If the tides were fairer, she would have left King's Landing - left Westeros - by now. It is clear, after all, that all the renown her deeds have won mean nothing in the eyes of these men; it is clear that they will heed no political discussion that comes from the mouth of a maid, even the King's sister; it is clear that, while her duty is by no means discharged, it is a futile errand that she has come here on.
Futile, and dangerous. Not in the way that she had expected and half-hoped for: the distance, the threats of the crossing, the knives in the dark. All these things, she was prepared for, and knew herself capable of facing.
She was not prepared for a nobleman of the court - a Kingsguard, no less - to throw propriety and politics to the wind, and accost her in the stairwell, to pin her against the wall with his full bulk and do his level best to take her with or without her consent. Even Gríma Wormtongue was never a fraction so outrageous in his advances.
Ser Jaime, it seems, was not prepared for a woman who, weak shield-arm or no, has trained herself rigorously in combat as long as she has been able, and who has stared evil in the eye without flinching. A woman who was prepared, in the breach, to knee him in the exposed crotch, almost break his nose, and tell him with a knife to his throat and steel in her eyes, that if he laid hands on her again, she would castrate him before she killed him, and face the consequences if she must. He was not prepared for a daughter of Eorl, and she escaped that night with her honour and her maidenhead intact - but the experience has shaken her to her core, and she has slept every night since with her door locked and barred, two of her own men at watch outside. Not that she has told them why, of course. She is too proud to admit to such a thing, much less to how it has awakened her to a depth of fear and anger she did not know she could still feel.
No; she will not remain in this place a moment longer than she must. As soon as the tides are favourable, and the summer storms passed, she will do what she has never done in her life before: she will admit defeat, and turn away, and set sail for home.
But for now, she is here, and what can she do but play her role? She wears her sword openly, now, hanging at the hip of her fine embroidered gowns: it is clear that they will not respect her regardless, so she may as well be disrespected with a weapon close to hand. Beyond that, she is a model of restraint and cold dignity, speaking softly and holding herself tall, maintaining at all times the etiquette that her position demands. She does not even look at Ser Jaime on the unfortunate occasions when she must be in a room with him - although she keeps him in her periphery, the way a horse that has been bitten may watch a rabid dog, ready to kick or bite at a threatening move. She will not give him the satisfaction of her attention, and she will not let him know that he has hurt her. She is ice and steel and stone, as she learned to be in those dark times when Gríma held sway. There is no warmth in her - but there is nothing to be impeached in her behaviour, either.
And so she makes her way, and will not give ground to the feelings that threaten to make themselves known, the anger and fear and grief, to have come through so much and still find herself back where she began, a maiden adrift in a world of men, biting her tongue and holding her peace and suffering the indignities of an inescapable situation. At least this one, she thinks, has an end. The tides will change, and she will be gone.
The tides have not changed yet.
She is sitting at the high table, a polite smile carved onto her marble countenance, listening to the revelry without being any part of it, when she feels something else change. At first, she thinks it is only the wine (of which, it must be said, she has drunk more than she is accustomed to, in the days since the encounter in the stairwell): that she has begun to grow drunk already. There is a strange light-headedness that seems to have come upon her, and a heat in her belly and all through her, as though the hall is suddenly much warmer than it was a few moments ago. Something prickles at the back of her neck, where her hair is swept up into a Westerosi style; a shiver, like unseen fingers caressing her spine. It is not unpleasant.
Éowyn shifts a little in her seat, clearing her throat, and resolves to drink no more tonight, unless it is soundly watered. She has overindulged, that is all: but it will pass soon enough.
It does not. Not the heat - which she now realises is not centred in her belly at all, but somewhat lower - and not the sense of drunkenness, and not the growing feeling that her dress is too tight and restricting all of a sudden, and not the breathlessness that seems to have overtaken her. Her skin prickles, absurdly sensitive; she is unpleasantly aware of the colour that must have come to her cheeks.
