shieldofrohan | marriage bed | for awordandablow

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!ic,
nsfw

marriage bed | for awordandablow

And so it is done, and all is done, and she does not know how to feel.

It is not that she mislikes Mercutio. She likes Mercutio very much, in fact; likes her more the more she has seen, and would gladly count her a friend. And while she is, perhaps, not quite so highly-born as Éowyn had hoped for, nobody less than a King could meet that mark.

No, the trouble is deeper, for marriage is an exile, and Éowyn cannot help but feel that she should not have allowed herself to be exiled. Not even into bright smiles and ready wit, and not even at the cost of the alliance it has brokered. She should be home, and holding fast to cold duty and colder loneliness, and she should not have allowed herself to be sent away, no matter how she loathed the cage that Edoras has become. Her mind is constantly drawn back northwards, to the Mark and its King, to all that is uncertain and all that has now been put from her reach.

It has been apparent all day, that distance and that graveness, though she has answered no questions on the subject and denied it entirely. She has taken no joy in the feasting and festivity, nor in the strange rites of marriage. She has retreated within herself, rather, become once again the graven image of a noblewoman, graceful and unimpeachable and distant.

It is only now, at the doorway of her wedding chamber, that she seems to find herself back in the immediate: back in Verona, back in this summer's evening, clad in embroidered green silk and with her hair a shining cloak around her shoulders. At the doorway, and with - she finds, on reflection - no idea at all what lies beyond.

She had expected to be married to a man, and she has at least some grasp on what that would entail. Here, she does not know at all what is expected, or how they will determine when it is done, or whether there will somehow still be blood on the sheets come morning. She has come this far, for a wonder, without considering the next steps, and now they are before her, and her fears about home are replaced by a fear much more immediate - that, in her ignorance, she will be embarrassed.

(And that it will be less than she hopes, and that it will be nothing at all. That she will gain no pleasure, despite her hopes, and be trapped to follow no other. That she will be inadequate to the task, and see Mercutio stray, and be humiliated by it. There are so many ways that this could go badly, and rob her of what makes this whole matter bearable.)

Lady Éowyn - once of Edoras, now, she supposes, of Verona - takes a deep breath and puts her hand to the door, stepping inside. As she does so, she looks at her bride, and that cold mask of distance has cracked, for a moment showing the uncertainty beneath.

"Well. So we are wedded, then." She can think, in the moment, of nothing more useful to say.

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A small gasp escapes Éowyn at the press of Mercutio's thigh: not so much from the physical pleasure of it, which is so muffled under skirt and shift and petticoat as to be almost entirely absent, but from what it signifies. There is an intimacy in it, without gentleness: there is a promise of things to come.

Things like the graze of lips and teeth against where her pulse beats close to the surface. She tilts her head without thinking, to grant Mercutio better access, her finger curling against the other woman's scalp. The thought of letting things progress naturally, of collapsing together here and now, onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and pleasure... it is tempting, and she almost says so, before the healing wound in her side twinges as if to remind her why it is a bad idea.

Bed, then. She cannot quite bear to draw away from Mercutio's mouth, which is so warm and sweet and sharp against her neck; but she does take a step towards the bed, drawing her wife with her.

There's an answer, then. Mercutio shivers at the scrape of fingers against her scalp. She'd like to get this gown off her bride, and her tunic and hose off herself, and feel those fingers against the rest of her skin, and with this urgency in mind she ducks down to loop an arm under Éowyn's knees.

"Up with thee, love," she says with a grin, lifting Éowyn, stepping towards the bed--

--And promptly staggering to put her back down with an oath, as her bad leg twinges dangerously. "God's me!"

cool, cool cool cool, very smooth, she's going to walk into the river and straight out to sea, don't mind her

Éowyn cannot help it: she laughs, and at once feels bad for laughing. But how can she help but laugh, at such a show? Stumbling to regain her footing, half-stifling her smile, she grasps Mercutio's arm, and there is genuine concern there as well as amusement.

"Another time, perhaps," she suggests, only a little sardonically, "when we are both whole and hale again?" And, to soften the blow, she leans in to kiss Mercutio again, her hand tracing down to find her bride's.

