the awkward fumble that turned into his first time proper.

Although-

Perhaps his mind is going there simply because he was thinking of him just then… but surely, she doesn’t mean—

“Do you want to tell me?” he asks, still as casually as he can.

He listens as she tells the tale of a drunken night, worrying him at first – “Did he take advantage of you?” – his frown turning into a knowing smile as she admits that if anything, it was the other way: she’s had a crush on him for as long as she could recall. He’d met Théodred just once, when he was visiting Minas Tirith on a diplomatic mission while Faramir happened to be in the city and Boromir insisted he’d join them both for a night’s drinking. He never had much to do with diplomacy in those days; Denethor trusted those tasks to Boromir – amiable, instantly likeable Boromir who was perfectly suited to the task of charming the neighbours into trusted allies. So it was Boromir who always went on missions to Rohan and thus knew Théodred quite well. They seemed much alike to Faramir; they both has this glow about them. He could certainly see why Éowyn liked him.

“He’s my cousin. Was my cousin,” she adds hesitantly.

“In my family, it’s common for cousins to marry cousins,” he says, shrugging again, making light of this point which clearly carries some weight with Éowyn. “If Boromir was still alive, he’d probably be married to Lothiriel by now.” He ponders that for a moment and adds, “Hmm… she’d still be your sister-in-law then. Curious how some things work out, is it not?”

“If Boromir were alive, what makes you think I wouldn’t have married him instead?” she quips, a little obviously trying to lighten the mood.

“True,” is all he can say. No girl when given a choice would ever have picked him over his brother, he knows that. But it has never occurred to begrudge him this; after all, he himself would make the same choice in that position.

“You don’t mind then?” she asks, though her nervousness has dissipated now.

“No, I don’t mind,” he answers honestly.

After a moment’s thought, he adds, “I hope I compare favourably.”

Éowyn lets out a dismissive snort. “He was drunk. He fell asleep right after, or maybe even during. It was all quite disillusioning.”

He smiles at her and counters, “I too may have been a little tipsy on our wedding night. After all those toasts.”

Now she’s positively giggling and he can’t help but join her, recalling the endless well-wishers, drinking to the couple’s health and happiness, to Rohan, to Gondor, to the victors and the victorious dead, to peace and to prosperity, to the happy couple’s future offspring, to all and sundry it seemed to them, late into the night, when all they wanted to do was sneak off and get started on the offspring.

“Yes, I may have been a little inebriated too, that night. But we’ve made up for it since, haven’t we?”

She lights up the room with that glorious smile of hers and rolls over, closing the small gap between them and pressing herself to his side, then slinging one long slender leg over his. And now and her hand snakes over to draw lazy circles on his stomach and chest. This is also how he had woken up this morning, not yet half an hour ago, and it’d be so easy to let things progress as they did earlier, as the circles slowly but surely make their way down.

But now anxiety is building up inside him. Should he tell her? He’d been waiting for an opportune moment for a while, telling himself he’d do it as soon as one arose, and he couldn’t imagine a better time than this, now that she’d shared her secret. Though now that there were no excuses, saying what he wanted to say out loud seemed more complicated than he had anticipated. Perhaps he really wasn’t quite as brave as his wife.

“I also have a confession to make.”

She looked at him eagerly, probably expecting some titbit of juicy pillow talk, he estimated.

One more deep breath and—“I slept with Boromir, and not just once or twice either.”

She looks baffled now. This was clearly nowhere near what she was expecting. Utterly confused, she first wants to make sure she understood correctly. “Slept with?” she stresses, “You mean,” she pauses as she grapples for an appropriate euphemism, “had intercourse with?”

Faramir just nods; he doesn’t think she needs anymore details now. He watches her as she’s struggling to organize the millions of thoughts that seem to run through her mind. This isn’t going as badly as he’d feared: this is a lot worse. He shouldn’t have told her, not this soon anyway. But now there’s no going back.

He watches her as confusion turns into suspicion. “You’re not one of those, you know,” she waves her hand about in a way he’d seen men do in crude mockery, and he wonders how much salty soldier talk she’s been exposed to, “men who like men instead of women, are you?”

He reaches out to her, trying to recoup some of the intimacy they had just a moment ago. She’s lying on her side now, facing him, and he runs a hand slowly over the curve of her hip, dipping down to follow her slim waist, and up again to the rise of her breasts. “I like you, don’t I?” he offers in explanation.

Éowyn lets out a relieved sigh and dips her head so their foreheads touch, an simple but intimate gesture she often makes and he likes very much. “Yes, of course. I know you do,” she admits.

The room is quiet for a while, both of them doing nothing more than breathing, absorbing.

“I always knew you were close,” she says breaking the silence, “but not that close.” Her tone isn’t scolding or accusatory or even disappointed. It’s gentle – she just wants to learn more about him. They’d spent many long nights just talking like this, learning more about each other. She’s always been eager to learn all sorts of insignificant details about the life he’s lead before she entered it. Things he’d nearly forgotten himself, like what his mother looked like, what she wore, how she smelled, what she sounded like.