It is drink, she reasserts to herself; it is stronger wine than Rohan's, and she is drunk, but she is still herself, and she can carry herself through this. It is, if she is entirely honest, not the first time she has felt this kind of inappropriate desire - even if it is by far the strongest. She managed, did she not, to keep herself from throwing herself wholesale at Aragorn, even when she might have done. She wonders, with aching clarity, whether he would have held true to his elf-maiden if, instead of begging him to let her fight and die with him, Éowyn had instead dropped to her knees and shown him what else a shieldmaiden could offer to her lord. Or climbed into his lap, mounted him, and ridden him to an ecstasy that...
"My lady?"
There is a hand on her arm, and the touch is almost unbearable. She realises, then, that she is holding her goblet so tightly that it shakes; that she has spilt her wine; and that people are staring at her - the cold, unapproachable maiden, flushed and fidgeting, so tense now that she has begun to tremble.
She looks up at the man whose hand is on her arm - a man of Rohan, a minor lord, married and well thirty years her senior - and is suddenly gripped with the question of what his cock looks like, and whether that hand on her arm might not be put to better use. It is at that moment, finding herself giving real thought to the question of whether he fucks his wife gently or with the boldness of a warrior, that Éowyn realises that she cannot stay here.
She stammers out something - she scarcely knows what, or even whether she is speaking to him in Westron or Rohirric - about how she has been struck with a megrim. No, no, she does not need a healer. She does not need an escort. She needs to go to her room, and rest. Alone, she tells him, and then again: alone.
Under the circumstances, not that it is much comfort, she is holding herself together admirably. She is largely steady as she rises, despite the aching awareness of every movement of her thighs. She keeps her back straight and her hands at her sides, and she settles her goblet down on the table, and reassures her retinue that she has no need of them, and with all the dignity that her considerable willpower can summon, she flees.
It is a little better in the corridors, though not much. The air is cooler, and there is less noise, and, most of all, there are fewer people. Fewer women with their breasts heaving beneath their gowns, begging to be cupped and kissed and sucked. Fewer men laughing with mouths ripe for the kissing, and cocks that she cannot help but imagine hardening for her. Fewer eyes, watching her shame, making her wonder whether their enjoyment of it would be solely political.
...She is lying to herself. It is no better. She lets out a low, stifled moan, and lengthens her pace, almost running now. She cannot think far ahead, but far enough to know that there is only one clear route forwards through whatever madness, whatever enchantment, whatever curse has gripped her. She must be alone, yes, but not to rest: she must exorcise this desire the way she has exorcised lesser shadows of it in the past. Alone.
When she at last reaches her room, she is beyond thought. The ache in her loins is maddening, a hunger so great it has become pain. Her heart hammers in her chest, against her ruined ribs. The fine linen of her shift feels like coarse sandpaper against nipples that have grown hard and swollen, aching to be touched. Desire is a beast, coiling in her gut, clawing at her until she can hardly breathe.
There is no question of finding her keys. It is all she can do to close the door behind her, slamming it shut and at last releasing the tension that has kept her somewhat straight-backed and dignified. Panting, she stumbles towards the bed, her hand already moving between her legs, grinding clumsily through the layers of skirts and shift. The sharp, aching pleasure of that touch makes her stagger, crying out, catching herself against the bedpost; and then she is tearing at her skirts as well as her weak left hand will allow, yanking at the too-thick fabric in frenzied desperation, trying clumsily to pull her gown up high enough to get her hand properly underneath; and, falling forward again until she is almost doubled over against the support of the bedframe, she thrusts her hand up against the wet, clinging linen of her ruined shift, letting out an obscene moan that she no longer has it in her to stifle, and begins to rut against the unnatural, unbearable need that has her straining her damaged arm, rocking between the hand between her thighs and the steadying grip she has on the bedframe, and--
And she hears the door click shut behind her.
She is not, it seems, entirely lost. She has strength enough, pride enough, even now to stop her vain, frantic ministrations; to stagger upright and turn, face aflame and eyes gleaming with tears of sheer frustration and want, to face the man who, she realises with a sick lurch when she sees the gleam of gold, is the architect of all her suffering.
