Like Fighting: 1. Like Fighting

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1. Like Fighting

    He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it. "Well," he said into the sudden silence. "Here we are."
    She stood stock-still, at a loss for what to do. There were candles lit, fine beeswax candles, in a branching wrought-iron pillar at the head of the bed. Oil lamps flickered at the sides and foot of the bed, suspended from the ceiling on chains. In the center of the room was a banked brazier. The room was very warm.
    The bed was spread with rich woven blankets, the bright hues glimmering half-seen in the firelight. "It's beautiful in here," she murmured.
    He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist, dropping a kiss on her neck that made her shiver. "The women were busy," he said. "There are good luck spells and charms and dedications all over."
    She sighed, leaning into the solidity of his body. She could feel her own heartbeat between her legs. She supposed this was desire, this all-over breathless throbbing. It was too hot to wear her wedding dress any longer. She wanted him to tear it off her. She wanted him to touch her everywhere. She wanted him to force her open and fill her body with himself.
    She shivered, and moved his hand to the fastener of her bodice. "I don't know how to ask you for the things I want," she whispered.
    He laughed softly, nervously. "Neither do I," he said. He rolled the fastener between his fingers a moment, then manipulated it so that it opened. She sighed, tilting her head back against his shoulder as the fabric parted, and he moved down to the next fastener, and the next. Her dress was open now, and nothing came between his fingers and her skin but the fine, thin linen of her shift.
    He kissed her neck, and brought his hands up to slip the dress off her shoulders. The silk whispered down heavily, sliding over her hips to the floor. He ran his hands carefully down from her shoulders, down her arms, to her waist. Mentally she begged him to touch her breasts, but the words would not come, though she parted her lips. He caressed her hips instead, her belly. Pull up my shift, she wanted to say, but she was too nervous to speak.
    He hesitantly moved one hand up and ever so gently, cupped her breast. She sighed, and moved into his touch, arching her back so her head still rested against his shoulder. I want you, she thought, but "Yes," was all she said.
    He kissed her neck again, a little harder. Bite it, she wanted to beg, but it seemed an odd request. His mouth was soft, warm, wet; she vividly imagined the pressure of his teeth on her tender flesh, and shuddered.
    She worked her feet out of her shoes, and stepped carefully out of them without moving. She did not want to move; he might think she meant that she did not want his hands on her. She wanted his hands badly. She wanted him to move his other hand down from her waist. She wanted him to touch her everywhere. She didn't know how to say it. Words wouldn't form.
    He stepped away from her and led her a step toward the bed, so that she was not standing on her dress. His eyes were different, she noticed: he was watching her like a hunting animal. It made her shiver. She licked her lips, wishing she could find words for this.
    Instead she stepped forward, pressing her body to his, and took his mouth, pushing his lips apart and shoving her tongue between his teeth. He pushed back against her tongue fiercely, so hard he forced her head back on her neck. Her body tingled; she grabbed at his waist, pressing her body against his. She wanted-- she needed him. He was wearing too much clothing.
    She fumbled for his belt buckle and found it. He had a knife on his belt, even tonight. The mad idea that he would hold it to her throat made her shiver suddenly, and she bit his lip-- was it involuntarily? She didn't mean to, but when she did it, it felt right so she didn't stop.
    He jerked against her, his hand going to her hair. She let go of his lip. All she could think of was how their heavy breathing mingled in the hair's-breadth of empty air between their mouths. "Éomer," she breathed. His belt buckle released with a pop, and the knife hit the floor with a thud. She put her hands up under his tunic, pushing it up his chest. He had another shirt beneath. It was not as long. She found the hem and put her hands inside it. Yes-- bare skin. She pushed the shirt up with the tunic, up to his shoulders, and bent her head to taste his skin. He raised his arms and pulled the shirt and tunic off over his head. She put her mouth on his shoulder, following the line of his collarbone. He tasted of salt. He smelled of wool, of leather, of sweat. She put her tongue in the hollow between his collarbones, where she could feel his heart beating fast under her tongue.
    "Ah," he said, and the muscles of his back moved under her hands. "Lothíriel."
    She bit his collarbone where it flared out from the hollow of his shoulder, not very hard but hard enough that he would know it was her teeth. He gasped, and tangled his hand in her hair, pulling her head back. He wasn't rough, but the idea came unbidden that he could be, and it made her tremble.
