regency shenanigans | for faye
May. 8th, 2020 04:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shieldofrohanShe is resigned to the coming of this day, and faces it with equanimity, at least outwardly. For all her fire, she is a dutiful woman, and a woman's duty is to be married, to strengthen the family through ties of blood and bear strong children. It doesn't matter how much she might wonder at why that must be her lot, why it is her duty to be a wife and not a soldier or a master of estates. It doesn't matter that it chafes. It is her duty to be here, to make a good match, and the Earl of Rohan's niece is nothing if not dutiful.
Not that this should be called a good match. In better days, the Eorlingas family would never have dreamed of marrying into trade. They are an old line, one that traces its lands and titles back for centuries, and a proud one. But the wars elsewhere in the Empire have shattered them financially, as well as taking her cousin's life, and the Earl's long sickness drains their coffers even more. Even the proudest line must eventually bend, or perish.
So it has been goodbye to girlish dreams of love, or of handsome princes, or fairytale endings. Goodbye to her own freedom, to life on her uncle's estate, where in her free time she has been able to ride and hunt and shoot with the best of them. Goodbye to pride in her family name, now she must take another. It is a heavy price to pay, and when her uncle leads her up the aisle to meet her new groom at the altar, it is a weight that she feels all too keenly. There is a burning resentment in her eyes, which is not quite disguised by the modest downcast of her gaze.
She says the words, and does not let her voice shake. She sits beside him at the reception afterwards, still as a marble statue in her white silk, and speaks little, and smiles not at all - still, she is polite and attentive to her guests, and does nothing that could be called rude or improper. She dances with him, and is graceful in sidestepping more dances than are strictly necessary. For much of the night she has wine in her hand, but a keen observer might notice how rarely she drinks it. She has no intention of misbehaving. Reputations - her family's reputations - are at stake.
It is almost a relief when the guests begin to leave - almost, until she remembers what comes next. Despite herself, she weeps a little as she bids her brother and uncle farewell, the only time in this whole affair she has shown any sign of her own discomfort. It is a brief moment, though, and one quickly put aside. A wedding, she reminds herself sternly, is no time for grief.
And then she is married. Married to a man below her station, older than her by some years, who she does not know particularly well or care for overmuch. It is done, and cannot be undone, and still her duty is not finished, although all she wants to do is withdraw and rest far away from all of this.
Instead, she starts up the stairs to their wedding chamber, and does not let herself falter. This is duty too, she reminds herself. Lie back, let him do what he will, it will be over soon. And yet she is so weary of duty, of lying back and playing the sweet and modest girl. There is a part of her, a deep steel that will not be driven out, that says If he shames me, I will scratch his damn eyes out.
When Jack heads up to the room, he will find his new bride waiting, her long hair unpinned and hanging loose around her shoulders. She has been helped out of her Spanish lace gown, and now wears only a shift and stockings, white silk clinging to her slender, toned frame. She is, undeniably, beautiful - even if the calluses on her hands and the tan under her powder belies more mannish activities than a young lady should undertake - but even now, as she stands to greet her husband, there is no softness to her. She tilts her chin upward, and looks at him - now they are alone - with barely-disguised scorn. This is not the husband she wanted, nor deserved. She may be his, and she will do her duty by him, but it is not her duty to enjoy it.
"What now, husband?" she says at last, her voice low and steady, and the dry sarcasm so faint it might be imagined. "Where would you have me?"
Not that this should be called a good match. In better days, the Eorlingas family would never have dreamed of marrying into trade. They are an old line, one that traces its lands and titles back for centuries, and a proud one. But the wars elsewhere in the Empire have shattered them financially, as well as taking her cousin's life, and the Earl's long sickness drains their coffers even more. Even the proudest line must eventually bend, or perish.
So it has been goodbye to girlish dreams of love, or of handsome princes, or fairytale endings. Goodbye to her own freedom, to life on her uncle's estate, where in her free time she has been able to ride and hunt and shoot with the best of them. Goodbye to pride in her family name, now she must take another. It is a heavy price to pay, and when her uncle leads her up the aisle to meet her new groom at the altar, it is a weight that she feels all too keenly. There is a burning resentment in her eyes, which is not quite disguised by the modest downcast of her gaze.
She says the words, and does not let her voice shake. She sits beside him at the reception afterwards, still as a marble statue in her white silk, and speaks little, and smiles not at all - still, she is polite and attentive to her guests, and does nothing that could be called rude or improper. She dances with him, and is graceful in sidestepping more dances than are strictly necessary. For much of the night she has wine in her hand, but a keen observer might notice how rarely she drinks it. She has no intention of misbehaving. Reputations - her family's reputations - are at stake.
It is almost a relief when the guests begin to leave - almost, until she remembers what comes next. Despite herself, she weeps a little as she bids her brother and uncle farewell, the only time in this whole affair she has shown any sign of her own discomfort. It is a brief moment, though, and one quickly put aside. A wedding, she reminds herself sternly, is no time for grief.
