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."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-18 09:56 pm (UTC)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."