    He put his mouth on hers again, and his mouth tasted sweet compared with his skin. She moved her hands down from his back, down over his hips, pulling his body closer to hers, then releasing, finding his waistband. These trousers were a heathen invention, and had to go. She wanted to say something witty to that effect, but her mouth was busy, so she let it go.
    The waistband was laced shut. She found the knot and worked it out one-handed, sliding the other hand up his back just to feel how the muscles moved in response. His back was smooth and broad and firm.
    The lacing gave way under her fingers, loosening, and she caught her breath in excitement, pushing at the waistband. It slid down, and the skin of his waist was smooth and soft under her fingers, interrupted suddenly by the ridge of his hipbone. He laughed against her mouth, his body moving ticklishly under her exploring hands. Oho. This was good to know. But she did not pursue it now. She was intent on her goal.
    She could feel him, against her belly-- something was very warm through the intervening layers of fabric, pressing against her. She hooked the fingers of both hands in his waistband and pulled it downward. He hitched his hips a little bit, and the trousers came loose, sliding easily down his thighs.
    Now she could feel it better, something firm and hot, pressed flat against the swell of her belly. It reached above her belly button. She let go of his trousers and slid one hand down his back, feeling the firm muscle of his buttocks. He laughed again, less ticklish and more self-conscious.
    She had to look at him. Curiosity overwhelmed her, and she finally broke the kiss to pull her head back. He looked into her face, uncertain. She ran her tongue over her lips and looked down.
    There was a shadow. But she could see that it was a massive thing. She'd seen... things before, but not up close, and not... this big. A moment of doubt assailed her, that he was built on a different scale than she was, surely, and she wasn't going to be able to fit him where he was supposed to go. But the doubt fled quickly and she brought her hand down between their bodies to touch it.
    He twitched, high-strung, but she caressed it fearlessly with her fingers, feeling how smooth and hot the skin was at the tip of it. Of course she hadn't handled one herself before, but she had a vague idea, having heard more than her share of bawdy jokes and filthy talk when she wasn't supposed to be listening, that one ought to handle it firmly. But gently. She took a half-step back, running her fingers lightly down the side of it. Then she closed her hand around it, finding that it fit nicely against her palm. He caught his breath sharply. She squeezed it gently, marveling: it was firm, unyielding, but the outermost layer was soft and alive. It was not at all like a limb or a digit. She squeezed it harder, and pulled her hand up toward the top of it, feeling the looser skin of the surface slide over the firm thick core of it. It was big enough to fill her hand so her thumb and fingers barely overlapped. His whole body jerked as she stroked it in an exploratory fashion.
    He put his hand under her chin and pulled her face up to his, kissing her with a tender, lingering intensity. To her delight, he slid his hand down her hip and found the hem of her shift, tugging it upward. He pulled it all up, and she reluctantly let go of him to raise her arms above her head so he could take it off her.
    He kissed her again immediately, not taking a moment to look at her. She wanted to put her hands on him again but he pulled her body tight against his, and his... it was pressed firmly against her belly again. He ran his hands over her body, holding her by the hips, then by the buttocks, to press her against himself.
    She put her arms around his neck. To her delight, he brought his hands up and cupped both of her breasts, gently squeezing at them and tweaking the nipples between his fingers. It made her shiver.
    She wanted to tell him that they should get to the bed, where the light was better. But again she couldn't think of words, and her mouth was busy. So she wriggled against him, and was rewarded by a muffled groan as she rubbed her belly against him.
    After a moment he pulled away, stepping back, and finally looked at her. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were in shadow. His hands were still on her breasts. She looked up at him, wondering what he would do now.
    He didn't seem to be able to summon any words either, but after a brief moment he tilted his head toward the bed, and she could see that he had raised his eyebrows. "Should we," he said, and trailed off.
    She nodded, and took his hands with hers, stepping away and crossing the floor toward the bed. Her heart was pounding now. It was brighter here, and she could see him, could clearly see his... she couldn't bring herself to use any of the crude words she knew for it, even in her head. But the formal words for it seemed too cold and distant. She would have to get to know it better, she thought, and come up with what to call it once she was more intimately acquainted. It was darker in color than the rest of his pale body, and it stuck out in front of him, pointing vaguely upward.
    He sat on the edge of the bed, looking self-conscious. "So," he said, as if they were making pleasant small talk. "What do you think?"