And then she is married. Married to a man below her station, older than her by some years, who she does not know particularly well or care for overmuch. It is done, and cannot be undone, and still her duty is not finished, although all she wants to do is withdraw and rest far away from all of this.
Instead, she starts up the stairs to their wedding chamber, and does not let herself falter. This is duty too, she reminds herself. Lie back, let him do what he will, it will be over soon. And yet she is so weary of duty, of lying back and playing the sweet and modest girl. There is a part of her, a deep steel that will not be driven out, that says If he shames me, I will scratch his damn eyes out.
When Jack heads up to the room, he will find his new bride waiting, her long hair unpinned and hanging loose around her shoulders. She has been helped out of her Spanish lace gown, and now wears only a shift and stockings, white silk clinging to her slender, toned frame. She is, undeniably, beautiful - even if the calluses on her hands and the tan under her powder belies more mannish activities than a young lady should undertake - but even now, as she stands to greet her husband, there is no softness to her. She tilts her chin upward, and looks at him - now they are alone - with barely-disguised scorn. This is not the husband she wanted, nor deserved. She may be his, and she will do her duty by him, but it is not her duty to enjoy it.
"What now, husband?" she says at last, her voice low and steady, and the dry sarcasm so faint it might be imagined. "Where would you have me?"
no subject
Date: 2021-04-09 06:49 pm (UTC)Pleasure is a complicated thing. At the same time, she leans into it and recoils from it, frightened in a way she would never give voice to, excited by the upswelling of vast and uncontrollable want. It wasn't part of the plan. It isn't part of a good and modest noblewoman's desires. And right now, Éowyn can't find it in herself to give a single fuck about that.
She tugs on his hair, insistent, pulling him down a little lower to try and guide his mouth onto her nipple, wanting to know how it would feel. Her leg loops up around his hips, pulling him closer still, her nails now digging against the side of his neck, her toes curling with the mounting need in the pit of her stomach. Her breath is short now, coming in ragged gasps, and to her mixed embarrassment and excitement, she can actually hear how effective his hand has been, in the wet slap of his fingers moving against her now-dripping cunt.
no subject
Date: 2021-12-31 04:13 am (UTC)Dear god, but he's aching for her.
And this is just the prelude of their wedding night. He hadn't dared hope for so receptive a bride. There are so many mysteries of the marriage bed he's eager to induct her into, but for now...her letting go her rigid grip on herself is more than enough. His fingers between her legs curl against her, one knuckle pressing firmly against her clit as Jack works to bring her to new heights of pleasure.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-09 05:29 pm (UTC)His tongue laps insistently against her nipple, her vision blurring for a moment as her eyes lose their focus. Something is stirring inside her, something vast and shapeless and powerful; something that threatens to overtake her, the way that urges have overtaken duty. The hand in his hair clenches into a fist, tight enough that it must hurt him, but nothing is further from her mind than that. All she can think, tinged with wonder and awe and something edging between joy and fear, is yesyesyesyesyes, as his fingers curl inside her and the rough press of his knuckle aches against her stiff and swollen clit. Yesyesyesyesyes, and overlapping, toomuchstoptoomuch, and neither reaches her tongue, which will offer nothing clearer than a low, lingering cry that has no words at all, as her eyes screw shut and her head tips back and her heart thunders in her ears, her whole body moving like a wave against his hand, chasing that terrifying, all-encompassing pleasure. She will not flee from it, will not flee from him or from the fear of dishonour; and in deciding that, it seems to her that she stops for a moment, that everything stills, before orgasm crashes down on her with a force she is not entirely ready for, and with what she suspects is embarrassing speed.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 10:22 pm (UTC)Jack's grin only widens as his new bride loses herself entirely beneath him. His hand and mouth don't still, enjoying the feel of her in her throes of ecstasy. Has she ever felt pleasure like this? He doubts it. That he's given it to her is the most arousing aspect of it all. He knows he's left a mark that won't soon fade.
Finally he withdraws his hand, absentmindedly wiping his slick fingers on a corner of the sheet. Much as he wants to stretch himself over her and take her right now, before she's even come down from her first orgasm, he makes himself wait. It's her first time, after all, he doesn't want to spoil what a perfectly fantastic time they're having together.
But he does move up her body, hand resting on her hip as he watches her face.
"Better than you expected, wasn't it?"
no subject
Date: 2022-01-22 02:46 am (UTC)Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and she looks up at him with eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and cannot summon scorn. Her heart is still pounding in her chest and in her ears, a feverish gallop that seems at odds with the warm satisfaction that has seized upon her, and she shifts beneath him, noting with detached surprise just how damp the sheets beneath her have grown from her writhing, groaning desire.
"Yes," she admits, at last, and only a little grudgingly. And then, because even in her current state she cannot entirely give away a victory: "Though to be fair, I did not expect much."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-09 02:37 am (UTC)"That's what well bred women are taught." Such a pity. "Not to expect much, just deal with it, men take pleasure from the act but women don't, it's a sinful necessity...all of which is nothing but a pack of lies. Nature made us how we're made for a reason." His fingers at her hip trace faint patterns as he talks.
