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]

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.

[whattheydefend]

Her entire body shudders, and he smiles a little between strokes of his tongue, then slowly inserts two fingers into her, curling them a little. Another lick, and he pauses just for a moment to swallow and moisten his mouth, and then another. "Do you--" He sucks her clit again, circles it with his tongue, presses upward with his fingers. "--yield?"

[shieldofrohan]

"Aah!" She arches almost off the bed, her head tossing to the other side, golden hair spreading all across the pillows. It's hard to think, much less to speak: her tongue feels thick and unwieldy, no words enough for this moment. She bites down on her lip, hard enough to hurt, but even that pain feels ecstatic. And still there's that insufficiency, as his tongue pulls away just in time to deny her release.

She screws her eyes closed, gasping. "I yield! I yield to thee!"

[whattheydefend]

Faramir smirks only briefly before he starts to move his fingers, a third finger joining the first two as he strokes inside her. His tongue flutters over her clit, light swift touches, then he changes tack and sucks hard, all his attention now turned to giving her the release he denied her before.

[shieldofrohan]

It takes little coaxing. Almost in the same moment as he changes his approach, she judders and moans, her eyes flying open, staring unseeing at the ceiling as quakes of pleasure run through her. There is nothing but the two of them, no world to close in on them, no time or space to call on them; she hangs suspended in the moment for she knows not how long, and even as the world starts to edge back into her perception, that exquisite joy shivers through her.

At last she falls back against the pillows, her chest heaving and her heart thundering, and she laughs, low and breathless.

"Next time," she promises, her voice a little slurred, "I will give thee a better fight."

[whattheydefend]

He laughs a little, low and triumphant, as he climbs back up to lay beside her on the bed. "I know, and I am looking forward to it." He brushes hair back from where it clings sweat-streaked to her face, his fingers now as gentle as they were merciless before. His smile is tinged with a mix of satisfaction and anticipation. "Another time it will be you who pins me to the bed, riding me until I can only gasp your name and beg for release..."

He kisses her at that, sudden and fierce, trying to hold back his own need but not entirely succeeding. He should give her more time to recover, and yet...her mouth is warm, and he groans into it, a little too taken with the image he has conjured. His cock presses insistently against her hip.

[shieldofrohan]

"Mmm." She laughs low in her throat at his comment, her smile slow and comfortable. Although she feels satiated herself, she cannot help but feel a stirring of her own at the image he paints, and she resolves that she will see it happen, and soon.

And then again, and again, for they have all their lives together and nothing in the world between them. The thought makes her smile wider still, and slowly, languidly, she parts her legs for him, leaning up into his kiss.

"Well, my lord," she murmurs, looking at him from under heavy-lidded eyes, "you have bested me. Will you take your prize?"

[whattheydefend]

He merely laughs a little in answer, rolling atop her and kissing her thoroughly. She will taste herself in his mouth, he realizes, and the idea only spurs him on more.

This time there is no pause, no teasing, no slow slide. He pushes into her without hesitation, the way wet and open for him, until he's fully sheathed. He moans into their kiss at that, at the sweet pleasure of being surrounded by her.

This time when he thrusts into her it's more controlled than before. With the edge taken off his desire he can take more time to appreciate every tactile sensation, the slick heat pressing around him on all sides. It's less overwhelming, and in some ways all the more delicious for that. "--Love you--" he manages breathlessly, somewhere between kisses and deep thrusts that all mingle together. "My Éowyn, meleth nîn--"

[shieldofrohan]

It may be less overwhelming for him. For her, still tingling with the aftershocks of her orgasm, her body sensitised and prickling with every touch, it is so intense as to be almost painful, the press of him inside her, the movement of him over and against and within her, the heat of his mouth and his body. She welcomes it, all that wild mess of sensation, the way it makes her heart jump and her breath catch. Hers. He is hers, and she is his, and in all the world, there is nothing more intoxicating than that.

One hand fumbles onto his back, rests flat between his shoulderblades as he thrusts into her, and although she doesn't squirm and writhe beneath him as before, still her pleasure is obvious. Little moans and gasps escape her, and she kisses him back with abandon, her eyes sliding closed. The taste of herself, mingled with him, the smell of sex and sweat that lingers in the air around them... all of it is a wonder, all of it bursting with promise.

"I love thee," she murmurs back, and laughs against his lips, at the wonder of it all. "Above all else, Faramir, I love thee."