    She laughed a little nervously. What if neither of them knew what to do? She knew how it was supposed to work, but couldn't summon the courage to speak so she could tell him. Surely he knew how it was supposed to work, but she didn't actually know that he did. If she couldn't even talk about this with him, how was she supposed to figure out how to do it with him?
    Oh well, she thought, and climbed onto the bed. She sat near the head of the bed, perching awkwardly, and pulled the pins out of her hair, setting them carefully on the little table by the bed. Loosened, her hair finally tumbled down and fell down her back. She shook it out, then lay down on her back on the bed, spreading her hair across the pillow. "What do you think?" she asked, a little breathless.
    He laughed. In the light his face bore an expression that might have been... awe? "I think you look like... a woman from an old legend... like Tinúviel," he said.
    "That won't do," she said, and summoned up her nerve. She wanted to say, You can't fuck a legend, but more words wouldn't come, so she used what scant courage she had instead to move herself. She bent her knees a little, and moved her feet apart. It took almost all of her resolve to move her knees apart, so ingrained was the reflex to keep them together. She straightened one leg, feeling awkward, and made herself cock the other thigh outward. But she had seen the murals in the tavern quarter of Pelargir, with naked ladies painted on them, and she knew how she should pose to show off what she had. So she trailed one hand up her thigh, letting it rest a bit more than halfway up from her knee, on the inner part. And she bent the other elbow, caressing her breast lightly before putting the tips of her first two fingers into her mouth, licking them and running them along her lower lip.
    He stared at her, and his eyes strayed from her eyes down to her mouth, down over her body, down to her other hand, then up a little ways. She wasn't sure what he could see, in all these shadows. But surely he could see something. She moved her hand up a little farther. Would he be scandalized if he knew she had touched herself there before? Should she now? Surely he must understand that even the best, most modest girl wouldn't be able to always resist. And surely he had touched himself before now. It would be impossible to resist the temptation of something that enormous sticking out in front of him.
    It was sticking out in front of him quite impressively. It was longer than her hand was. It was nearly as big as the ones in the bawdy drawings on the tavern walls, which she had always assumed were exaggerations, given the size of the breasts on the women in the drawings. She thought perhaps she should be afraid, but she couldn't bring herself to be. Instead she felt greedy. That was all for her. She was going to get the whole thing. Somehow all that was going to go into her body. It had worked for thousands and thousands of men and women since the beginning of time, so it was going to have to work for her. She didn't know how, but she was eager to find out. The bawdy murals and drawings and graffiti in Minas Tirith and in the rougher parts of Pelargir had made perfectly clear what was supposed to go where, but she had trouble reconciling the theory with her own self. But it was going to be fun to try.
    He climbed up onto the bed, sitting on his feet near the end. He was going to do it now, she thought, and shivered with excitement. He moved up a little ways, and she put her feet farther apart to leave him room, remembering to open her thighs instead of drawing her knees together. It was thrillingly liberating, to deliberately pose immodestly. All her life she had been taught to keep her knees together no matter what, so that her skirt would not fly up and display precisely that thing she was now displaying.
    He was looking at it now, and his tongue kept moving over his lower lip. She put one hand behind her head to lift it up, the better to see him over her own body. Was he just going to climb on top of her now? She could hardly stand the suspense. She wanted him to, but she was afraid he would.
    Her hand moved of its own accord, the fingers kneading at the flesh of her thigh. She wanted to touch herself. But she wanted him to touch her. How to say it? She knew how good it would feel if she did it, but his hands were bigger, his fingers stronger-- she wanted him to touch her.
    He was watching her hand. She bit her lip. He was waiting for her to do something, she thought. She didn't know what to do. She slid her hand down a little more and touched herself, finally, finding that she was achingly swollen and slippery. She slid her fingers along, circling adeptly around the most sensitive parts.
    His breath caught and his body twitched, making his-- his erection bob. "Show me," he whispered, watching intently. "Show me what you like."
    She bit her lip and dragged her fingers up over the little hard nub in the middle of all the soft slipperiness, making herself shiver. It was shameful for a girl to touch herself. She had never ever dreamed of doing it while someone watched. But the shame made her body hot, and the heat made her blood pound harder, and the blood pounding made the ache of need stronger. "I want you," she whispered. "Does it-- can you see?"
