Title: Fear and Desire
Author : Mimine ([email protected])
Pairings: Grima/Eomer, Grima/Theoden
Rating: R
Summary: Grima Wormtongue realises some things about himself.
Disclaimer: I don't own these fine characters. I only love them.
Warning : Dark imagery, some het
Authors Note : Feedback rocks my world. Thanks to Slashmuse for nurturing this rabbit and to PJ for doing something right in getting Brad Dourif for Wormtongue.
I push open the door, my heartbeat quickening at the complaining sound it makes. She does not stir. I breathe deeply. My master is a good master. The potion which found its way in her goblet is tasteless and odourless yet not mere water as I had initially feared. Saruman is true to his word.
I guess her form under the covers. I pull back the heavy wool. My heart starts to pound again, this time not in fear. Her skin is white. So white I cannot easily tell where her nightshirt ends and it begins.
I reach until my hand encounters the gentle swell of her breasts. I want to see some colour on her. Be it blood, hers, or mine, little does it matter. My hand is like a large insect on her skin, defiling it. My touch becomes bolder. Her breasts are soft. I want to drive my yellowish nails in the silky skin and at the same time I want to bury my face in it and weep. I do neither. I simply continue tracing abstract patterns with the tips of my fingers. It is a lover's caress. One I have never given nor received.
I remember the first woman I ever lay with. A wretched creature, bony, toothless. I had paid her well and she had managed to hide her disgust. The disgust that even my mother felt at my touch. I could not understand then. I do now. I have encountered this disgust all my life.
Eowyn lays still. My hand has slipped under her nightdress now, stealing her warmth. I imagine her responding to my touch. The most likely response would be to kick me off her. Perhaps she would overpower me. My strength lies not with the sword while she prides herself in holding her own when sparring with her brother or her cousin. Have either Theodred or Eomer taken her virtue? Their mock fights with her are like mating rituals. Laughter, soft young flesh exposed, cheeks flushed from exertion. Hidden I'd watch them and my breath would also quicken from a different sort of exertion.
Is my maiden pure? With trembling fingers I untie the cumbersome laces until nothing protects her decency anymore. Creamy skin covering wiry muscle and delicate bones. She is fair everywhere, I note. I feel helpless in front of her nakedness. My heart beats like a drum in my chest and my arousal dies. Hot tears of shame cloud my vision as I realise that I cannot rape this beautiful corpse. Saruman's gift is useless. My hand retreats from her warm belly and I quickly retie the laces holding together her nightdress. She sighs softly as I tie the ones closest to her throat. were they tied before? My heart stops. She makes no more sounds so I cover her and run out like a hunted animal.
Two weeks pass. I keep the vial of clear liquid next to my bed. I do not use it. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps because late in life I have grown a conscience. It is like a rare plant, this conscience. I try to make sense of it but I cannot. It stills my hand as I reach for the potion. Cold fingers grip my throat, my heartbeat quickens, my stomach is in upheaval. It is most likely fear. I am well acquainted with fear. A sharp tongue and quick wit are rather ineffectual weapons against brutal physical force. Fear guarded me in my early years, shaped me into the man I am today. I had risen to a position of strength as Theoden's advisor yet Saruman sensed my fear and used it. How I hate that white-clad charlatan! Where is the power that he promised me? Theoden is rotting alive, as is his kingdom. It seems that I have sold my soul at a pitifully low price.
Eventually, I drug her again. I use this little power that the wizard gave me. I grip harshly her white skin. I want to leave my mark on her. One hand is on her, the other inside my breeches. I force myself to enjoy this and I do manage to rip an orgasm from my sickly body.
She is pure in the strict sense of the word. I grabbed her viciously, nearly breached her with my fingers but something stopped me. Perhaps fear. Perhaps that other feeling.
I few more days pass. I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame. I do not notice that she accidentally drinks from the goblet on her left, not her right. Theodred sleeps like the dead that night, unlike my siren who nearly wakes when I enter her room. I run away in blind panic and hit a wall.
A breathing, muscular wall. Fierce brown eyes meet mine. Why is Eomer prowling the halls of the castle in the dead of the night? Why am I? Did he see me running out of his sister's room?
My last question is answered as he grabs my tunic and slams me against the wall. And, wonder of wonders, my erection which had almost withered as I was fleeing Eowyn's bedchamber, returns full-force under Eomer's brutal treatment.
