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lotr_sesaTitle: Madness and Song
Characters/Pairing: Eomer/Eowyn
Rating: R
Warnings: Het, incest, sexual content, naughtiness
Summary: It is all a sort of madness.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mimm_. Eomer/Eowyn. I've not written this one in a while so, yes, it might be a bit rough. Anyhow, Merry Christmas! I do hope you like this little story.
And almost as ever, thanks to_jamjar for the beta. It was needed.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not by a long shot. But hey, I do like to play.
He supposes it must be madness, but he's not been able to shake the thought from his mind. But Eowyn is waiting for him at the stables, for his return, a grim smile on her face and a weary light in her eyes. And somehow, he knew that she would be there, somehow dreamlike, but also solid, real.
"You must be tired," he says, dismounting. Eowyn crosses to him, takes the reins from him, folds her fingers over well-tended leather. Fingers curl and sooth against the muzzle of her brother's horse, and her smile lessens in its severity. There is hair curling down before her ear, a length of gold as pale as sun, and his fingers twitch once before his hands move, lifting to push that errant strand back into its proper place. And she is looking at him, then, her eyes pale as dusk's sky, cool and grey and somewhat cold. There is something about her frame – faint, though strong, and there is a tremble in her breath, like a caught bird.
(And her breath is sweet, and it comes out hard, and short, and Eowyn groans as he twists his fingers deep. "No," she gasps, breathy, bird-like shrill, and Eomer chuckles against sweat-damp skin, lets his mouth trail along the shape of her clavicle, strokes her deeper, slides weapon-rough calluses up the silk-smooth skin that rises to the shape of her breast.)
And he manages, though his voice is rough, "Why don't you sleep?"
He is tired, and he is short on words, and he feels short on breath, too.
She gives the reins a tug and the horse whickers and presses its muzzle against her hand, and she smiles at her brother and it is not at all grim. "Because, dearest brother, I have been waiting for you." Then she turns her attention to the horse, too-large, too-dark eyes regarding her, and that thought comes to him once more, and turns his vision gold.
He would be gentle, gentle, if he did take her. And that thought is madness, deep and sick.
And she is speaking, still, and her voice comes to him, " – and that, that, is why I am here. Would you turn me away, brother? Would you rather I not come?"
It is too sad, too much, that the days are dark now like they are, and she has had to grow into the lady that she is. But she is looking at him, and he manages, and now his voice is low, "I would not bind you, Eowyn. Not with all my might."
(They had spread her winter cloak out on hard cold ground, and she had taken his hands, and knelt, and bid him join her on the ground – he might have taken her in his own bed, with winter furs about them, but he knows – knows, even now, as he licks the salt from her skin, as he listens to the growing intensity of her moans – that there is madness, and there is open recklessness. Here, at least, and at this late hour, on a night with no moon, they will not be found.)
And she laughs, somewhat bitter, and her pale lips curve as she grins. "Our uncle, he would have me wed," and Eomer thinks but doesn't say, but you would be taken care of, then, and you would be safe – though Eowyn has never been one to be kept, and she is as dangerous as a wild running mare. But she is looking at him, still, and there is trouble deep beneath the surface of her eyes. Her hand touches his, lightly, the knuckles of her right hand gone white where they clutch at tooled leather.
"There is madness about," she says, "and I have not been able to rid myself of it," and she is troubled, yes, and Eomer's pulse races and his skin feels hot, and Eowyn's skin is flushed and her chin is lifted high, and he would kiss her and he would taste her, and he wonders what she would feel like, how would she sound, if he worked his hand between the –
(He would be gentle, and he is as gentle as he can be – but he feels the clench of her body, and he gives her what pleasure that he can – and his mouth seeks out her own, to smother the sound that leaks out like wild, desperate song. Like he has been bewitched – they are both caught, by something more than they could be – and this, their first time (their only time, he wonders) should have been something more special than a spread out cloth and the scent of horse and hay, and the cold of night and an early winter are sinking from ground through cloth to flesh and bone.
And he is gentle, as gentle as he can be, kissing her and stroking her and pushing her to her peak.)
No. No, it is more than madness, it is wrong and sick.