    "I can see," he answered, not looking away from her fingers. She rubbed harder, making her breath unsteady and the muscles of her legs twitch. She had to close her eyes for a second. It wouldn't do for her to bring herself off. Though sometimes it only made her hungrier when she did. It might make it easier for her to fit that huge thing into herself. She dragged her fingers upward again, arching her back a little and catching her breath. No, she thought, no, I had better show him some more. And with that she slid her fingers downward and pushed the two middle ones into the opening there.
    He caught his breath sharply, and she watched him watching, wondering what it looked like from where he was. She was not flexible enough to get a good look at how it looked when she put something into herself. He must have a much better view. From the look on his face, it was.
    Two fingers had always seemed like a lot to put into such a little space, to her, but now she could feel that there was room for a great deal more. She pulled them out and dragged them upward again, feeling how slick they were.
    "You do it," she whispered. It was hard to speak. He glanced up at her face, lips parted as he breathed. Suddenly he smiled, a grin that was incredulous, wicked, amused, self-conscious, and awed all in one.
    "I can't believe you're actually here," he said. "Like this." He shook his head. "I-- I'm afraid to hurt you."
    She shoved her fingers into herself again, making herself grunt. "I would like to see you try," she hissed.
    He put out his hand, touching hers as she pulled her fingers out and rubbed them up over herself again, making herself shiver. He stroked her tentatively, then more firmly as she spread her fingers, parting the folds of flesh. "It's so beautiful," he said wonderingly, just as his thumb rubbed across the hard little nub. She let herself cry out, and he pulled back in alarm.
    "Do it again," she panted. He put his hand back to her, moving his body closer so that he could turn his hand the other way, rubbing downward. He slid his fingers carefully down, and hesitated, finding where the flesh gave way and opened. Tentatively, fascinated, he slid one of his fingers into the opening.
    "Oh," he said, as if astonished, and pushed further into her. She bit her lip. His fingers were bigger and rougher than hers, and at a different angle than she used. It made her tingle. He pushed in until the other fingers were flat against her body. "Oh," he said again, sounding amazed. He bent his finger, rubbing against the front wall inside her. Unexpectedly, it set off a sharp little burst of pleasure behind her navel, and she exclaimed and shuddered. He did it again, pressing harder, and she shuddered again.
    A few more times and she was panting for breath. He put his other hand on her, rubbing along the outer folds of skin with his thumb, until he found that hard little nub again. She cried out more sharply, and bit her fingers, looking down at him. He glanced up and saw her looking, and grinned, a little wide-eyed, as he alternately rubbed her inside and out. She exclaimed, and thrashed, bearing down against him, and in a few moments she was shaking, her whole body jerking against his hands, her own hands clutching distractedly at the blankets. He kept moving his hands until she cried out, pressing her knees together.
    "Stop," she panted. "Oh. Enough. Stop."
    He pulled his fingers out of her and moved up, lying on top of her and kissing her mouth deeply. She clung to him, holding his shoulders, twining her fingers in his hair. Her whole body was still throbbing. She had done that to herself before, but never like that. He had done it this time. It was different if someone else did it. Her hands were unsteady and she couldn't catch her breath.
    "That was," he said in her ear, his arms around her body, his forehead against the pillow beside hers, "I really liked that."
    "I," she said, "you, that," but no sentence would form. "Want," she tried again.
    He kissed her face, her cheek, her neck. "Now?" he asked. "You want--"
    "Yes," she said.
    He kissed her mouth, deeply but briefly. "I'm not sure--" he said.
    "I'll figure it out," she said, and reached down. He pushed himself up on his elbows, but dipped his head to kiss her again. All this kissing, she thought in annoyance, but then he moved his tongue and she paused, wondering what had annoyed her. Her body was still pinging, throbbing, starving. She found his erection and took it into her hand. It felt heavy, and even firmer than it had before, if that was possible. She hefted it, wondering again-- it was much, much bigger than a finger, much longer and thicker.
    Well, she'd been warned it would hurt. She couldn't imagine how it could possibly, but there was nothing for it but to try. She wriggled, trying to figure out the angle, and put the thick tip of it against herself. He shifted, changing the angle of his body. "Ready?" he asked.
    "I think--" she said. He pushed, and it rubbed against her body but slid along her instead of going in. "Let me--" she said, and grabbed it again. He shivered, but pulled back up, and she tried again. She had to hitch her hips downward a little. "Try that," she said.
