Pretty Hate Machine
folder
-Multi-Age › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
4,309
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
4,309
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Pretty Hate Machine
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, this is all based on J.R.R. Tolkien's work.
Warnings: Violent (but consensual) sexuality, incest.
PRETTY HATE MACHINE
She bit hard into a salty muscled shoulder, even as the edges of the stone wall bit into her back. It was barely smoothed by velvet that would be torn and stretched when they were done. And he didn't care that he bruised her, and she didn't care that he yelped with pain when her teeth drew blood.
It wasn't at all like the spider-touch of clammy fingers on her skin, in the cyanide half-light of Gríma's chamber.
Black and blue were her thighs and her arms, high, where no rolling sleeve could reveal the marks. Inside the blood spilled, the veins burst. There were other veins, elsewhere inside her - strings of memories, holding her together. As her brother pounded into her body, the strings held, and grew thick and hard, and she felt like they would never break. She would be safe forever, safe in the hard, cold, snarling beast-body she had made for herself.
She walked pathways well worn by now. Even as she dug her fingernails into her brother's neck there was a part of her that knew.
When it was over they'd kiss in wet tenderness, spent and no longer biting. And that, more than anything else they'd done together, would feel like filth seeping into her soul, and each time she would tear away from him, and smooth her dress, and walk out of the room, or the hallway, or whichever hopefully secluded spot they had chosen for their tryst.
As she walked away she would feel his eyes on her and wouldn't be able to turn back because the look would undo her, Éomer watching her would unravel her. Each time, whether she looked back or not, she'd feel bitter - to have the beast-strength die so soon.
"You're mine," he had whispered in her ear once when she was catching her breath, her body still convulsing slightly. That had been like icy water on her neck.
"Yours? How am I yours?"
"Because I adore you, Éowyn. I love you."
She knew that wasn't a lie. He loved her, brother to sister, lover and friend. That's what she couldn't bear. That was like a spear pointed at her heart.
And night would fall. Whatever she did in the day, the shadows would grow longer and the horizon would glow bright and beautiful before the light died. And she would go into her rooms, resolved; and she would wash, and slip into her nightdress, and burrow under the covers of the same bed she'd slept in since she was fourteen.
She would lie awake, telling herself she would fall asleep, and not get up again till morning; she would not walk barefooted down the hall in the dark, would not take two turns to the right, or go behind the curtain to avoid the guards. She would not feel her way through the secret pathways, and she would not knock three times on a surprisingly simple wooden door, and she would not open it without answer and find Gríma waiting.
...And later as she lay listening to the tongue of serpents in the blackness, skin against cool skin, warm breath on her ear, the strings would burst and the lost days would spill and wash over her, and be gone. And he would press his face against her tears.
This was the face of despair.
And the taste of blood in her mouth.
Warnings: Violent (but consensual) sexuality, incest.
PRETTY HATE MACHINE
She bit hard into a salty muscled shoulder, even as the edges of the stone wall bit into her back. It was barely smoothed by velvet that would be torn and stretched when they were done. And he didn't care that he bruised her, and she didn't care that he yelped with pain when her teeth drew blood.
It wasn't at all like the spider-touch of clammy fingers on her skin, in the cyanide half-light of Gríma's chamber.
Black and blue were her thighs and her arms, high, where no rolling sleeve could reveal the marks. Inside the blood spilled, the veins burst. There were other veins, elsewhere inside her - strings of memories, holding her together. As her brother pounded into her body, the strings held, and grew thick and hard, and she felt like they would never break. She would be safe forever, safe in the hard, cold, snarling beast-body she had made for herself.
She walked pathways well worn by now. Even as she dug her fingernails into her brother's neck there was a part of her that knew.
When it was over they'd kiss in wet tenderness, spent and no longer biting. And that, more than anything else they'd done together, would feel like filth seeping into her soul, and each time she would tear away from him, and smooth her dress, and walk out of the room, or the hallway, or whichever hopefully secluded spot they had chosen for their tryst.
As she walked away she would feel his eyes on her and wouldn't be able to turn back because the look would undo her, Éomer watching her would unravel her. Each time, whether she looked back or not, she'd feel bitter - to have the beast-strength die so soon.
"You're mine," he had whispered in her ear once when she was catching her breath, her body still convulsing slightly. That had been like icy water on her neck.
"Yours? How am I yours?"
"Because I adore you, Éowyn. I love you."
She knew that wasn't a lie. He loved her, brother to sister, lover and friend. That's what she couldn't bear. That was like a spear pointed at her heart.
And night would fall. Whatever she did in the day, the shadows would grow longer and the horizon would glow bright and beautiful before the light died. And she would go into her rooms, resolved; and she would wash, and slip into her nightdress, and burrow under the covers of the same bed she'd slept in since she was fourteen.
She would lie awake, telling herself she would fall asleep, and not get up again till morning; she would not walk barefooted down the hall in the dark, would not take two turns to the right, or go behind the curtain to avoid the guards. She would not feel her way through the secret pathways, and she would not knock three times on a surprisingly simple wooden door, and she would not open it without answer and find Gríma waiting.
...And later as she lay listening to the tongue of serpents in the blackness, skin against cool skin, warm breath on her ear, the strings would burst and the lost days would spill and wash over her, and be gone. And he would press his face against her tears.
This was the face of despair.
And the taste of blood in her mouth.