But it is Eowyn, too, and he has loved her all his life.
"The hour is late," but that is a lie, night is not yet finished falling, and beyond the stable the sky spreads out wide and grey and endless, it seems. "I must see to my King."
Eowyn nods, and that something is in her eyes, still, and her hand on his is like a band of worked steel. "There is something, that I would offer," she says, unsure of herself, though she does not hesitate, and instead continues to speak. "If you would take it, then I will meet you here, again, beyond the black of midnight. Brother," and she holds her breath, lets that word stand alone. "What do you say?"
And he knows that, in the very least, he should say no.
(And he thinks, he could not say no – his body has warred with this, and he has thought on it too much, unable to shake these thoughts from his mind - and his cheek is against her breast, now, and he can feel the wild hammering of her heart, and the soft melting of her breath, as she settles into a sort of repose.
Her neck angles as he kisses her, there, and he draws his hand away from her, where her body is hot and slick and wet, and his own self twitches in its want, and he slides his leg, at least, over her leg, nuzzling her stomach with the flat of his palm, nosing the hollow of her throat, and feeling the low humming of her breath.
And she doesn't say a thing, and he wonders if he could speak, either, and it seems that they have not spoken since he came here and joined her, since he let her draw him to the ground. But she moves, now, and her hands might be small and slender, but they are strong as well, and they move along his thigh and then she finds his mouth with hers, letting her hair drape over his shoulder. His whole body clenches as her hands take hold of him, and she whispers against his mouth and he arches up into her touch.
He is beyond any negative. And he will never say no.)
But he does not say no, with silence in his mouth and the grave severity of his acquiescence speaking louder than any mortal words.
Characters/Pairing: Eomer/Eowyn
Rating: R
Warnings: Het, incest, sexual content, naughtiness
Summary: It is all a sort of madness.
Notes: Written for
mimm_. Eomer/Eowyn. I've not written this one in a while so, yes, it might be a bit rough. Anyhow, Merry Christmas! I do hope you like this little story.And almost as ever, thanks to
_jamjar for the beta. It was needed.Disclaimer: Not mine, not by a long shot. But hey, I do like to play.
He supposes it must be madness, but he's not been able to shake the thought from his mind. But Eowyn is waiting for him at the stables, for his return, a grim smile on her face and a weary light in her eyes. And somehow, he knew that she would be there, somehow dreamlike, but also solid, real.
"You must be tired," he says, dismounting. Eowyn crosses to him, takes the reins from him, folds her fingers over well-tended leather. Fingers curl and sooth against the muzzle of her brother's horse, and her smile lessens in its severity. There is hair curling down before her ear, a length of gold as pale as sun, and his fingers twitch once before his hands move, lifting to push that errant strand back into its proper place. And she is looking at him, then, her eyes pale as dusk's sky, cool and grey and somewhat cold. There is something about her frame – faint, though strong, and there is a tremble in her breath, like a caught bird.
(And her breath is sweet, and it comes out hard, and short, and Eowyn groans as he twists his fingers deep. "No," she gasps, breathy, bird-like shrill, and Eomer chuckles against sweat-damp skin, lets his mouth trail along the shape of her clavicle, strokes her deeper, slides weapon-rough calluses up the silk-smooth skin that rises to the shape of her breast.)
And he manages, though his voice is rough, "Why don't you sleep?"
He is tired, and he is short on words, and he feels short on breath, too.
She gives the reins a tug and the horse whickers and presses its muzzle against her hand, and she smiles at her brother and it is not at all grim. "Because, dearest brother, I have been waiting for you." Then she turns her attention to the horse, too-large, too-dark eyes regarding her, and that thought comes to him once more, and turns his vision gold.
He would be gentle, gentle, if he did take her. And that thought is madness, deep and sick.
And she is speaking, still, and her voice comes to him, " – and that, that, is why I am here. Would you turn me away, brother? Would you rather I not come?"
It is too sad, too much, that the days are dark now like they are, and she has had to grow into the lady that she is. But she is looking at him, and he manages, and now his voice is low, "I would not bind you, Eowyn. Not with all my might."