    He pushed again, and there was a moment of increasing pressure but no motion. She shifted slightly and suddenly he slipped against her, and there was a sharp stab of something that might have been pain and might have been pleasure. They both cried out, his breathing harsh in her ear as he let his head fall forward against the pillow beside hers. He trembled, but was motionless.
    "All right?" he managed at last.
    She didn't answer for a moment. Nothing had ever felt like this. She was stretched open, filled. "Yes," she managed, realizing he was waiting for her to speak. "Oh. Yes."
    He moved, unsteady, and she realized he hadn't even been all the way in yet: he slid deeper into her, and she sucked in her breath. It wasn't-- she couldn't exactly feel him the way she'd expected. But she was-- he was in a place nothing had ever touched before. His breath was ragged in her ear. She realized she had her nails dug into his shoulder. It made her dizzy.
    He raised his head and kissed her, breathing too hard to kiss her for very long at a time. Brief, deep, broken-off kisses, and they made her dizzier, filling her head with the scent of his breath, the smell of his body and of her own. Her thighs were around his waist, his belly pressed against hers. He still had his elbows tucked beneath her shoulders, holding himself up off her a little bit, but he was heavy. She put her hands in his hair and pulled his face down to hers again, and bit his lip again, not sure what she was doing.
    "You're," he said, but didn't finish it. He slid his lip out from between her teeth and dropped his head to the pillow again, but then bit her neck, and she jerked her body against him, crying out when her motion shifted him inside her.
    He groaned, and moved his body, lifting up away from her a little and then jerking his hips back down, so that he slid out a little ways, then back in still deeper. She cried out again, hoarser, and moved against him.
    "Don't want to-- hurt you," he said unsteadily. "Warned-- I'd hurt-- is--?"
    She bit his shoulder. "Fuck," she gasped. "No. Yes. Please."
    He twitched as she bit him, then rose up on his elbows, looking down into her face, shadowed by the hair falling from his loosening plait. He pulled his hips back and pushed into her again, and began to repeat the motion over and over. She shivered, putting her hands in his hair and completely disintegrating his plait so that his hair spilled everywhere. If she moved her body against him she could make him rub against her in deep places she'd never felt before. She discovered that there were muscles in there that she could clench-- she'd moved them before, but never understood what they were for because they didn't feel like much without something to push against. But with him in there, there was plenty to push against. It was sore, and hurt a little, these heretofore closed and folded-up things being unfolded and spread wide apart and stretched and filled with a big strange thing, but it felt right, it felt like scratching an itch: slightly painful but deeply necessary.
    She pushed back against him, and he pushed harder into her. It was like fighting. But they were in agreement on their mysterious, instinct-driven goal, even as their movements were opposed. His body was slick with sweat against hers, his skin smooth and wet. He groaned, moving with more force into her, and she thought wildly for a moment of pleading with him to stop-- her imagination swept her up into him refusing to stop, overwhelming her and filling her and mastering her, and she shivered in confusion and unspeakably intense arousal. He had her pinned to the bed, spread open and helpless and stretched until she was sure she was tearing open-- she cried out in time with his movements into her, losing track of her consciousness and becoming all body, all hungry engulfing woman flesh yielding to his driving hardness.
    He groaned more sharply, his motions becoming almost desperate, and she shivered again at his intensity. It was-- it was indescribable; her mind couldn't process it. She bit his neck and he cried out, shuddering against her. Something hot spread deep inside her as he shuddered into throbbing stillness. Was that it-- was that how-- "Yes," she exclaimed, out loud, in her startlement at realizing that was his completion. Yes! She'd done this right, somehow!
    He sought her mouth blindly, seeming to need her, pulling her back into the present and out of her imagination. She took his head between her hands gently, tenderly, and kissed him sweetly. "Love," he said brokenly, his head lolling heavily between her hands. She kissed him again, licking his lower lip in repentance for biting it. He was still inside her, and had let himself down so he was very heavy, spread across her like a very heavy blanket indeed, all his muscles slack. But she could still feel him inside her, still almost as firm as he had been before, and for a moment she wondered whether they'd done something wrong.
    She let his head down and he put it against her shoulder. "Love," he murmured again. She kissed his ear.
    "I think we-- I think we figured it out," she said shakily.
    He laughed suddenly, which made her shiver because she could still feel him inside her and he moved as he laughed. She could feel either her heartbeat or his where they were still joined, she wasn't sure which.