"And nature made both of us to enjoy it. You're built to take just as much pleasure in coupling as I am. You have wants and desires and needs and there is nothing wrong with that at all. Oh...I have so much to teach you."
He assumes she'll be a willing student. Virgin she may be, but Eowyn is no blushing and frightened new bride. There is so much potential in her...
But for now he's eager to continue, his cock still painfully hard and wanting.
no subject
Date: 2022-11-09 02:51 am (UTC)In this light, he does not look so old, and there is a darkness in his mismatched eyes, a desire that has none of the confining trappings of manners, which makes her heart skip a beat. It helps that he is saying things that speak so closely to her, in a way he cannot possibly know: if she cannot ride like a man, fight like a man, rule like a man, then it is a wonderous idea to think that at the very least she could fuck like one. He will teach her, then, and she will learn eagerly, just as she learned swordplay, and just as with swordplay, there will come a time when her teacher finds himself outmatched, and there can be no sweeter promise than that.
Her body is still heavy and protests movement, sleepily drawn to languor, but she pushes herself up on her elbows, wetting her lips with her tongue. "Then you had better continue the lesson."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-10 12:50 am (UTC)Jack's eyebrows lift in promise as he shifts his position, drawing himself up her body to kiss at her neck. He has no doubt she's well ready for him now but he still doesn't rush like some over-eager schoolboy. The hand at her hip slips downwards, urging her to lift her knees.
God but he wants her. Not that Jack is all that picky, really, when it comes to bedmates. A fuck is a fuck. But this is no casual tryst, this is his wife. He knows he's a lucky man, to marry for necessity and find himself so attracted to his bride. But he's always been lucky.
"Just say when." Because he'll let her feel like it's choice, like she's decided, even though they both know it had to happen either way. But he can be kind.
no subject
Date: 2022-11-10 02:54 am (UTC)She wraps one strong arm around his shoulders, biting her lip. Despite all that, she is aware of the gravity of the moment. Thus far, for all he has done, she can still claim her maidenhead. They are still at the edge of a fundamental change.
A petty change. A petty thing to protect. She is a bride, and she is no longer afraid, and on instinct, she brings up one leg around his hips, pulling him down against her.
"Do it." Through the throaty husk of her arousal, that old ring of command has returned, that tone of authority that springs so readily to her lips. She raises her head, seeking his gaze, her eyes dark and intent. "Fuck me."
no subject
Date: 2022-11-10 03:41 am (UTC)His cock aches for attention and the heat of her is maddening against his skin. And she's eager. That, maybe, more than anything makes him all the more hungry for her. He's no saint, and he enjoys some questionable activities, but taking a woman that doesn't want him isn't among them.
"With pleasure."
He reaches down to position himself, brushing the head of his cock against her slick folds before pressing into her with a satisfied groan. He doesn't go slow, not worried about hurting her with how well prepared she is, but makes no quick job of it either. There's an art to the joining of bodies, particularly for the first time. And it feels intensely good, the way her body grips him and clings to him as he sinks into her heat.
no subject
Date: 2022-11-12 05:55 am (UTC)There is, to her surprise, no pain worthy of note. Perhaps a brief sting, like a pinch, but no more than that - and that is one of a myriad of feelings, mostly pleasant, that make it hard to focus on. More than anything, she is aware of a sense of fullness, of her body taut and slick around him as he presses deeper and firmer than her fingers have ever been able to go, stretching her around him, a warm and aching pleasure that grips deep inside her.
She lets out a low gasp, her fingernails digging into his shoulder, and rolls her hips up against him anew. This is not how she pictured her wedding night, certainly not how she pictured it with him, and yet she cannot possibly be disappointed by it. More on impulse than anything else, she leans up, seeking his mouth insistently with her own.
no subject
Date: 2022-12-12 01:52 am (UTC)He returns the kiss eagerly, tongue plunging into her mouth without hesitation. Jack makes no effort to hold back, driving into her with steady strokes that increase in speed as he goes. There's no need, he thinks, to hold back with her.
She's probably chastise him for it, afterwards. Which could certainly be amusing, but it's her wedding night. He wants her to remember this and to have as few complaints as possible. Which he thinks he's accomplishing, by the way she moves under him and bites her nails into his skin. And how sweet a sensation it is, that sharp touch of pain amid the pleasure. He'll have to encourage that - and teeth.
There's so much he wants to encourage her, ideas and potential expanding as their coupling continues and she reveals herself to be a possible equal between the sheets.
no subject
Date: 2022-12-13 11:25 pm (UTC)This is animal and raw, and there is no pretence in it, and there is no denying that it is genuine. He wants her, and her body answers with want of its own, insatiable and consuming, a feeling that has no need for words or confining understanding, but is primitive and instinctive and living, hot and rushing like blood through veins.
Her kiss is rough and unyielding, her tongue pressing into the crevices of his mouth, her breath ragged and short. She moans again, hands scrabbling for purchase on his back, one leg shifting to give herself the leverage to thrust up to meet him. She has never felt less noble in her life, or more like herself. Without breaking her hungry, questing kiss, she manages to form at least one word, hoarse and breathless: "More."