Title: In the dark
Author: Mimine
Pairing: Grima/Eomer
Rating: R
Feedback: Yes please! At [email protected]
Disclaimer: I don't own them. They own me. If you think I'm getting any money out of writing fics about them you obviously haven't seen my bank statement.
A/N: My gratitude to Sunandshadow for her beta. Without her this story would not be what it is now. I'm not sure what it is now, so do tell me.
Saruman knows when I need a new bottle of the poison I've been feeding my King and has it sent to me. This time he has included a smaller flask. My reward. I have no use for it anymore and let it gather dust at my bedside table, next to the first one he gave me.
I am tempted to use it some nights. Bitter, sleepless nights when I wait for the sound of footsteps that slow down or even stop just outside my door. Nights when I beg silently for him to open my door and enter my cold, dank chamber. He walks on and I laugh at myself in the darkness for that stupid yearning in my chest, the warmth in my loins. Hopeless arousal that I try to will away before taking myself in hand and giving in to my solitary pleasure. It brings me no peace.
I turn and stare at the little flask then. With two drops I will sleep like the dead, like Eowyn under my foul touch, though a far less beguiling sight. A few more drops and my rest would be more permanent. It would be a coward's way out and though I believe that the word describes me perfectly, I'm too much of a coward even for that.
One night I reach and take the flask in hand just as the footsteps are going by my door. I bring it to my lips, unsure of how much I'm going to drink. There is a soft rap on the door, so unexpected that my hand jerks away, spilling half the contents on the bedcovers. Hastily, my heart pounding in my chest, I put the flask at my nightstand just as he walks in without waiting for a reply. As though he knew what I was about to do. As though he would care if he knew.
He closes the door behind him. My eyes strive to pierce the darkness and read his features but do not succeed.
"You are awake."
"Yes," I reply. My voice is unsteady so I bite back a scathing remark about how unlikely it would be for me to have remained asleep when he walked in my room as lightfooted as an ox. It is best to say nothing, either way. I would not want to confuse him with irony. His intellect is hardly his greatest strength.
He walks reluctantly the few steps to my bed.
"What do you want, Eomer?" I say tiredly.
"I believe you know," he replies gruffly and sits heavily at the foot of my bed. His eyes glitter in the darkness. I still cannot make out his expression.
"And if I don't want you?"
I must have been very unconvincing for he laughs softly.
"I doubt that," he says and I feel his hand on me. Over the covers, true, yet the touch empties my mind completely. His hand passes over my knee and travels higher and even through two woollen blankets, my heavy cotton sheets and my nightdress, it is on its way to touching me intimately. I do not know whether he feels my arousal but I certainly feel the sweet pressure of his broad palm. I breathe in sharply. He gives out a chuckle. Whether he felt it or not, he knows.
I turn my back to him abruptly, a silly, childish attempt to fight him.
"Go!" I whisper.
He pays me no heed. His hand still travels upwards until the heavy covers no longer separate it from my skin. I am not prepared for the feeling of his fingers on the nape of my neck. I give out a sigh and arch back as pleasure spreads all through my body from his gentle touch. I suspect that if I were a cat I would have started purring at this moment. Yet, without warning, I could also turn and scratch him, ungrateful as only felines are allowed to be. I keep that in mind but leave it for later. I cannot stop him now.
"You said you would come to my bed," he says casually, as though I had said those words yesterday rather than nearly a month ago.
"You hit me after I said it."
The fingers stop stroking for a moment.
"True, yet a few days later I came to your room. Did it not occur to you to return the visit?"
"Perhaps I was too busy visiting someone else," I say nastily.
His hand forms a fist in my hair.
"You lie! You haven't been near Eowyn!"
"You seem so sure. Have you been keeping her bed warm, older brother? She certainly adores you enough…" the rest is lost in a howl of pain as he yanks my hair back brutally.
"Be silent!" he hisses, lowering his head to look into my eyes. "Speak ill of my sister again and I'll wring you neck!" Abruptly he lets go.
"Why do you do this?" he says tiredly. "Do you want me to lose my temper? Do you want me to hurt you?"
I bury my face in my pillow, saying nothing. It appears that I have been found out.
He leans so close to me that I feel his warm breath as he whispers in my ear.
"If anything, Eowyn says that she has seen less of you these past few weeks. It vexes her, somewhat, for I suspect that she had been taking a certain malicious pleasure out of thwarting you."
There's humour in his voice. He is jesting with me, about his beloved sister, no less! My famous eloquence has abandoned me completely faced with the absurdity of the situation.