A strangled sound escapes my throat. Close to laughter but not quite. Is this the answer then? Is this why it is so difficult for me to touch her? I'm eye-level with Eomer's throat. He swallows hard. I want to lick on the rough stubble, bite him, make him bleed. I stare up and read shock in his eyes. Our bodies are touching and he must have felt my desire.
I think back to a boy. Soft cheeks and doe eyes, there had been a maiden- like beauty about him. He would not reach his majority for another two years, maybe more. I remember the expression on his face as he witnessed something he should not have at such a tender age. The King, his Uncle, on his throne and me, my head between his spread legs, exercising a fleeting yet real power over him. I did not need Saruman's deceitful promises then. I used my mouth well on my widowed liege, shocking him at first with this type of comfort I was offering, then binding him to me in shameful, secret pleasure.
There had been a detached efficiency to my ministrations. I'd refused my King's half-hearted attempts at tending to my needs. I felt that even though he appeared reluctant to touch me, he would have been somewhat displeased to see that I was not aroused in the least while performing those intimate acts.
The boy had found me alone a few days later. He'd petulantly demanded that I service him as well. Insolent cub! Not even in direct line for the throne. what interest could I ever have in him? I laughed at him. I was drunk with the power the King's favour had given me. The sullen boy had left then but I would feel his eyes one me, shining with impotent rage whenever I leaned too close to whisper in my King's ear.
Theoden's favour was short-lived. Eventually my mouth lost its novelty. My King's grief-fogged mind cleared and he cast me aside. Timidly, I tried to offer him my body, to use as he pleased but my advances appalled him.
My fear returned. Saruman chose his traitor well and little by little I reduced my King to a breathing corpse. For what? The privilege of becoming Saruman's servant? Governing Theoden's decrepit Kingdom? Fondling an ice maiden in her sleep to quench a desire I did not truly feel?
On the contrary, I very much desire the young man who has trapped me under his compact weight. Eomer is no doe-eyed boy anymore. I make no sound as his gloved hand closes around my throat. I'm trembling in arousal mixed exquisitely with fear.
"I could snap your neck!"
His voice is low, hoarse. If it is possible, I feel myself get even harder. His grip tightens. If I live to see the morrow I am certain I shall find his imprint.
"What were you doing in her room, filth?"
He takes a step closer to me, flattening me against the wall. My eyelids half-close in pleasure as my stiff manhood presses against his thigh. His mouth slackens in shock but he quickly recovers.
"What business had you there?"
It seems to occur to him that he ought to relax his grip on my throat if I am ever to answer his questions. I draw in a harsh breath when I find myself able to do so again.
"You fear for her virtue? From ime/i?" I whisper. He cannot see how ridiculous this is.
He says nothing. His pressence is maddening. I want to press against him again but I control myself.
"I would much rather slither in your bed, my fair Eomer," I say, surprising myself with my lack of self-preservation.
I have no words to describe his expression. He tries to take a step back but I hold on to him and even though my strength is laughable compared to his, he does not pull away. I see something of the boy I remember in his eyes. Awkward, inappropriate lust. I press my face on his warm neck, licking and softly biting the rough skin. I'm holding on to him tightly, determined to enjoy the few seconds before he will come to his senses and push me away.
I wait for that moment but it does not come. A moan rumbles in his throat and I feel him hot and hard against my middle. Laughter rises in my chest but I hold it back. I'm suckling on his neck now and the way he's thrown his head back tells me he is enjoying this. He is thrusting against me, just barely, almost timidly. I am rubbing my arousal against his thigh much more wantonly and soon he matches my rhythm.
His fingers are in my hair, pulling hard. My back hurts as he thrusts against me, pushing me against the stone wall. The pain is distant, unimportant. Pleasure drowns it completely as I find my release. He bites on his wrist and makes hardly a sound as he too reaches his climax.
The air is heavy with mixed arousal. He draws in a shuddering breath then pulls back, avoiding my gaze. He turns to leave.
"If I catch you near Eowyn's room again I will kill you," he says quietly.
I laugh harshly. "How about your room? Your bed? Am I welcome there?"
I find myself on the cold floor, holding on my bleeding mouth. He did not hit me as hard as he could have. A quick check shows that all my teeth are still there. I laugh again as he leaves me. He will not go far.
