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]

This, too, is a new sensation: the head of his cock is smooth and hot, pressing against skin she little knew could be so sensitive. She could linger a time, she thinks, in just exploring that feeling, in experiencing him...

But there will be time enough. For now, she smiles up at him, slow and satisfied, and traces a hand down his lower back, onto his hip. She sees how he is teasing her, and if he thinks she will meekly pretend that there is any doubt in either of them, he is wrong: her cunt is achingly empty, his cock twitching against her, and she may be a virgin, but she knows that there is only one way to satiate this need.

Pulling his hips down towards her, she tilts her own hips up, biting her lip in concentration as she takes him a little further into herself. To her mild surprise, it doesn't hurt - there is a tightness, yes, an ache at the unfamiliar stretch, but not the pain she had been led to expect. Instead, there is only heat and fullness, and the desire that had begun to ebb now rushes back in full flow, making her moan.

[whattheydefend]

Perhaps the last thing Faramir would ever expect of Éowyn is meekness, and she does not disappoint, taking the lead herself and drawing him in. He pauses there, just barely inside her, then pushes slowly, so slowly, less from a fear of hurting her and more because the sensation is too intense to rush, until he's buried to the hilt inside her.

"Éowyn." She's so tight around him, hot and welcoming, and he rests his weight on his forearms, his eyes closed and his head bent against hers, breathing hard. "Éowyn, I--you--"

He has no words. There are none, they've utterly failed him. He kisses her instead, withdraws almost completely, only to push back in with a groan of pleasure. "Éowyn..." It's the only word he has, the only one he needs, a word that means joy and desire and longing and all things bright in the world, and he kisses her again as they begin to find a rhythm.

[shieldofrohan]

She bends her knees up, experimentally, and finds to her surprise that she can feel every change in angle that it makes: his cock presses against her walls, pushing further forwards now. She shifts again, curious, exploring, and gasps at the strangeness of the feeling as he thrusts back into her.

"Faramir..." With her feet under her, she can find the leverage to push up against him more strongly, the muscles of her thighs flexing and twitching with the work, her body moving around him. Her hand flattens on the small of his back, her other hand coming up to caress his cheek. "Oh, love..."

Without really noticing, she's shifting the rhythm of her thrusts, instinctively guiding him to move faster, to sate the once-more-building urge that wants nothing but to be fucked harder and deeper and without pause, to fill that infinite desire for him, as if there is no time to lose, as if they might never see one another again.

She lets out a sound that's as much a growl as a moan, although her caress is still gentle. When her eyes flutter open, there's that fierce light in them again, that raw desire.

"Harder," she tells him, and kisses his jaw, arches wantonly against him. Her voice is throaty and breathless, her mouth dry from panting. "Fuck me harder, Faramir, o, love, do not hold back...!"

[whattheydefend]

He adjusts his angle as she does, as they learn each other in this, finding where to press and where to hold. He has the presence of mind to remember to find a position that will let him slide against her clit as he moves in her, above her, surrounded by her, though in truth it's a near thing. Her legs press against his hips, her nails bite into the small of his back, her hand is on his face. He turns to kiss her fingers between harsh breaths, sweat beading on his face, his expression somwhere between anguished and exhilerated.

And then, then, then...he has held himself in restraint all this evening, a matter of habit as much as deliberation, for he is a disciplined man. But that discpline is not proof against her demands, the way she arches under him, the sweet noises she makes. A loud groan tears its way from his throat as he kisses her once more and then gives in, thrusting as wildly and as even she could wish, lost in lust and the giving and taking of pleasure, lost in her. He holds nothing back, cannot, not from her; everything is for her, everything he is, everything he has, and this most of all. There is nothing gentle about it, only forceful strength and heedless need as he drives into her again and again and again, until his movements become more erratic and a there's a tightening in his spine, his groin, and with a few more hard pushes he cries out, spending himself inside her with a hoarse shout that might be the beginning of her name.

[shieldofrohan]

This does hurt, a little, but it's a hurt her body craves, a roughness and ferocity that only fuels the fire in her groin, the meeting of their raw and desperate need for one another, held in check for so long. She gasps and writhes under him, spreading her legs wider and her knees higher, both hands now gripping his shoulders as she gives herself over to instinct and ruts against him with all her strength. Panting, she buries her face against the side of his neck, smelling sweat and sex, feeling his blood pulsing against her and his breath ragged by her ear.