The chill pierces my back. He has pulled down my covers and now his hand slips under my nightshirt to warm my cold skin. The pleasure of his touch is overwhelming. Instinctively I rub against the mattress to relieve some of the unbearable pressure.
"Your skin is soft," he whispers with wonder. "Soft and hairless as a woman's."
I am not sure I ought to find his remark flattering, yet despite my mind's doubts, my body arches to his touch and an appreciative murmur leaves my lips.
His hands move higher again, to bury themselves in my hair.
"And your hair… it is fine like black silk."
Is he trying to woo me? Has he no idea of how little sense his words make? I cannot tell him. I do not trust myself to speak. I am steadily thrusting against the mattress. I wonder whether he can feel my body shift or even smell the musk of my arousal. I think a caught a whiff of it but it might have been him I smelt.
"And your eyes… they are blue like… the sky."
He is no poet. I stifle a chuckle as I turn to face him.
"There is no need for this, Eomer. I will give you what you want." I try to move away from his touch. My body is most unwilling.
He does not let me squirm from under him. His face is close enough for me to see confusion in his dark eyes.
It all happens too quickly for me. Within seconds I find myself on my back under him. His hand has closed around both my wrists and has them pinned over my head. His legs are on mine, his knees digging painfully on my thighs. I'm spread out under him, so aroused that I have to remind myself to breathe.
Fear comes only when he starts to remove my nightdress. It is not mixed with excitement, like before, but with a shame that makes my cheeks burn. I have no delusions about my appearance. I will not bear to face the disgust in his eyes when they fall on my weak body. I struggle under him to no avail. He does not mean to hurt me but I leave him no choice.
He pulls roughly, tearing the heavy cotton as easily as though it were parchment. His breathing is laboured. My knee connecting –probably painfully- with his groin, reveals his arousal. He is still fully dressed.
He caresses me awkwardly, keeping my wrists in his iron gip, my legs in the vice-like hold of his own. His free hand roams on my skin and after an initial hesitation takes a hold of me. His strokes are fast and sure, rekindling my arousal despite the shame and fear in my heart. I have closed my eyes and I'm pressing my face on the side of my arm.
He quickens his rhythm on me, until the heat that had pooled in my middle explodes, soiling his hand. Tears escape my shut lids. I open my eyes and everything is a blur.
"All I wanted was to pleasure you!" he says angrily. "Is that so distasteful?"
He lets go of my wrists and climbs off me. Once more I turn my back to him, pressing my wet face in my pillow. Distasteful? For him, I should think.
"Do not leave yet," I whisper hoarsely. I gather my courage and half turn to meet his eyes. They are round with confusion, the eyes of the boy I remember so disgusted and fascinated by what he had caught his Uncle and me doing. I reach and stroke his cheek and the roughness of his beard disperses the illusion.
He reads in my face the consent I will not voice. His hands start to stroke my bare back, slowly moving lower until his intent can no longer be mistaken. I arch back and feel him hot and hard inside his breeches. I keep the contact, trying to show him that there is no need for him to calm me down like a skittish mare.
He gives out a moan and his hands abandon my back. He quickly bares his body from the waist down. The feel of his skin is astounding, burning hot there, between his legs, waking in me a hunger that I never knew existed. He holds my body up against him, pressing his hardness against me, the wet head smearing me. The feeling scares me. I have little experience with what I'm provoking him to do to me.
He stops and pulls back from me. Panic coils in my chest. He will leave me now. Alone in my cold room, my solitary bed, aroused and miserable.
I turn to face him. He has a small vial in his hands and is struggling to unstopper it.
"To ease the way," he explains, lowering his head to hide behind his hair.
I take it from his shaking hands. Scented oil, how inappropriate.
"I see you came prepared."
He seems ready to bolt at my mocking words. Half-naked and excited in the hall, he would be quite a sight. I grab his hand, realising that he is as scared about this as I am.
"You have done this before, have you not? Why do you hesitate?" I say harshly.
"Have you?" he asks me and the gentleness in his tone envelops me in an odd warmth. I shake it off with difficulty, tears of rage filling my eyes.
"Take what you came here for, Eomer, or leave!"
He falls on me with a savage cry. The sweet smell of the oil hits me as he quickly rubs it on himself. There is still pain when he enters me, forcing me to bite my pillow to keep myself from crying out. Stubbornly, I press back to meet his thrust. Before long, sharp pleasure drowns out the pain and the way my body shifts on the mattress as he drives hard into me, easily brings me back to full arousal. The pleasure surprises me. I have had a man use me thus before but only discomfort and humiliation had marked the encounter.