    "I think we did it right," he said, raising his head and kissing her neck. He pushed himself up on his elbows and she exclaimed as he slid out of her body. He was not so big now, though still big enough that she felt him all the way. It made her shiver again.
    He sat back on his heels, pushing his hair out of his face. It was magnificent, like a lion's mane, around his broad pale shoulders. She felt exposed now under his view, though she'd welcomed it before. She felt delicate now, broken or-- or something. He looked her up and down. She put her knees together, suddenly wanting to cry.
    Finally he lay down beside her and put his arm around her, pulling her close. "Did I hurt you?" he asked, worried.
    She made herself smile. "No," she said. "I thought it would hurt more than that."
    He kissed her. She found herself not wanting to be touched, but needing to be held. She put her arms around him and pressed her face into his shoulder. "Those liars," he murmured happily, kissing her neck and ear. "They had me terrified I was going to really hurt you. Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"
    She trembled. "Yes," she said, "I am sure, but I think I need to lie still a little."
    "Oh love!" he said. "Let's get you under the blankets, love." He sat up, and to her surprise picked her up, holding her under the knees and shoulders and pulling her against his body. She clutched at his shoulders, and he let go of her knees to sweep the blankets from under her before depositing her onto the soft white linen sheets. He covered her, leaned over to blow out the candles, snuffed the lanterns, and slid under the blankets himself, enfolding her in his arms. She put her head against his shoulder, much more comfortable in the sheltered darkness now, enfolded in soft linen.
    The feeling clenching in her midsection was the desire to weep, she realized. Don't be silly, she told herself. He kissed her temple. "Is that better?" he murmured.
    "Yes," she whispered. Where to put her legs was a problem. On her side, it was most comfortable to bend her knees, but his knees were in her way, invading her space. And she could only have her arms folded across her chest, since his were taking up so much room. She fidgeted, not wanting to pull away from him, but too uncomfortable to keep still.
    He moved his arm down to her thigh, pushing at her leg so that she rolled more onto her back. This way her thighs were both over his, almost as though she were sitting in his lap. He kissed her and settled his arm around her waist, and she burrowed her face into his shoulder, much more comfortable.
    She still wanted to cry. She felt weirdly hollow inside, as though he had opened her up all the way into her ribcage. Her thighs were sticky and she was sore. She worried suddenly that she was bleeding, and would soil these nice sheets. But then she worried that perhaps she wasn't. What if she didn't bleed? What if he thought-- she'd acted so shamelessly-- he might suspect her virtue. She wanted to check and see that there was blood, but there wasn't any way to do so now without him seeing as well.
    He kissed the top of her head. "Do you want to sleep or do you want to talk?" he asked.
    She didn't trust her voice. "Won't sleep," she whispered.
    "You've gone all stiff," he murmured, caressing her arm. "I won't touch you if you don't want. It won't hurt my feelings."
    "I don't know what to think," she whispered. "It's a lot. That's all."
    "Should I let go?" he asked.
    She shook her head. "Need you," she whispered. "Hold me."
    He tightened his arms around her, pulling her against his body. His body was big, and solid, and very warm, and naked. She took a few breaths to calm herself, twining her fingers in the patch of fine hair in the middle of his chest. It was finer than the hair of his beard, sparser. He wasn't as hairy as she had expected. All of the men she had seen nude or nearly so had been laborers or sailors, and most of them had been very hairy. He wasn't; there was almost no hair on his shoulders or back, and the hair on his arms and chest was pale and fine.
    She should feel happier. The nervousness should be over. But worry beseiged her, and his sheltering arms were no respite. She was a wife now, and a queen, and had a great deal to learn, and still more to do. She would have to bear him a child, as soon as possible. She had to improve her Rohirric, which she had thought functional at least but there was a great deal she had not understood today. She had so much to do. And this big man, now, this great naked enfolding creature, he was her problem now and she had to worry about him. She had to protect him and care for him and be a credit to him and advocate for him. There was so much of him. She didn't know if she could do it.
    At least, at least, at least she had succeeded in mating him. A small triumph. There was nothing wrong with her that way, at least, and she could satisfy him. This was a good start. She sighed, dispelling some of the tension from her shoulders.
    "What are you so worried about?" he asked, and she started guiltily.
    "Nothing, nothing," she said. He laughed.