(They had spread her winter cloak out on hard cold ground, and she had taken his hands, and knelt, and bid him join her on the ground – he might have taken her in his own bed, with winter furs about them, but he knows – knows, even now, as he licks the salt from her skin, as he listens to the growing intensity of her moans – that there is madness, and there is open recklessness. Here, at least, and at this late hour, on a night with no moon, they will not be found.)
And she laughs, somewhat bitter, and her pale lips curve as she grins. "Our uncle, he would have me wed," and Eomer thinks but doesn't say, but you would be taken care of, then, and you would be safe – though Eowyn has never been one to be kept, and she is as dangerous as a wild running mare. But she is looking at him, still, and there is trouble deep beneath the surface of her eyes. Her hand touches his, lightly, the knuckles of her right hand gone white where they clutch at tooled leather.
"There is madness about," she says, "and I have not been able to rid myself of it," and she is troubled, yes, and Eomer's pulse races and his skin feels hot, and Eowyn's skin is flushed and her chin is lifted high, and he would kiss her and he would taste her, and he wonders what she would feel like, how would she sound, if he worked his hand between the –
(He would be gentle, and he is as gentle as he can be – but he feels the clench of her body, and he gives her what pleasure that he can – and his mouth seeks out her own, to smother the sound that leaks out like wild, desperate song. Like he has been bewitched – they are both caught, by something more than they could be – and this, their first time (their only time, he wonders) should have been something more special than a spread out cloth and the scent of horse and hay, and the cold of night and an early winter are sinking from ground through cloth to flesh and bone.
And he is gentle, as gentle as he can be, kissing her and stroking her and pushing her to her peak.)
No. No, it is more than madness, it is wrong and sick.
But it is Eowyn, too, and he has loved her all his life.
"The hour is late," but that is a lie, night is not yet finished falling, and beyond the stable the sky spreads out wide and grey and endless, it seems. "I must see to my King."
Eowyn nods, and that something is in her eyes, still, and her hand on his is like a band of worked steel. "There is something, that I would offer," she says, unsure of herself, though she does not hesitate, and instead continues to speak. "If you would take it, then I will meet you here, again, beyond the black of midnight. Brother," and she holds her breath, lets that word stand alone. "What do you say?"
And he knows that, in the very least, he should say no.
(And he thinks, he could not say no – his body has warred with this, and he has thought on it too much, unable to shake these thoughts from his mind - and his cheek is against her breast, now, and he can feel the wild hammering of her heart, and the soft melting of her breath, as she settles into a sort of repose.
Her neck angles as he kisses her, there, and he draws his hand away from her, where her body is hot and slick and wet, and his own self twitches in its want, and he slides his leg, at least, over her leg, nuzzling her stomach with the flat of his palm, nosing the hollow of her throat, and feeling the low humming of her breath.
And she doesn't say a thing, and he wonders if he could speak, either, and it seems that they have not spoken since he came here and joined her, since he let her draw him to the ground. But she moves, now, and her hands might be small and slender, but they are strong as well, and they move along his thigh and then she finds his mouth with hers, letting her hair drape over his shoulder. His whole body clenches as her hands take hold of him, and she whispers against his mouth and he arches up into her touch.
He is beyond any negative. And he will never say no.)
But he does not say no, with silence in his mouth and the grave severity of his acquiescence speaking louder than any mortal words.
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no subject
Date: 2005-12-24 09:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-26 06:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-28 06:08 pm (UTC)It was also interesting to see what goes on in Eomer's mind, in his fantasies, and how he struggles against the idea of the two of them together, but also how weak his struggle is. Yes, I do love the idea of these two together, even when it's all kinds of wrong and doomed, because they also fit (which you manage to show in the fic, as well). Thank you so much for writing this for me. :) It was a nice piece to come back to. :D
no subject
Date: 2005-12-29 12:21 am (UTC)But I am very glad that you liked this. You're very welcome -- it was nice to get the thank you, too :)
no subject
Date: 2006-01-02 02:28 am (UTC)Of course, I'd be mightily intrigued to know what was going on in HER mind, too!
no subject
Date: 2006-01-02 02:48 am (UTC)Thanks for reading, and for the comment, my dear.