“We didn’t have many other children to play with when we were younger,” he starts. “And of course our mother died when I was quite young. I used to sneak into Boromir’s room and get into bed with him whenever I couldn’t sleep or had a nightmare or there was a thunderstorm out, or I was sad or scared for whatever other reason. I wasn’t supposed to of course, our father never liked it when we showed any kind of weakness. But it was nice not to be all alone. And when we got older, when we were teenagers, one thing led to another.”

She nods, understanding. She’s told him about growing up in very close quarters with Éomer. She knows what teenage boys can be like. ‘Horny as hell,’ she’d called him, adding he’d jump just about anything that moved. She even made crude jokes about what the current king of Rohan may have got up to with his horse in his younger years.

He can see her face change as she stumbles on to another thought. It makes her blush. She’s embarrassed, but also curious, and he can guess what she wants to ask but he’s not going to help her out. If she wants to know, she’ll have to ask. He can feel himself starting to smile as he watches her squirm. Finally, she comes out with it: “Did Boromir also…, uhm, put his… uhm, up your bottom?”

Faramir just nods, still smiling.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” she wants to know.

“No…,” now he is blushing, not from embarrassment but from the memories that this topic evoke, “it feels very nice actually.”

She looks doubtful.

Faramir snuggles closer again, kisses her neck, her shoulder. He lets his hand caress back up her hips then down, between her legs, finding her still moist from their earlier activities, or perhaps from this talk?

“You have to go slow at first,” he explains, rubbing her with his thumb the way he knows she likes it, “and you have to use oil because it doesn’t get wet like you do,” he adds, emphasizing his point by moving his middle finger, moistened with her own wetness, further back, letting the pad brush lightly over her anus, not quite penetrating but circling with the slightest hint of pressure, making her gasp.

She’s distracted, but not enough to quell her curiosity. “Have you ever,” she asks without defining, “with any other man, besides Boromir?”

“No,” he answers simply, not letting up his ministrations and moving to kiss her.

But she’s not that easily dissuaded. “But would you have wanted to, with any man other than Boromir?

“No…,” he says again, but if he can hear the hesitation in his voice, so can she. And indeed, she raises an eyebrow at him. She’s clearly not convinced.

Now he knows he looks embarrassed. His hand stills and he looks away from her.

“What? Lots of men? Any man you meet?” She’s getting anxious again now.

“No, no! Not at all!” he replies emphatically. He rolls away from her onto his back, staring at the ceiling. How did this go wrong again so quickly? But she’s not letting him withdraw and climbs on top of him, sits astride him, mirroring the position she took earlier that morning. A true daughter of the Riddermark, she loves riding him, rocking back and forth while Faramir can do nothing but look up at her in awe. Now it is Éowyn who is studying him closely, then it dawns on her.

“You have a crush on someone! A man!” she says, pointing one index finger into his breastbone, not accusingly but teasing him, as she likes to do.

“I love you. You know that. I would never cheat on you.”

“Who?” is all she says, still studying him intensely, as if she could somehow decipher a name if only she looked close enough.

“It’s… inappropriate. And I would never do anything about it.”

Now she frowns, thinking a moment before looking positively triumphant. “I know who it is! It can only be one!”

He looks away, biting his lip… bracing himself.

“It’s the king!” she squeals. “You want the king to bugger you senseless! Is that the right word,” she asks with a big grin, not really expecting an answer. “I’m right aren’t I?”

He lets out a sigh of relief at her excited reaction. “When I first woke up in the houses of healing, when he released me from the shadows, I felt.. something, “ he struggles to explain. “But then I met you and then it didn’t matter anymore because I had you. I would never…” he hesitates, “…and he would never be interested, but it doesn’t matter because I would never cheat on you. I love you.”

“But what if he were interested? Would you want to? If I didn’t mind?” she asks excitedly, bouncing up and down as she does when she’s excited, seemingly forgetting where she’s sitting and not realizing what this is doing to him.

“You wouldn’t mind?” he echoes incredulously.

“Not if you let me watch!”

Now he has to laugh out loud. “You!” he says at his lovely wife, “I love your dirty mind!”

She bends down to kiss him and grinds her hips against him, realizing very well what it does to him.

But now he thinks of something and withdraws ever so slightly from her enthusiastic onslaught. She may be able to read his mind, but he also knows a little about hers.

“Would you?” he asks slyly, “If he were interested? If I didn’t mind?”

“But that’s different.”

“Is it?”

“If I were to get with child,” she explains, completely serious now, “the next steward would be the king’s bastard. It can’t be!”

Yes, that’s a valid point, he thinks.

But clearly she’s a quicker thinker than he is. “But…,” she adds cunningly, “if he were to take me as he would take you…”

She smiles instead of finishing her sentence.

He can do nothing but smile back at her, wondering what he’d done to deserve this wonderful, devious, clever and utterly sexy woman in his life.

“You really wouldn’t mind?” she asks.

“Not if you let me watch!”

Sequels that are never going to happen, but are fun to think about none the less, include but are not limited to:

• what happens when these two get their hands on Aragorn,
• what happens when miraculously.undead!Boromir returns to Minas Tirith (if Gandalf can do it, so can he, I say),
• what happens when Arwen/the twins/Éomer/character of your choice gets involved…

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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