She's heard of women who can orgasm one after another, but rather assumed it was an exaggeration - certainly when she's pleasured herself, she's been spent quickly. But now she can feel it coming, another wave of that ecstatic ending, and she groans against his skin and digs her fingers into his shoulders, gasping and shuddering at the unbearable bliss that's trembling through her, and...

And then he cries out, and she feels the change inside her, feels him tremble and spill himself, and she arches against him and holds him as tight as she can, and rides the wave of his pleasure, of his completion, her own lust making her heart skip and her breath catch.

It isn't enough to drive her over that edge. Not quite, but exquisitely, agonisingly close. She whimpers, pushing her hips against him, consumed by need and love and ecstasy, trying to eke out the last few thrusts to bring her off.

[whattheydefend]

It takes a few seconds for his climax-blinded mind to clear, for him to realize she's still needy and unsatisfied beneath him. The instant he does he shifts his weight so one hand is free to reach between them, finding that space between her legs. No finesse this time, no cautious slowness--he fingers her hard and fast, still seated deep within her, feeling her walls press around his now oversensitive length. It may or may not be enough to give her the push she needs.

And if it is not...well. The night is young. They have hours left to experiment with, hours that he can devote to nothing but her pleasure. That thought makes him chuckle, a satisfied growl of a noise, and he bites at her neck, sucking on the skin there.

[shieldofrohan]

She cries out, low and strangled, her head arching back as he bites the thin skin of her exposed neck. That drives her over the edge, as much as his fingers do, and she bites down on her lip until the blood drains from under her teeth, her eyes rolling up into her head as she gives herself over to it. This orgasm is not so overwhelming as the first, but in a way the sweeter for it, as she is less lost to the world, more able to cling to the feeling of him against her and inside her, the fine detail of his hair brushing against her chest, his breath on her throat. It is less transcendent, but more wonderful for it.

She sighs in pleasure and lets herself fall limply back against the sheets, looking up at him with unfocused eyes. "Faramir, beloved..."

There are no words to follow it. All she can do is sigh again, and raise one leaden hand to touch his cheek, blissful and, for once, unconcerned by anything else but this sweet moment.

[whattheydefend]

He lifts his head to watch her, brushes hair back from her forehead with careful fingers, traces the circle of her face as she lies back and smiles dreamily up at him. His smile is infinitely tender as he murmurs, again in the Elven-tongue, then repeats it so she will understand. "I love you." His hand cradles her cheek, and he bends to kiss her again, brushing his lips across hers. "Until the end of the world I will love you, and beyond it, for you bring me more joy than I have ever known."

[shieldofrohan]

She finds herself laughing, light-headed and dizzy with possibility. His mouth is sweet and warm against hers, and she returns his kiss gladly, one heavy hand coming up to lace through his hair.

"Ever the poet," she murmurs, and buries her face against the crook of his neck for a moment, breathing him in. "Ever the flatterer. I love you." Her eyes close, and she lets herself float for a moment in the smell and feel of his skin, the taste of salt and the tickle of his breath. Her lord. Her husband. Hers in all ways now, as she is his in all ways. The thought makes her smile anew as she falls back against the covers, looking up at him from under her lashes. "And when I catch my breath, my lord, I may love you again."

[whattheydefend]

"Flattery?" He laughs, pretending to be insulted, and nuzzles her nose with his before kissing her again, slowly withdrawing from her as he does. He grunts a little as this is accomplished, already missing the warmth of her. But he trusts it will not be for long.

For now he is content to slide his arm under her neck, lying on his back as he pulls her into an embrace, sweat cooling on his skin. "Nay, my wife, you wrong me, for I speak only the truth. And if you will give me a little while to recover first, I will prove it to you." There is a glint in his eyes to match hers, one that says this satisfaction of theirs is but temporary, that their night is far from over.

He nuzzles her face again, so near to his, and places another quick kiss there. "It was you who overwhelmed me in the end, but next time..." He leaves the sentence deliciously suggestive and unfinished, kissing her more thoroughly.