    "I thought the hardest part was over," he said mildly. "And here you are wound up tight as a bowstring telling me nothing-nothing. Love, what is wrong? Did I hurt you after all?"
    "Not you," she said. "It's not that."
    "Then why so upset?" he asked, stroking her hair. "Everything went well today. Everyone is happy. Everything is perfect." He kissed her head. "You are perfect."
    She smiled at that, and put her head against his shoulder. Even if she did nothing else correctly, she supposed, even if she proved no good at being a wife or a queen, at the least she was a lover, and that was something. She too had been prepared for it to be painful, awkward, and not in the least bit fun-- she had been regaled with horror stories all around by many helpful old wives. So she was doing better than average. As was he-- apparently most men came nowhere near bringing their virgin brides off, but he had succeeded on his first try.
    "It is nice to be good at something," she said.
    "Good!" he laughed. "Better than that."
    "I thought it would be--" She paused. "I don't know what I thought it would be. That was much nicer than I thought it would be."
    He laughed again. "Do you know how many people I had pull me aside and caution me to be gentle with you because I would surely break you?"
    She snorted. "They didn't have a very high opinion of my capacity," she said.
    "Or of my restraint," he said. He paused a moment. "I suppose I didn't exercise that much restraint."
    "You did," she said. "I noticed. You were waiting for me. I appreciated it. It didn't really hurt, but I needed a moment or two here and there to... get used to it."
    That seemed to please him, and he kissed her cheek playfully. She turned her head, and he kissed her mouth as well, at first sweetly but then with increasing ardor as she escalated matters.
    After a long moment she said breathlessly, "Can we do it again?"
    "I would've said no a moment ago but now I am not so sure," he said. She wriggled against his body, and found what she was looking for, poking against her buttock.
    "I think that is a yes," she said, feeling gloriously wicked. She knew a man could only perform so many times in a day, but they were young and newly married. She expected that now was the time, if ever, to find out for herself what was possible, and how this all worked. In daylight she was going to have a better look at things. This was one challenge of marriage she was certain she could surmount.
    "Minx," he said, capturing her mouth again. She lay still, as if he'd really trapped her, and felt her heartbeat pounding in her throat with her excitement. She wanted him to be rough with her. How could she ask it? She was still too shy. She wondered if he knew what he wanted. How could she make him tell her? She wanted to be everything he had ever wanted.
    He fondled her breasts, easy to reach since she was still on her back, then started to pull away. "No," she said, "we can stay like this." She pressed herself down into his lap, pushing against the headboard of the bed with her hands.
    "Why," he said, "so we can." He leaned over to put his mouth on her throat. She writhed against him, moaning in pleasure.
    She tilted her hips and trapped his erection between her thighs, finding that if she squeezed them together she could rub him against herself. It would work better if she had a little more flesh, she judged, but she was pleased with her discovery nonetheless. He twitched, and moved his body eagerly against hers.
    "There are so many things," she said breathlessly, moving her hand down, "so many things I want to try with you." She touched herself, ascertaining that she was still wet and sticky, then grasped the head of his cock and rubbed it against herself, using it instead of her fingers on the parts she liked to touch. He moved with her hand, ducking his head to kiss and lick her breast.
    "To be honest," he said, his breath coming fast, "I had never really thought specifically..."
    She pushed the head of his cock down to her opening and angled her hips. It slid in easily, meeting only a little resistance on her first try. She cried out, deciding this once not to worry if anyone could hear her-- if they did, so much the better-- and gripped the headboard, pushing herself down against him.
    He gasped, and mouthed her shoulder, moving his hands down to her waist to hold her in place. "Oh," he said, "that was-- that was easier--"
    "Fuck me," she said, and the word gave her a little thrill of wickedness. Excited, he laughed, and obeyed, undulating his hips against her to slide out and back in again. Such a little motion set off a riot of sensation inside her. She tilted her hips, pushing against the headboard to hold herself steady so she didn't slide away from him. She was more sensitive now, even, than she had been before-- a little sore, but more eager. The harder he moved the better it felt. "Oh!" she said, "hh-hh--harder!"
    "Really?" He grabbed her hips.
    Holding her hips firmly, he moved faster, pulling her downward to keep her from sliding away. She twisted her hips more, looking for the perfect angle. She couldn't turn more toward him easily, but she could turn away, more onto her side, spreading her legs apart to brace herself and open herself deeper to him. She could feel him better this way, could feel his length sliding into her, parting her flesh and rubbing against things deep inside her.