Author : Mimine ([email protected])
Pairings: Grima/Eomer, Grima/Theoden
Rating: R
Summary: Grima Wormtongue realises some things about himself.
Disclaimer: I don't own these fine characters. I only love them.
Warning : Dark imagery, some het
Authors Note : Feedback rocks my world. Thanks to Slashmuse for nurturing this rabbit and to PJ for doing something right in getting Brad Dourif for Wormtongue.
I push open the door, my heartbeat quickening at the complaining sound it makes. She does not stir. I breathe deeply. My master is a good master. The potion which found its way in her goblet is tasteless and odourless yet not mere water as I had initially feared. Saruman is true to his word.
I guess her form under the covers. I pull back the heavy wool. My heart starts to pound again, this time not in fear. Her skin is white. So white I cannot easily tell where her nightshirt ends and it begins.
I reach until my hand encounters the gentle swell of her breasts. I want to see some colour on her. Be it blood, hers, or mine, little does it matter. My hand is like a large insect on her skin, defiling it. My touch becomes bolder. Her breasts are soft. I want to drive my yellowish nails in the silky skin and at the same time I want to bury my face in it and weep. I do neither. I simply continue tracing abstract patterns with the tips of my fingers. It is a lover's caress. One I have never given nor received.
I remember the first woman I ever lay with. A wretched creature, bony, toothless. I had paid her well and she had managed to hide her disgust. The disgust that even my mother felt at my touch. I could not understand then. I do now. I have encountered this disgust all my life.
Eowyn lays still. My hand has slipped under her nightdress now, stealing her warmth. I imagine her responding to my touch. The most likely response would be to kick me off her. Perhaps she would overpower me. My strength lies not with the sword while she prides herself in holding her own when sparring with her brother or her cousin. Have either Theodred or Eomer taken her virtue? Their mock fights with her are like mating rituals. Laughter, soft young flesh exposed, cheeks flushed from exertion. Hidden I'd watch them and my breath would also quicken from a different sort of exertion.
Is my maiden pure? With trembling fingers I untie the cumbersome laces until nothing protects her decency anymore. Creamy skin covering wiry muscle and delicate bones. She is fair everywhere, I note. I feel helpless in front of her nakedness. My heart beats like a drum in my chest and my arousal dies. Hot tears of shame cloud my vision as I realise that I cannot rape this beautiful corpse. Saruman's gift is useless. My hand retreats from her warm belly and I quickly retie the laces holding together her nightdress. She sighs softly as I tie the ones closest to her throat. were they tied before? My heart stops. She makes no more sounds so I cover her and run out like a hunted animal.
Two weeks pass. I keep the vial of clear liquid next to my bed. I do not use it. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps because late in life I have grown a conscience. It is like a rare plant, this conscience. I try to make sense of it but I cannot. It stills my hand as I reach for the potion. Cold fingers grip my throat, my heartbeat quickens, my stomach is in upheaval. It is most likely fear. I am well acquainted with fear. A sharp tongue and quick wit are rather ineffectual weapons against brutal physical force. Fear guarded me in my early years, shaped me into the man I am today. I had risen to a position of strength as Theoden's advisor yet Saruman sensed my fear and used it. How I hate that white-clad charlatan! Where is the power that he promised me? Theoden is rotting alive, as is his kingdom. It seems that I have sold my soul at a pitifully low price.
Eventually, I drug her again. I use this little power that the wizard gave me. I grip harshly her white skin. I want to leave my mark on her. One hand is on her, the other inside my breeches. I force myself to enjoy this and I do manage to rip an orgasm from my sickly body.
She is pure in the strict sense of the word. I grabbed her viciously, nearly breached her with my fingers but something stopped me. Perhaps fear. Perhaps that other feeling.
I few more days pass. I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame. I do not notice that she accidentally drinks from the goblet on her left, not her right. Theodred sleeps like the dead that night, unlike my siren who nearly wakes when I enter her room. I run away in blind panic and hit a wall.
A breathing, muscular wall. Fierce brown eyes meet mine. Why is Eomer prowling the halls of the castle in the dead of the night? Why am I? Did he see me running out of his sister's room?
My last question is answered as he grabs my tunic and slams me against the wall. And, wonder of wonders, my erection which had almost withered as I was fleeing Eowyn's bedchamber, returns full-force under Eomer's brutal treatment.