[shieldofrohan]

She tilts her face up into his kiss, groaning in pleasant emptiness as he pulls out of her, their sweat-slick skin pressing close. This night is not over, nor the night after, nor the lifetime they have of one another. It's a thought that hangs sweet with promise, all the more for all the months before their love when she had seen no light in her future. He has not only shown her that it can be so: he has been that light himself, and is so again now, a solid, warm reminder that all is not lost.

"I have never yet been overcome by any man," she says, teasing, and her eyes meet his. "Would you challenge me, my lord?" There again, she thinks - and the thought is warm and comfortable, not frightening as once it might have been - before they met there was no man to whom she would have gladly surrendered herself. She is joking, making their love into a fight, and yet... she would submit to him as to no other, in fighting or in love, and the realisation of that comes anew, with a thrill.

[whattheydefend]

That this is only the first of many nights, of all their nights, is miraculous to him; that he will have her fire and boldness by his side by both night and day from now on a wonder even beyond miracles. Surely there was never man so blessed, not since Beren himself. Faramir too remembers dark times, and at the end of them days where he lost all hope for himself, though he yet had faith the Enemy would be overcome even if he did not live to see it. But now he looks to the future and sees only light, regrowth, and her bright eyes shining at him.

So he grins fiercely at her challenge. "I would." The same answer he gave a year ago, on a battlement overlooking Minas Tirith, and now as then he pulls her fully into his arms and kisses her, then rolls them so he is atop her. Heat stirs in his blood already, and though it will be a little time yet until he can take her fully once more, there are other things he might do. One of her hands he clasps in his, pressing it to the mattress by her head as he kisses her with renewed passion.

[shieldofrohan]

His passion, his roughness, makes her gasp, and she presses up against him, returning his kiss every bit as fiercely. The light in his eyes excites her, as does the way he pins her hand down, the strength in his grip. That thrill rushes in her blood again, begins to wash away her post-orgasmic lethargy, and she smiles up against his mouth, a grin no less fierce than his.

"Then you had best be prepared to fight for it, my lord," she whispers up against his mouth, and bucks under him, aiming to roll them back over, one leg looping over his hip for leverage.

[whattheydefend]

"Is that your wish, lady?" It is more of a tease than a genuine question. He had not intended to pin her so fully, to make this into a battle of strength, but the excitement in her eyes, the enthusiasm with which she responds...Faramir would not do this with another woman, would worry about her consent or fear to hurt her. But Eowyn seems to thrive on such rough, unrestrained treatment. A long, impatient year it has been for both of them, it seems, and she is no timid creature in need of gentle handling.

By all that is holy, he loves her.

His greater weight is enough to keep her pinned when she bucks, and he shifts one of his legs, angling it so he can push back against her if she tries to roll them over, smirking at her before stealing another kiss. "Or do you doubt my skill? For be assured, I intend to prove myself to you. Name your terms, and I will meet them."

[shieldofrohan]

Her heart is thudding in her ears, her head light with excitement and desire. His sweetness is dear to her, but this is dear too, this familiar thrill of a challenge, the thrum of adrenaline - and best of all, the knowledge that losing this fight may, for once, be as sweet as winning.

She wets her lips, taking a moment to look up at him, to gauge how their bodies fit together. He has her pinned, yes, but she thinks not inescapably, if she can shift herself right. His body is hot and heavy against her, and she can feel his heartbeat against her chest when she presses up against him again to answer that kiss.

"My terms?" She laughs, meets his eyes. "You would have me set the terms of my own defeat? Very well: then make me say it. By fair means or foul, make me say that I submit to thee. Is that challenge enough, oh my lord?"

[whattheydefend]

Faramir laughs, his expression a mix of rueful and excited, eyes gleaming. Other men might think that an easy thing to achieve. Other men would be less familiar with the White Lady of Rohan, and underestimate her pride, or her skill, or her determination. "A challenge indeed," he agrees. "And one of the most difficult I have ever undertaken. But I shall strive to do my best." He rolls his hips against hers as he says it, to give the words a double meaning; already he is half-hard once more.

He reaches quickly for her other hand, pinning it as well, not attempting to be gentle. He has the dual advantages of weight and leverage, and if he put all his strength into it she would have a difficult time indeed breaking loose of his grip.