Her hand is damp with her own arousal. Her skirts are no longer pulled up to her waist, but neither are they in any kind of array. She is panting, her grey eyes almost black with wild lust, the reek of sex thoroughly clear in the air. Still, unsteady as she is, she manages to get her hand to her sword, manages to face him down - even as she must lean against the bedpost to keep her knees from buckling.
"You." She spits it: lust, it seems, does not preclude venom. At the same time, unwelcome thoughts crowd her mind. His is the first man's cock she has seen, actually seen, harden for her; his mouth the first that has found hers in passion, outside of dreams. She wonders what he would have done, if she had not been stronger than he expected: for the first time, there is more to the thought than horror. She wonders what he tastes like. She feels the urge to vomit, hating herself for the thoughts that assail her, hating herself more for their allure. Her hand, unsteady as it is, tightens on the hilt of her sword. Her voice, unsteady as it is, is not an invitation. "What have you done to me?"
She will be well beyond love, the old man had laughed. She will forswear love for the rest of her days if she can spend one hour with you. The potion glittered like a jewel when held up to the light - a lovely, pretty poison. A temptation; a confection. A killer of love, indeed. Still, Jaime had hesitated.
One hour? he'd pressed, setting the concoction aside, his interest and his gold both fading before the potion-maker's eyes. And who's to say she won't throw herself at the first lucky guard she encounters? Some thankless fool enjoys the benefits of my gold before I have a chance to catch her. A worry he does not feel, truthfully - certainly he would not allow a hapless guard to intervene with his designs. It is only that he wants very much to hear what comes next, and the old man does not hesitate to reassure him.
Oh, no, my lord. It is you she must have. There can be no words to describe it. These, of course, were words belonging to a talentless salesman, for who would make no effort to describe the merits of his product? But the assurance came with a randy grin, and the potion had in fact been brewed with one of Jaime's own golden hairs, though whether that was only a bit of dramatic flair, he couldn't say. Perhaps he enjoyed the fact that no words could convey the power of what his gold had bought. Perhaps there was no greater selling point than that truth he already knew, and had known all his life: it could only be him. In this discreet undertaking, as in all things, he was peerless. He left with the potion in hand, caring not at all what it had cost him.
An even easier task it was to secure a servant to deliver the prepared drink to the fair lady of Rohan on the night of the feast. She would not know that it had come not from the kitchens, but from the golden lion's own hand. Having evaded him once before, she must be arrogant enough to believe that she need not worry about evading him again. She had pressed her blade to his throat, had driven her knee into his groin, and no doubt heralded her escape as a victory. He would not be daft enough to accost her again, knowing she would open his throat should they meet a second time in darkness. A grim and haughty woman, certain that her dignity and her station would protect her. Or her guards, if nothing else. Her gods, perhaps, if she held any.
Their encounter had left no such impression upon him. He had felt the cold bite of her blade, yes, and her abrupt knee had lent him a lasting bruise, but he had not retreated in fear or shame. He had not retreated at all, by his own estimation: he had not landed his first strike, but he would land his second. She had managed a perry, however unexpected, but the battle was not done.
Almost as startling as the confrontation itself was the unbecoming fact that there had been a misunderstanding at all. What reason had she to refuse him? She knew his name, his rank, and his reputation. It did not stand to reason that she might prefer another, or would rather lead her life with no attentions at all. And even if she did - one or the other, the finer points of her refusal did not interest him - she would not say no. She could not. He had not asked, and did not mean to. Never in the histories did a lion ask. They would not start now.
Yes, it is true: he had stood dumb and blinking, hot blood thrumming blind and lost through him as she fled, but he had not retreated. He had simply designed a new approach.
And he had been impatient in its making, for it was not in his nature to wait. Not for the honing of his steel, not for the readying of his horse, not for the slaking of his thirst or the satisfying of his hunger. The world as he had always known it bent to his whim. It bent willingly for the most part, and what did not bend was broken. A path could always be hacked through unyielding bramble. A coward could always be intimidated. Pleasure could always be bought.