A strangled sound escapes my throat. Close to laughter but not quite. Is this the answer then? Is this why it is so difficult for me to touch her? I'm eye-level with Eomer's throat. He swallows hard. I want to lick on the rough stubble, bite him, make him bleed. I stare up and read shock in his eyes. Our bodies are touching and he must have felt my desire.
I think back to a boy. Soft cheeks and doe eyes, there had been a maiden- like beauty about him. He would not reach his majority for another two years, maybe more. I remember the expression on his face as he witnessed something he should not have at such a tender age. The King, his Uncle, on his throne and me, my head between his spread legs, exercising a fleeting yet real power over him. I did not need Saruman's deceitful promises then. I used my mouth well on my widowed liege, shocking him at first with this type of comfort I was offering, then binding him to me in shameful, secret pleasure.
There had been a detached efficiency to my ministrations. I'd refused my King's half-hearted attempts at tending to my needs. I felt that even though he appeared reluctant to touch me, he would have been somewhat displeased to see that I was not aroused in the least while performing those intimate acts.
The boy had found me alone a few days later. He'd petulantly demanded that I service him as well. Insolent cub! Not even in direct line for the throne. what interest could I ever have in him? I laughed at him. I was drunk with the power the King's favour had given me. The sullen boy had left then but I would feel his eyes one me, shining with impotent rage whenever I leaned too close to whisper in my King's ear.
Theoden's favour was short-lived. Eventually my mouth lost its novelty. My King's grief-fogged mind cleared and he cast me aside. Timidly, I tried to offer him my body, to use as he pleased but my advances appalled him.
My fear returned. Saruman chose his traitor well and little by little I reduced my King to a breathing corpse. For what? The privilege of becoming Saruman's servant? Governing Theoden's decrepit Kingdom? Fondling an ice maiden in her sleep to quench a desire I did not truly feel?
On the contrary, I very much desire the young man who has trapped me under his compact weight. Eomer is no doe-eyed boy anymore. I make no sound as his gloved hand closes around my throat. I'm trembling in arousal mixed exquisitely with fear.
"I could snap your neck!"
His voice is low, hoarse. If it is possible, I feel myself get even harder. His grip tightens. If I live to see the morrow I am certain I shall find his imprint.
"What were you doing in her room, filth?"
He takes a step closer to me, flattening me against the wall. My eyelids half-close in pleasure as my stiff manhood presses against his thigh. His mouth slackens in shock but he quickly recovers.
"What business had you there?"
It seems to occur to him that he ought to relax his grip on my throat if I am ever to answer his questions. I draw in a harsh breath when I find myself able to do so again.
"You fear for her virtue? From ime/i?" I whisper. He cannot see how ridiculous this is.
He says nothing. His pressence is maddening. I want to press against him again but I control myself.
"I would much rather slither in your bed, my fair Eomer," I say, surprising myself with my lack of self-preservation.
I have no words to describe his expression. He tries to take a step back but I hold on to him and even though my strength is laughable compared to his, he does not pull away. I see something of the boy I remember in his eyes. Awkward, inappropriate lust. I press my face on his warm neck, licking and softly biting the rough skin. I'm holding on to him tightly, determined to enjoy the few seconds before he will come to his senses and push me away.
I wait for that moment but it does not come. A moan rumbles in his throat and I feel him hot and hard against my middle. Laughter rises in my chest but I hold it back. I'm suckling on his neck now and the way he's thrown his head back tells me he is enjoying this. He is thrusting against me, just barely, almost timidly. I am rubbing my arousal against his thigh much more wantonly and soon he matches my rhythm.
His fingers are in my hair, pulling hard. My back hurts as he thrusts against me, pushing me against the stone wall. The pain is distant, unimportant. Pleasure drowns it completely as I find my release. He bites on his wrist and makes hardly a sound as he too reaches his climax.
The air is heavy with mixed arousal. He draws in a shuddering breath then pulls back, avoiding my gaze. He turns to leave.
"If I catch you near Eowyn's room again I will kill you," he says quietly.
I laugh harshly. "How about your room? Your bed? Am I welcome there?"
I find myself on the cold floor, holding on my bleeding mouth. He did not hit me as hard as he could have. A quick check shows that all my teeth are still there. I laugh again as he leaves me. He will not go far.