But this is only the beginning of the game, and what others would assume a winning move merely an opening gambit. He presses his advantage enough to take another kiss, his tongue delving deep into her mouth, and waits for her to retaliate, reviewing possible strategies in his mind. A difficult challenge indeed, but there is one advantage to games of love: whatever the result, they are both likely to win.

[shieldofrohan]

She doesn't hesitate to kiss back, no matter the game. She will not deny herself that pleasure, after all, nor does she need to. His mouth is hot against hers, his grip strong on her wrist, and her heart is racing, her body electric with arousal. For a moment, she makes no move against him, luxuriating in the thrill of the moment, in the weight of him and the challenge ahead and the knowledge that he is as invigorated by it as she is.

He is stronger than her. She doesn't have to test him to know that; she has watched him for a year now. But she has the advantage of having learnt to fight against men bigger and stronger than herself, and strength is not her only resort here. Leaning up against him, her breath ragged and heavy, she kisses him more deeply still for a moment, presses her body flush to his, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against his chest.

Then, as quickly as she can, she makes her arms go limp, jack-knifing under him to try and drag her now-relaxed arms out of his grip. She laughs as she does it, no matter if she succeeds or fails, and in that laugh is an echo of the wildness she showed on the Pellenor Fields, without the bitterness to sour it.

[whattheydefend]

That is a clever move, and she catches him in a moment of distraction, for it is difficult to keep a clear mind with her naked body pressed against him and her mouth hard against his. Faramir is a skilled tactician, but that is a disadvantage he cannot overcome, nor does he much wish to.

Fortunately his body reacts automatically, hands clenching hard on hers and pressing down, so while she succeeds in sliding under him he still has her pinned. He grins at her, his expression almost as feral as hers in its smugness and delight.

Since her hands are now above her head, he pushes them together, holding both with one of his. Riskier, given her strength; but his hands are larger, and this means he can free one for other use. He moves his body down so he can kiss her again, his tongue delving in forcefully while he scrapes ungentle nails down her neck and collar, then along the curve of her breast.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn groans at her failure, but for all her pride, there is no bitterness at being bested for the moment. There is no space for bitterness, only for excitement and exhilaration and lust, and when his fingers rake the tender skin of her throat and the swell of her breast, she arches against his grip and lets out a muffled cry into his mouth, her heart skipping a beat and her thighs clenching against the rush of arousal it brings. His nails bite against her hardened nipple, and that brisk sting thrills through her, prickles gooseflesh along her arms.

Testing his grip, she pulls against his other hand, tries to break his grip. It would be easy to accept that wild lust and his grasp on her, his strength over hers - but Éowyn the shieldmaiden has never been one for easy. This game, she knows now, will end in her defeat - it has been so little time already, and already she can feel how this will eat at her resolve - but the joy is in the game itself, and she will not see it end quickly.

One part of her, she judges, may be stronger than him. She is first of all a rider, and it shows in her thighs, in the dense-bunched muscle and taut shape of them. So, moving as deftly as she can with his weight above her, she buckles in on herself to sling her legs over his shoulders, trying to lay all those hard-earned muscles to work in levering him off her. All the while, she is smiling, her teeth flashing white.

[whattheydefend]

Surprise shows on his face for a moment, for that is a move entirely unexpected. But it's rapidly replaced by a confidence so secure that it will tell Éowyn she has just made a very great mistake in tactics, however sound a move it may have seemed. For Faramir always intended for this to end with his head between her thighs, and if not so soon, still he is not going to waste the opportunity once presented.

He is pushed down off her torso, right enough, though it is more that she pushes herself up; even the strength in her legs is unable to move him more than a few inches. But that is no matter, and he does not fight it. Instead he puts his strength to prising her legs apart enough that he may duck his head between them, which lets him lick at the cleft between her thighs, his tongue slipping between the folds. It's not as effective as it could be, as it will be, but it's a start. And, he suspects, not something she will have anticipated to feel as it does.

[shieldofrohan]

She knows when she sees him smile that she has played into his hands somehow, but cannot see how; her hands are free now, and if she but twists her hips, she can likely throw him off her the rest of the...

His tongue slips, hot and wet and rough, between her thighs, and for a moment it drives all thoughts of combat from her mind. She had never given much thought to how a mouth would feel there, how his mouth would feel, but ai!, it is a feeling she cannot guard against. She is still sensitive from their last bout, and wet with excitement; when his lips press against her stiff clit, the jolt of need is like a bolt of lightning, wild and animal and thoughtless. Her back arches, and she cries out heedlessly, a low, guttural sound without words. One hand flails for purchase, gripping the wooden bedstead as if to anchor herself to the world.

