marriage bed | for awordandablow
May. 29th, 2025 08:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanAnd 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.
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.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-10 04:37 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2025-09-17 09:03 pm (UTC)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.