marriage bed | for awordandablow

[shieldofrohan]

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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[shieldofrohan]

They are neither of them patient in their nature, and it is apparent in the tension that stretches between each second, taut as the muscles that arch Éowyn's lean form upward from the bed, tight as the fingers that curl around Mercutio's until, at last, that hand is drawn away to rougher duty.

She had thought of many things, alone in the darkness of the night with her loneliness and her dreams for company. She had not thought it would be this sweet this soon: she could not have imagined the wet heat of a mouth against a breast that aches for touch, or how skin can thrill at even the slightest brush. Nor how different another hand would feel than her own, how another's fingers might explore familiar contours.

She bites her lip, habit leading her to stifle the groan of pleasure that rises to her mouth. She feels herself drawn tight as a bowstring already, caught between Mercutio's tongue and her hand, rocking from one to the other and holding her wife's head firmly against the swell of her breast. It has some of the same feeling that battle did, that one time she truly fought: that same pulsing adrenaline, the sense of being at once fully inside herself and watching at a distance, the sense of becoming. All thought of exile and arrangement and loss are gone; there is only the feeling that this is as right as anything has ever been.

"More," she whispers, and her voice is taut, too, thick and throaty and unlike her own. "Máe, máan, please."

[awordandablow]

Mercutio doesn't speak enough of Éowyn's home tongue to know exactly what she's said, which is something she should probably seek to remedy, which is something she will think about later when she can think about anything. It matters little. Mercutio knows very well what that tone means.

Grinning, she catches one of Éowyn's nipples between her teeth, hard enough to perhaps ache a little before letting go. At the same time, she slips her middle finger into Éowyn's cunt. She's more than wet enough, and she did ask for more, after all -- that word was clear enough. Why, if Éowyn reacts well, without any pain, Mercutio will make it two fingers as soon as she can.

[shieldofrohan]

The nip of teeth against flesh already pulled taut with sensitivity is enough to pull a small cry out of Éowyn - but not one of pain, or not only of pain. With her hand where it is, Mercutio will be very able to feel the nature of that cry: the way Éowyn's cunt clenches around her finger, wetness flooding her all the more.

Here is another place her own hand has been, and no other: but her own hand cannot reach at anything like as welcoming an angle, neither as deeply nor as probingly. Her cry is not stifled as the others were, and trails out into a shuddering moan. Her fingers tighten in Mercutio's hair, pulling more than a little, her other groping hand finding Mercutio's bicep and gripping there tightly.

[awordandablow]

Mercutio lets out a noise of her own, hungry, starving, mostly moan and a bit of growl. Letting go of Éowyn's breast, she uses that hand to pin Éowyn's hips to the bed instead, and curls her fingers while she fucks them deeper.

Is it wrong to think of this with a word like that? God knows, Éowyn is no flirting barmaid or guard, the sort of person Mercutio could tumble into bed with and fuck without second thought. She's a noblewoman, and she does nothing but make Mercutio think twice: about duty, and violence, and whether lovers are such fools as she's always known them to be.

But Éowyn is not a swooning maid that would have love made to her, either. Did she not say so?

Very well, then. Let action suit words. Mercutio fucks her deeper, faster, gripping Éowyn's hip tighter, harder, and groans against her breast when she feels those squeezes of pleasure around her fingers.

[shieldofrohan]

The wound in her side aches with the tensioned muscle beneath, and is duly ignored. This is more than she had imagined possible, in her limited understanding: this roughness, this need which neither asks nor offers quarter, the heat of Mercutio's breath against her skin and the heat of her own desire, the wet slap of every thrust seeming to echo through the room - or maybe just through her. Careless of anything else, she bucks helplessly against Mercutio's restraining grip, startled to find how that capturing weight sharpens, rather than dulling, her passion.

There is no pretence at silence any more. She gasps for air, moaning encouragement, both hands in Mercutio's hair now and tugging tightly enough to sting. She does not feel like a noblewoman, or like a maid at all, or like anything more than an animal, rutting with wild abandon. Animals have no need for propriety, or dignity, or silence in such times as this, and she abandons them all with a conscious relief, like cutting a chain that has been fastened about her throat. She cries out in wonder at it, at this new world where all she need be is physical, and her eyelids flutter, her chest heaving and toes curling, so perhaps there is a different wonder underway, too.

[awordandablow]

Breathing hard herself, Mercutio shifts; she slides her hand down Éowyn's thigh to curl under her knee, presses her leg up to her chest, and mouths down the tense planes of Éowyn's stomach until her head is between Éowyn's spread thighs. The scent of her wife's cunt is rich, and she waits not a moment before finding Éowyn's clit with her tongue.

All she wants is -- well, she wants it all. But in the moment, she wants to taste Éowyn, wants that wonder to overcome her, wants her to tear at Mercutio's hair in her pleasure.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn's eyes roll back behind fluttering eyelids, and the sound she makes is more animal than human, and more elemental than either. Nothing had prepared her for how it feels to have the probing slickness of a tongue meeting wet with wet and heat with heat, to feel another's breath raw and soft against aching nerves, both gentle and aggressive. She makes another low, guttural sound, wordless and thoughtless and urging, and her hips grind against Mercutio's mouth, chasing the sensation of mouth and tongue.

"Please," she groans, not knowing what she begs, scarcely knowing who she begs, knowing only that she needs. The muscle jumps in her thighs, her cunt flexing and throbbing and aching, her breath jarring through her as though winded. "Please!"

[awordandablow]

"Yes," Mercutio groans, the word a little muffled, and "Yes, love."

With one hand squeezing Éowyn's leg hard enough to leave marks, the other plunging into her cunt, and her tongue on her clit, Mercutio feels gloriously lost in the physical. Sweat has gathered under her arms and between her breasts, and eventually she'll want to attend to the throbbing heat of her own cunt. Not until Éowyn is sated, though.

Actually, she might be here between Éowyn's legs until she starves to death, if she's going to wait until the woman is sated. But so be it, if it must be so. There would be worse ways to die -- to eat oneself to starvation! A very fine end to find one's end in.

"Whatever thou wouldst have, love." A kiss, a suck. "Yes."

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn lets out a low growl, beyond words now, her fingers clenching tightly in Mercutio's hair. She is not quite so sheltered that she cannot tell what is building, what drags at her muscles and twists at her nerves; but it has never felt like this before. It has never felt so desperately, unbearably good. Before, managing her desire in lonely nights, she has always sought to banish desire as quickly as possible, to hasten herself to a shameful peak so that she can be herself again. This is different. This...

She wants to linger in it. She wants to remain in this taut, unbroken moment, with her breath caught in her chest and Mercutio's mouth hot between her thighs, discovering something she had not known she could feel. She wants to stay here forever, and never come back down to earth, never return to reality and the cold weight of duty. This is the only duty she can think of that she has found truly sweet.

But her body has its own ideas, and Mercutio knows how to ply it: it is a moment, and a moment more, and then she arches up and her eyes fly wide, and she lets out a low, strangled moan into the warm and waiting air.