He does not last long. His thrusts become more forceful, stroking me from the inside, claiming me. He stills and a moment later he is whispering nonsense in my ear as he lets go, pressing his face on the junction between my neck and shoulder.
His weight on top of me is making it difficult for me to breathe. I am still hard, so close I can feel it. However, despite my frustration, I rather enjoy being trapped under his body. I whimper plaintively as he rolls off me. At least I can tend to my arousal now but a sudden wave of shame stops me. I raise myself on my elbows to face him.
He draws in a sharp breath. I feel the blood. Among… other things. He probably smelt it. Its metallic scent has overtaken that of the oil.
I can feel him getting ready to apologise. The mere thought sickens me. I grab his hair, bringing him close and press my lips against his to silence him. I steal his startled breath as his entire body tenses under my desperate hands. His lips are soft, too soft under my teeth so I bite and he is the one bleeding now and I rub against his lightly furred stomach, finding my release.
He pulls back, fighting for breath and I push him away from me, as though he had been the one to initiate that savage parody of a kiss. He nearly falls off the bed, giving out a strangled cry. I should laugh at this, I really should. My first kiss. Tasting of blood and tears and the cheap wine that had given my proud warrior courage enough to come to my rooms.
I collapse on the bed and curl into myself slowly, keeping my back to him. Cold, dirty, still bleeding a little, I ask him to leave.
That hated apology that does not leave his lips is in his touch. I flinch as he caresses my back. He gives out a sigh then brings my covers over my shivering body. I think I thank him and ask him once more to leave.
~*~
He cannot see that nothing has changed! He is far less forceful in his arguments whenever we lock horns the next few days. Theodred and Eowyn are shocked by his change of attitude.
One morning he finds me alone. He speaks of his dislike for me, of how he can see my side now and that although we do not agree on most issues, for the King's sake and for Rohan we must stand united. I respond with reassuring platitudes, secretly laughing at his stupidity.
I have betrayed Theoden. I have no love for Rohan. Did Rohan ever love the sickly child who feared horses and hungered for knowledge? And when the boy rose to the coveted position of Theoden's advisor, was he met with anything other than suspicion and contempt?
So I refuse Eomer's overtures during the day. Yet, at night, my body writhes in my sheets, aching for his touch. I would never have allowed it, had I known how easily I would get accustomed to it.
Tales of destruction reach the castle, of orc raids, rapes, killings and pillage. Eowyn practices her sword with a grim determination and the hatred that flashes in her eyes every time she sees me, makes me think she might decide to test its edge on my neck one of these days.
Eomer no longer tries to befriend me. Rohan's troubles have, naturally, taken precedence in his mind.
And I follow Saruman's instructions to the letter. After all, what chance do any of us have against Sauron?
Eomer appears one afternoon, his features grim, his clothes torn and bloodied. Theodred's blood has stained him. I sigh in relief when I see that Eomer is unharmed. He is staring at his cousin in sorrow. The Prince's face is a wax mask where death has already left its imprint, even though his body is still drawing breath.
Eomer finally opens his eyes to the true extent of my betrayal. Does he really think I did it all for Eowyn? I do not order his death. There are limits to what the men I command will do for me. At least that is how I explain it to myself.
Things take an unexpected turn with Gandalf's appearance. Terror increases tenfold my horsemanship and I appear before Saruman, hardly believing myself that I escaped with my life. The wizard is not pleased to see me but at least, as he says, the most important part of my work is done.
So I sit idle in Saruman's tower, an easy target for his cruelty. I wonder whether I shall feel better about it all once Sauron rules all Middle Earth. For now, I'm grateful for Saruman's aversion to mirrors. I have never taken great pleasure in staring at my reflection but now I simply cannot stand it. My scars from the last time have still not healed.
Staring at Saruman's army, I do not realise I am weeping until I feel the salty taste on my lips. Is it for Rohan? For Eowyn? For fair Eomer? I suspect it is merely for myself.
Fin
A/N: Yep, this is it. I might do a sequel on Eomer's POV much later but now I really want to get back to Severus. I've neglected him far too long.
A/N: Unless my smut Muse decides to go on strike again, I will have another Grima offering before long, namely a Boromir/Faramir/Grima, shameless shagfest. With some non-con elements and incest of course so don't be expecting it at f.f.net. It will be posted at adultfanfiction.net under Mimine as well as in my livejournal (www.livejournal.com/users/mimine) and a couple of lj communities, if they'll have me.