"I ought to be hale enough," Mercutio grumbles between kisses, "to carry a sweet bit o' nothing to bed!"

But she twines her fingers with Éowyn's, and tugs her over to the bed -- both of them on their feet. There, she catches Éowyn by the waist again, and in a movement more reminiscent of her usual grace, falls back onto the bed, pulling Éowyn down atop her. As soon as Éowyn lands, Mercutio's hands are busy gathering fistfuls of her skirts and pushing them out of the way, searching for the ties or loops of any undergarments.

"Am I nothing, then?" Her affront is not altogether feigned; being ignorant of any other meaning, it is easy to take the comment amiss. She straddles Mercutio's hips, sitting up with an arched eyebrow. "Do not wrong me, lady, I am hale enough to make myself harder to handle."

But she does not particularly want to, at this moment. Nor, while she is a little unsure of what was meant, does she genuinely think the comment was intended as a dismissive one. As Mercutio's hands work at her skirts, baring fair, toned thighs, Éowyn's own hands go to her embroidered belt, making quick work of first that and then the brooches at her shoulders, so that the heavily embroidered silk falls away and leaves her in her underdress and petticoat.

"Come," she remarks, leaning over to set the brooches down on the nearest surface, "tell me you would fain have me lighter, and less of me to carry; and I will shed a little more weight, if you ask."

Mercutio's breath catches pleasantly when Éowyn's weight settles atop her, making heat throb between her legs. It catches again when the dress finally falls away, and she can begin to see Éowyn's body, limned with firelight. Beneath her own tunic, her nipples harden.

"Oh, my lady, mistake me not." Her hands land on Éowyn's thighs, warm and nimble, and start to slide up them. "Thou and I have that thing which is like nothing else i'th'world."

Her thumb rubs over a spot high on the inside of Éowyn's thigh before her fingers creep a little higher, seeking to cup where she's warm and soft and -- Mercutio hopes -- wet.

"I'll not ask thee for mercy, for I know thou wouldst scoff." She grins up at her. "But I'll beg for thy lightness, aye, the better to bear thee up."

Now it is Éowyn who gasps, her breath catching sharply at the warmth of another's hand where she is joined. There is wetness there, certainly, and a furnace-heat that seems to gather higher by the moment. She bites her lip, lifting her hips a little from where she straddles Mercutio, inviting further touch.

That thing, that no-thing. She understands it now, and smiles at it, leaning in to bring their faces closer as she begins to unlace the sides of her shift. "Thou speak'st too much in riddles, lady. Hast thou been told so?"

She might hesitate more for a husband than a wife. But as she has just been reminded, they are of a kind, and what does one woman have to hide from another? She does not linger on her fastenings, loosening them as much as is needed to let the fine linen hang lighter on her lean form, and then settles back to haul it off over her head.

Beneath, she is slender and fine-boned, her breasts small and taut, her arms visibly muscled. The half-healed scar of their battle, still livid against her pale skin, stands in a rill an inch or two above the tied waistband of her petticoat, the only fault marring her skin.

"Many a time," she replies cheerfully. Her fingers creep a little further, one sliding between the folds of Éowyan's cunt, and her palm settles on the mound, so that Éowyn's clit presses against it. Not too hard, yet -- for all that Éowyn is no delicate flower, and seems to know her own mind for pleasure, Mercutio wants to feel her out for a moment. As it were.

And she wants to take a moment to admire her, too. The look on Mercutio's face when Éowyn strips off her shift and sits above her, bare, is one of naked lust and no little delight. Mercutio disentangles her other hand from beneath Éowyn's petticoat and reaches up to palm one of her breasts, rolling the nipple under her thumb.

It is not a look she has often seen, that open desire; and where she has seen it before, it has been unwanted and the weight of it has made her skin crawl. In this moment, on the face of her wife, she finds she is hungry for it. It thrills her, to be looked at with such naked want. She has always known herself to be fair, but she knows it in a new way, seeing how Mercutio's eyes both dance and darken.