"How...?" she gasps, and bites her lip, trying to even her breathing. "What are you doing?"

[whattheydefend]

"Why, only what you asked of me, my wife." The words are muffled, for he does not move away. His breath and beard likely tickle and rasp the skin there; all to the good. In her distraction she forgets to work against him, and he releases her and deftly parts her legs further, spreading her opening so that he might repeat the gesture: another long, broad lick, along the cleft and up to her clit, this time swirling his tongue around it delicately.

"You wished me to show you all my husband's ways, did you not?" And again, slower, this time pressing his tongue inside her briefly before dragging it across that sensitive nub, and then he sucks on it briefly. "I but obey." And now he stays on the clit, swirling his tongue around it. When you have your opponent at a disadvantage it is best to press the opportunity, and he does, quite literally.

[shieldofrohan]

She fumbles a hand across her mouth, biting down on the side of it to keep herself from crying out as his lips close around her clit, making her buck and squirm. Her other hand grips the bedstead until her knuckles are white, and she hardly notices it, focused as she is on the warmth and wetness of his mouth on her, the scratch of his beard against her thighs, his tongue working at her until her breath comes in ragged gasps and her vision swims. It is an effort to keep her eyes focused on him, but she does so nonetheless, for almost as overwhelming as the feeling of his mouth is the sight of him there, framed between her thighs, clearly taking pleasure in her as she in him...

She groans, torn between the need to pull away to preserve the game, and the desperate desire to pull him in closer, to have this never end. He could win her just through this, she thinks, and laughs a little against her hand, shocked at how easy a victory he might have. But if he keeps working at her the way he is now, she can tell it will be only a matter of time before she breaks, says whatever she must to keep this wild pleasure battering through her.

[whattheydefend]

Faramir is known for being a merciful man--a reputation that now proves to have an exception, for he is absolutely ruthless in this. She did issue a challenge, after all, and would not respect him if he went easy on her.

At least, that's part of the reasoning. The majority is desire bordering on addiction. The taste of her, the way she writhes above him, the sounds she makes...whenever he can he lifts his gaze to watch her, and the sight will be burned into his mind for the rest of his days: Eowyn biting her own hand, clawing at the bed, her eyes glassy with lust as she tries to watch him as he pleasures her...he could do this for hours without tiring of it.

Show me forever, she asked, and he does his best, licking and kissing and fucking her with his tongue, listening as her cries grow in pitch and frequency. When he judges she is growing close he slows down, limits himself to teasing strokes, frequent enough to distract but not enough to push her over the edge. "Do you yield?" he asks between long, broad licks, swirling her clit just once between each. His voice is low and rough, dry-mouthed from effort and from his own raging need, which he ignores. That can be dealt with later, one way or another.

[shieldofrohan]

Her own mouth is dry, parched from gasping and moaning, as if all the moisture in her has gone to the sweat that beads her skin and the wetness under his mouth. Gooseflesh prickles her arms and belly, brings her nipples up into taut nubs; her breath is raw and hoarse, and as she pulls her hand away from her mouth to wipe sweat out of her eyes, her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She feels that she stands at the edge of a precipice, and if she could only take that last step, she would take flight. Her whole body is electric, a raw nerve ending trembling for release.

Yield. The word shivers through her like ice-water, promise and threat combined. Deep inside her, muscles contract and flex, trying to bring their own release, to take her over that edge. Yield. It is not something she has ever been easily able to do, nor does she wish to be so easily beaten. And yet, there is that need, ferocious and insatiable, that aching incompleteness.

She moans again, breathless and shaking, as his tongue laves again over that painfully sensitive peak, making her thighs tense and her toes curl. A few tears, not of pain or grief but of sheer intensity of feeling, leak from her glazed eyes as she turns her head against the pillow.

"...Please..." She says it in Rohirric first, then again in Westron, her hand grasping into a fist in her hair. "Ai, please, a little more...!" Not a submission, but not an intentional avoiding of one, either. It's only that right now, her thoughts are scattered, making words hard to draw together.