For Ashfae

[shieldofrohan]

There is a sadness to being married, a sadness that has hung around all things since the war - a sadness that comes from faces that are not present, spaces that are not filled. Neither of them have parents, and she feels the void at Faramir's side, the shape of a brother she will now never know. She feels Theodred's absence likewise, and Theoden - how he would have loved to see her wed!

But for all that, she is happy. A new day has dawned on her, like spring from a hard frost. The scars on her arm and side have begun to fade, and some of the grief is lifting from her eyes. And now, as she steps inside the Steward's chambers - their chambers - there is only joy in her.

Joy, and a little nervousness. They have kissed, of course, and there is passion there she had only dreamed of ere he came into her life, but they have done little more than kiss. She has her honour, after all, and though she may trust him more deeply than she would ever have imagined, she will do this rightly, or not at all. So she has kept herself chaste, and though she knows not what experience he has - and will not ask - she knows she has none. Nor is she certain of how he will react to the scars she now bears - he knows that she has them, but has not seen more than the edges of the knots of pink-white scars that mar her fair skin.

No. She will not be nervous. She is the Lady of the Shield-Arm, she is the hero of Rohan, the killer of the Witch-King... yet when she turns to face him, she is only a young woman, her cheeks pink and her eyes shyly lowered, her stronger right hand anxiously smoothing the green and white silk of her wedding gown.

"So, my lord husband..." She smiles, worrying faintly at her lip. Husband has such a pleasing ring to it, in this moment. "It seems you have tamed yourself a maid of Rohan."

It feels she has been waiting for this moment for an age. And yet, now it is here, she is unsure what she can say that has not already been said, what she can do that will not overstep the bounds of this unfamiliar new relationship. He has ever been the one of them who can find the better words.

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[shieldofrohan]

It strikes Éowyn once it is too late to turn back that perhaps she ought to be embarrassed by her state. Here she is, barefoot and clad in little more than a thin layer of linen, her hair sex-tangled and with sweat and sex still lingering on her skin, walking openly through the corridors. By all rights, she ought to be thoroughly humiliated. She's a little surprised to find that, instead, she feels more smug than anything else - and perhaps, too, there is a certain thrill in being unashamedly marked from her marriage bed. She walks through the hallways with her head held high, a faint smile on her face, and is not ashamed.

When she returns, she is carrying a tray covered with a plain white cloth. Underneath is a veritable feast - breads and cheeses and meats, leftovers from the celebrations of the day before. She eats as she walks, and sets the tray down as soon as she is back inside the room, kicking the door closed firmly behind her. Her smile softens and warms as she lays eyes on her husband again, the early morning light catching in his hair and laying across his profile. Ai, how beautiful he is! And, ai, how she still wants him!

"I liked the view better before," is all she says, with a little laugh, crossing over to him to kiss him soundly on the lips.

[whattheydefend]

Faramir chuckles against her mouth, running his hands up her arms, under the sleeves of her robe. "I could not be sure you would return alone," he says. "Else I would have remained there waiting for you. Though it would certainly have delayed our meal further."

Such delay is still tempting. She is so very beautiful, and more desirable than she has ever been like this, lit from within with satisfaction and joy. And to know that he, Faramir, is the cause...there is a low rumble of pride in his throat as he kisses her deeply, and it is with obvious regret that he pulls back. "But if we take but a little time to break our fast, I'm sure we can find a few hours yet to...view one another..." He runs a teasing finger along the curve of her breast as he says it, his grin mischevious.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn lets out a low, breathy laugh, edged with desire, at his touch, and answers his kiss with great enthusiasm. When he pulls away, she follows, as much as she can, leaning up to chase his mouth with hers. She feels as though she could kiss him forever, and sustain herself on that alone; on his love, and her own, and on the heat of his mouth against hers and his hands on her skin.

But alas, it is not so, and she pulls away reluctantly, biting her lip. "Let it be only a little time," she urges him, her voice hushed and throaty, "for I have little patience in me this morning, and I would fain have thee back to bed with me sooner rather than later." And as she says it, her hand is trailing over the curve of his throat, down under the folds of his robe, to trace the planes of his chest. It is hard not to; seems impossible to keep her hands off him.

[whattheydefend]

She chases his mouth and catches it, a series of teasing kisses that only spark more temptation, even before she palms a hand down his chest. Faramir's breath catches, and his eyes darken as he looks down upon her face, the color high and her eyes glinting.

There is a wild moment where he almost gives in, almost, only a hair's-width from it--and then he catches her hand in is, brings it to his mouth and places a slow, open-mouthed kiss on her wrist. "You are a dangerous woman, Éowyn of Rohan," he murmurs, the words low and heated. He nips at the delicate skin, then squeezes her fingers. "Quickly, then, for I have little patience in me either, and would not see the morning wasted."

And at the moment, any activity other than making most passionate love to his wife seems a waste. Logically he knows that food and drink are necessities, but they do not seem so at present.

