Actions have always suited Éowyn better than words, and answers better than prettiness. She leans up into the kiss and Mercutio's weight above her, wondering at the press of leather and linen against naked flesh, wondering more at the heat of her bride's mouth. Her tongue thrusts into Mercutio's mouth eagerly, all uncertainty of method gone in favour of exploration, and, oh! how sweet it is, how sweet the clumsiness of kissing and how much sweeter the press of the hand between her legs.

She squirms against the pressure and the pleasure it brings, moaning into Mercutio's mouth, shifting to better press her hips up into the other woman's hand, to find where that press is sweetest. The wound in her belly aches, but she pays it no mind: this is far more important. She has one hand free still, and it has found its way once more into the other woman's short-cut hair, fingers tightening against her scalp.