    "More?" he panted hoarsely over her shoulder, into her ear. She tilted her head back, letting his beard scrape against her neck, her throat.
    "More," she moaned. He held her hips firmly, turning his body to bear more directly into her. She grabbed the pillow from under her head and wedged it to hold her body in place, to give her help in meeting his thrusts with enough resistance that she did not slide away. She was twisted around, pinioned, unable to move, with his penetration nailing her in place. The confinement made her heart beat so hard she was dizzy. "Oh," she cried, "oh."
    She was helpless like this, and her increasingly breathless cries only encouraged his onslaught. She couldn't escape. She couldn't even try, he was too big and too strong and all she could do was spread her thighs to let him in deeper. She held the pillow against herself, letting him drive her against it, rubbing herself with it. He bit her shoulder and she tossed her head back, feeling the scrape of his beard, his teeth.
    "Oh," she cried, her breath leaving her in a rush. There was a long silence, as he kept driving into her-- her whole body was far away, somewhere else, being fucked, while she stared blankly, empty of breath and full of him-- and then she sucked in her breath, cried out, and went into spasms. Her whole body shook, in waves; she was entirely focused around his cock, inside her, and the waves traveled along his length, shuddering her body, up and then back down, shaking her limbs, arching her spine. She'd never felt anything like it. She was crying out, and perhaps there were words or perhaps not, but her lungs were in spasm too, forcing air out and in, in time with the wave gripping his cock.
    He didn't stop. Her body went limp and he put his arms around her to hold her while he kept moving into her. She came back to herself a little at a time, first recognizing the odd sensation in her shoulder blade as his beard and mouth as he kissed her up and down her shoulder and neck, then recognizing the pressure of his arms, one across her breasts and one across her hips, and finally his cock, enormous, still going tirelessly into her body. It felt as big as his arm, a huge pillar forcing her hipbones apart, slamming into her spine, but it didn't hurt-- it was just a dull thick feeling of pressure, tingling with echoed pleasure all up and down her back. She moaned, grasping at his forearm where it crossed her breasts, and let her head fall forward.
    "Lothíriel," he grunted, "oh, oh, love--" He shuddered against her, thrusting deeply into her and pressing his body to hers, moving jerkily deep inside her. She cried out again, filled with joy at his pleasure.
    He kissed her shoulder again, not easing his grip on her; she was pulled tightly against his chest and could feel how hard he was breathing.
    "Oh," she whispered. "Oh yes."
    He shuddered again, sending another tingle of pleasure up her spine, and then let go of her, unclasping his arm from around her breasts. She rolled away a little, and he pulled out of her, which made her cry out again.
    He pushed himself up on his elbow and rolled her onto her back, putting both arms around her and embracing her, letting his head rest on her shoulder. "Lothíriel," he said unsteadily, "oh, I love you."
    She put her arms around his head, cradling him against her breast. "Husband," she murmured, "my best, my dearest, my love."
    He was still catching his breath, his broad shoulders rising and falling. She caressed them, thinking of the ink she couldn't see in the dark. His hair was in her face. It smelled lovely, like herbs of some kind. She slowly gathered it in her fingers, pushing it back. Finally he moved his face up to take her mouth again. "Mmm," she sighed, letting him kiss her sweetly.
    She was satisfied now, her mind the pleasant blankness she had used to find in exercise. Let whatever happened happen. At least she knew how to fuck.

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: dragonlady7

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: 4th Age

Genre: Romance

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 03/18/09

Original Post: 03/18/09

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WARNING! Comments may contain spoilers for a chapter or story. Read with caution.

Like Fighting

Azalais - 30 Jul 09 - 2:48 PM

Ch. 1: Like Fighting

I think I picked this up when it was the HASA featured story on the front page and I meant to comment then - my bad.

This is one of the most effective, emotionally honest, real pieces of writing about sex and love in Middle-earth that I've ever read - possibly the most effective. The pair of them are so sweet, without being in any way saccharine, and courageous, and believable, and I just want to cheer for them all the way through. I suspect I shall read it again and again, particularly when I've been annoyed by some incredibly unrealistic piece of would-be M-E erotica, just to remind myself that it can be done properly. Bravo, ma'am!

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