[shieldofrohan]

That nip at her wrist makes her gasp - and that gasp, in turn, makes her laugh, low and content, at her own want. She cannot remember a morning when she felt so at peace, even with that desire hot in her belly; cannot remember when she last met a day with such luxurious lack of care.

With a conscious effort, she pulls away from him again, her fingertips trailing against the rough-stubbled curve of his jaw. "Quickly," she agrees, and laughs again, not at anything said or done but rather at the sheer lightness of this morning, of the morning light on his skin and the warmth of him and the contentment that spreads through her and the promise between them.

She retrieves the tray and proffers it to him, but doesn't immediately hand it over. Instead, she continues to stare at him, her grey eyes soft and her mouth curled in a faint smile.

"I love thee," she says at last, softly and simply, and means it with all her heart.

[whattheydefend]

"Éowyn--" The name nearly sticks in his throat. Faramir's joy is overwhelming, the well of it so deep that it renders him almost beyond speech. Slowly he takes the tray from her, places it on the bed, steps forward and cradles her face in his hands. He rests his forehead against hers for a moment, his eyes closed as he just...breathes her in, the wonder of her, the wonder of this. "I love thee."

The words seems hopelessly inadequate to capture the depths of his feeling. Perhaps some measure of it comes across in his kiss--not heated this time, though of course desire is still there, always. But this need is a more profound one yet, as is its fulfilment, both present at once.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn turns her face up to his, her eyes not closed but shaded and heavy-lidded as she answers his kiss slowly and with great feeling. The depth of his own feeling she knows, and wonders at, even as she sees it only as a reflection of her own. The strength of his feelings, and of her own, is almost frightening in its intensity - frightening as no battle has ever been to her, and wondrous as no victory has ever been. Even now, it is strange to think that in the wake of all they have been through, such happiness is even possible.

"I love thee," she murmurs against his mouth, and then kisses him again in answer, breathing deeply of the sweat-and-sex smell of him, and that warm and earthy scent beneath that is so much his own. Her laugh is low and quiet, breathless, and to her own surprise she feels the sting of tears in her eyes. "Ai, how I love thee."

[whattheydefend]

"Eówyn, mðdleófu..." He kisses her face, her eyelids, the salt water that slips down her face. He is not far from weeping himself, the joy of the moment is so great. She smells of all the activity of their night together, and underneath that herself, of warmth and green growth and that dizzying, addictive, alive scent he knows only as Eówyn. He breathes her in as much as she does him, kissing her deeply. "Never did I imagine joy such as this," he murmurs before brushing his lips along hers again, teasing at her mouth with his tongue. "Never could I. You--"

His hands slide into her hair to cradle her scalp and the nape of her neck, and he pulls her closer yet, nothing is close enough. Such passion should frighten him, cautious as he is.

But it does not. There is no space for fear in the face of this wellspring of devotion. He is utterly filled by it, no shadow left unlit, no hollow left empty. Such a greatness of emotion he has never experienced, and it leaves him awed and wondering.

Again and again he kisses her in loving astonishment, and that awe abruptly gives way to a hunger almost as intense as the fulfillment that preceeded it, and he clutches her close enough to leave her near breathless, the hard length of him trapped between them, pressed against her abdomen. "Eówyn--" he says into her mouth, voice now hoarse with need, their breakfast entirely forgotten.

[shieldofrohan]

It is not only the strength of his arms that catches the breath out of her. She wanted him already, but what had been a slow-burning cinder has caught on the flame of his desire and burst fully into light; the hoarseness of his voice and the hardness of his cock against her are enough to make her tremble with the fury of her own answering lust, and she kisses him back with no less ardour, her arms coming up around his shoulders, pulling him down towards her, pulling herself up to his mouth, making them into one being even as the brief tears dry on her cheeks.

Words of love, however deeply-meant, are forgotten for the moment. When she closes her eyes, a few more of those stinging, joyful tears escape from under the closed lids, but they, too, are forgotten. All that is on her mind now is her husband, the heat of him against her, and the cloth of their robes that now seems only to be there to try them both. Still clinging to his shoulders, she fumbles to untie her robe, feeling all at once that she doesn't have enough hands - not enough, after all, to hold him and to strip away the fabric from both of them, and at the same time to touch and caress and embrace. Urgency has overcome her, and she laughs at it, low in her throat, as she pushes herself as close against him as she can, one leg hooking around his to bring her even closer.

[whattheydefend]

She pulls at him, wraps around him, as though she wishes to climb him like a tree--a thing he can and does assist, reaching under to lift her so she may wrap her legs around his waist, bringing them that much closer. That occupies his hands, but his mouth he uses, and that forcefully. She laughs low and he chases the sound, sucks at the side of her throat hard enough to leave a mark, his fingers digging into her bottom.

He put the tray on the bed earlier, and releasing Eowyn long enough to move it out of the way he refuses to consider. The table is a few feet away--too far. Instead he turns, taking a few quick steps to the wall, pressing her to it, his teeth still scraping at her neck as he pushes against her.