Then again, it is not only the look that thrills her. Mercutio's hands are warm and rough and gentle, and they roam without any thought of modesty, just as she would have expected. She lets out a soft moue, pressing forward into the hand on her breast, and her breath catches again as that movement shifts her against the lower touch. For a moment, she lets her eyes flutter closed, enjoying the intensity of touch more deeply.

When she opens them, they are less grey than black. She lets out a long, uneven breath, and her hands go to Mercutio's doublet, seeking out fastenings.

She is free to undo the doublet, but God in heaven, Mercutio is loath to stop touching her to actually take off the garment. The sounds of her, the way she moves, the look on her face when she feels something she enjoys -- Mercutio could feast on it all night and into tomorrow and still want more.

Feasting, yes. That seems like a good idea. She lies still long enough for Éowyn to undo her doublet, taking advantage of the time to keep massaging between her wife's legs, and revel in the wetness coating her fingers. Once all is unfastened, though, she moves: one (slick) hand to Éowyn's hip, under her petticoat, the other up under her arm to the back of her shoulder, and a twist of hips to roll them both across the bed, flipping their positions. It isn't exactly a wrestler's move, but close.

Mercutio aims to end up with Éowyn on her back, with those long strong legs around Mercutio's hips. Once there, she braces herself with one hand so she can grin down at Éowyn.

"There, that's better. Not too heavy for thee, I wager."

It isn't exactly a wrestler's move, and if Éowyn wanted to keep her seat, she thinks there is a good chance that she could push back against it. She does not try, and lets herself be rolled over with only a token resistance, grunting softly as she is pushed over onto her back. This once, as she had said, she will let herself be bested.

"You are the lightest that ever pinned me," she says, truthfully enough, and smiles. She will return in time to her doubts and fears, to thoughts of what this will all lead to - but for now, she is slick and wet beneath the rumpled folds of her petticoat, and her bare skin shivers with anticipation, and Mercutio's smile is an intoxicating view. There is no time for melancholy, just at the moment. "And now that you have?"

As she speaks, her hand comes up almost unconsciously, seeking out the hem of Mercutio's shirt, trying to find her way under it to feel the skin beneath.

On impulse, Mercutio catches her by the wrist and shifts forward, pinning Éowyn's hand above her head.

"Oh, where to begin my plunder? With the bounty of thy breasts?" She leans down to ghost her lips against Éowyn's. "Or shall I feed upon thy lips?"

Her other hand slides up Éowyn's thigh, back to its earlier home. She uses her fingers to spread the folds of Éowyn's cunt, finding her clit with her thumb this time.

"But sweeter nectar there is," she continues, in a rough, husking breath, "to drink my fill. Where wouldst thou feel my mouth first, my dear? For I'll have all of thee in time."

The grip on her wrist is firm, and even as she pushes back experimentally against it, Éowyn finds that she does not mind it: finds, in fact, that it thrills her unexpectedly. She leans up against that grip, chasing Mercutio's too-brief kiss, her lips parted and her colour high; and at the press of Mercutio's thumb, groans aloud in pleasure and want. It is a new feeling, this; a feeling that penetrates the shadow and gloom, and that she would gladly taste more of.

Taste. It takes her a moment to understand what the taste is that Mercutio speaks of - riddles again, she thinks, with wry frustration - and a moment more to imagine it. All else, she thinks, she could imagine: but that has never occurred to her before, and she bites her lip, looking up at the face hovering so close above hers, and wonders.

"Begin at the beginning," she decides at last, aloud; "kiss me first, and follow where your thirst leads, until you drink your fill."

"A pretty answer from a pretty maid."

And she's pleased to do as she's bid. Mercutio closes the distance between their lips in another crushing kiss; more of her weight settles onto Éowyn, clothed chest against bare skin, fingers tightening on Éowyn's wrist. She shifts her hand so that her palm is cupping Éowyn's mound again, in a position better suited for rhythmic pressing and grinding.

Here she intends to stay, until she gets at least a few more of those groans out of Éowyn. Saints above, but it's a lovely sound, artless and free.

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.

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marriage bed | for awordandablow

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