With the leverage of the wall to aid him he frees a hand, shoves her robes up and his out of the way, takes himself in hand. Her quim is already soaked, and he deliberately rubs the head of his cock against her a few times, just a brief moment of teasing them both, before finding her entrance and sliding in. He groans loudly, his head falling back--she is so slick around him, and he is able to go deep already, and she's hot and wet and perfect, she sheathes him perfectly, and "Fuck--"

He doesn't even realize he's said it, too busy seizing her mouth again, his freed hand moving to press her shoulder to the wall as he starts to thrust.

[shieldofrohan]

She lets out a laugh of surprise and delight at his swearing, so unlike him and so thrillingly deep with meaning - but the laugh turns into a moan at her lips, a throaty and ecstatic moan that is every bit as wanton and as carelessly passionate as his curse. Something about the angle of it, the weight of her own body pressing down on against his thrusting cock, presses against new and wonderful parts of her, and she tightens her muscular thighs around his hips, one arm flung around his shoulders while with the other she rakes her touseled hair out of her eyes, before returning her mouth greedily to his.

"Fuck me," she urges, between hard and searching kisses, and her cunt tightens around him, her hips rolling and sending a delicious wave of feeling through her. "Ai, Faramir... husband... fuck me harder!" And as she says it, she winds both arms around him again, her nails digging hard against his shoulder while her other hand pushes insistently at the small of his back, urging him to thrust deeper and faster. Her mouth is on his again, and she bites at his lip, sucking on it as he sucked on her neck - which even now is rising into a dark and livid mark, bright against her skin.

[whattheydefend]

Faramir would have said he did not care much for coarse language, for all that he's more familiar with it than most people credit him as being. But it takes on an entirely new meaning here, in her mouth, an eager demand as she wraps around him, thighs and arms and cunt and mouth, nothing unclaimed.

And the profanity spurs him on as a gentler request would not have done. Between his arm, her legs' grip around his waist, and the wall holding her weight, she is balanced enough for him to thrust freely. And he does, hard and deep, as she urges. She bites at his mouth and he groans, the hand supporting her digging into her skin hard enough to bruise. "Eówyn, my wife, my shieldmaiden...fuck, I need you, need to hear you...feel you..." Oh, he is close he can feel the tension building and tightening, but it's not enough for what he wants. He reaches to pull her hair, forcing her head back so he can latch his mouth once more on her neck, her ear. His breath is ragged and hot, desperate in his urgency. "Eówyn, Eówyn--" With harder thrusts every time he says her name, slamming her back against the wall. "Come for me, scream for me, ride me--fuck, Eówyn--" Need blinds him and steals his words, his sight, a dizzy torrent, but he still feels her legs wrapped around him, her nails gouging into his back. Everything is too hot, their skin sparking wherever they touch, every time their hips meet. "Eówyn--""

[shieldofrohan]

Every thrust he gives, she answers, her muscular thighs tensing around him to jolt her own hips forward into his, as if to bring him closer, though already they are close enough for each thrust to bruise bone on bone. When he pulls her head back, the pain sharp and echoing through the pleasure, she cries out again with wild abandon, her eyes rolling back into her head as she moans and bucks against him. The hardness of the wall at her back, the pull of her hair and the rough press of his fingers against her flesh... all of it is only a seasoning, any pain he may cause bringing the pleasure into sharper relief, until all the world is down to the two of them, the heat of his mouth on her throat and the friction of his cock inside her, and the almost unbearable need that roils inside her.

"Faramir..." One hand continues to claw for purchase on his back, raking raw lines with her nails. With the other, she fumbles blindly at his neck and his face, wanting to touch him more, to draw that gentler and more intimate connection between them even as wild passion claims them both. Ecstasy is etched on her features, and her fingers tremble with it as she clasps his jaw. "Faramir, Faramir, Faramir...!" Again and again his name tumbles from her lips, like an invocation or a blessing, until at last she can no longer keep herself from seeking his mouth again, leaning against the leverage of his arm and her own thighs' grip on his hips to catch his lips with her own, a messy and desperate kiss.

[whattheydefend]

She scratches at his skin hard enough to mark, but it only adds to the intensity of it all--the more so when it is contrasted by her fingers on his face, not gripping but caressing, shaking as they touch him. He is shaking too, all over--so close, too close, try to hold it back as he may. She pulls him in for a kiss and he breathes it in, breathes her in, he can't breathe, it's too hot and there's not enough air, and he lets go of her hand and reaches between them to find her clit, circling it with his thumb as he takes the deeper thrusts that herald the end. He mouths her name into their kiss, unable to say the word aloud, a silent prayer.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn hangs from his shoulders, from his mouth, and she deepens their kiss with a low gasp as his thumb finds her clit and sends jolts of electric pleasure through her, making her tense around him and against him, her chest heaving with exertion as she pulls him in, her tongue exploring the cavern of his mouth, her fingers now tangling in his hair. Her toes curl and flex behind him, her breath coming in raw little gasps, but she has a little more time left to her than he does, and she uses it to rut harder still against him, rolling her hips experimentally as she does so. At the last moment - or so she hopes - before his climax, she pulls away from the kiss as much as she can in the limited space she has, hooded eyes fixed on his face, to watch him.