He does not arrive at the feast gloating that his victory has been paid for, however. There is little glory in a fistful of gold. Blood is sweeter, and has always promised a more thrilling rush. He might have chosen to toss his gold at two eager grunts to hold the unflinching lady down, if he did not care to hunt. He could have had what he wanted days ago, and at a much cheaper price, and been done with it. One need only glance at the golden knight's predatory green eyes, however, to know that it is the hunt he craves. So he had put his gold to better use, so that he would not be denied the satisfaction of watching his prey stagger before him, of watching the shadow of defeat - his own looming shadow - fall across her. Only now, thanks to what had been poured into her dark wine, she would meet his eyes with an unspeakable plea in her own.
It seems at first that the evening is unfurling according to his personal fantasy: the obedient servant delivers the proud goblet, and the lady drinks. He watches with hawkish focus for a moment, aware that maybe the her woman's sensibilities will alert her to something strange about the drink. When the wine touches her lips, Jaime's careless trust in the codger who brewed his potion is revoked, and it seems likely that their guest will taste his foul intentions in the wine. It is a fleeting hesitation, and he is braced by it only for a moment, maybe two - and she sets the goblet down. She does not grimace or cry out that she has been poisoned. She takes another polite sip. The thrill rises once more.
Do hours pass before that sweet elixir overtakes her? It seems so, but so too does the sun seem to take days to arc across the sky when he is impatient for the next day to come. But it takes her after all, at last - she rises, she is trembling, she is unsteady. She is frightened, though she disguises it well. She is anxious to depart this warm, bustling, raucous place. She senses now that something is wrong, and finds herself in the same moment unprepared to face it. The sight of the serene, collected woman so near to shambles makes Jaime's blood run hot and hard. He falls into step behind her, prowling, dappled by shadows that reach for and fall from him like asking hands.
To her borrowed rooms she goes, as she must, and the golden kingsguard is wearing an easy smile as he arrives behind her. He pauses just outside the door, relishing how fiercely she has slammed it, and savors the first taste of his victory: a helpless cry from within. She is hoping for some swift, sad release, surely; no, she will be praying for it by this point, if she has the gods to listen. He waits a second longer, a rare instance of self-imposed restraint, allowing her the briefest of privacies, and then he invites himself in.
Ducking after her, softly closing the door behind him, he is greeted first by the shameless slap of sex. It is a scent, as rich to him as the scent of any meat to a hungry hound, and it is the electric vibration of the air. It is the tension he breaks when he steps into the room, and it is the laughable sight of his prim and noble guest with her skirts hiked up as if he'd stumbled upon an artless tryst, as if he'd scared away her fumbling lover. But there is, as he delights in knowing, no lover - it is only the proud lady and her hand, and her tearful eyes, and that ineffectual hand nobly finding her sword. He does laugh at the sight of her, a sound that is cheerful and light above her humiliation.
You, she says, and that word is finer than a hand upon the skin, because now she knows it, too. Now she knows that it can only be him - that it could only ever be him. Is she looking upon him, as the old man said she would, with a dawning, keening horror? She knows what must be done - or, at the very least, her sodden cunt knows it - and if that pretty potion has done its work, there is nothing she will not give to see it done. What have you done to me? He turns the words over in his head, tasting the pearls of desperation in her voice, leisurely advancing into the room, not needing to spend any more than he already has. And it is the alchemist's promise that answers her, though it need not be spoken: There can be no words to describe it.
He laughs again, charmed, blithely ignoring the sword she means to grasp. Instead, he lifts his own hand to her cheek, brushing aside a wayward lock of hair, fingers fanning like a lover's over her bright cheek. His kindly bearing is betrayed by the venom he murmurs back in turn, bringing his face close, smoothing over her threats and her hate.
"It's rather unseemly to leave your host's feast so early in the evening, my lady."
His touch is unbearable, a brand against her skin, his rough fingers gliding against the softness of her cheek. Her breath shudders, sobbing out of her, hatred and disgust warring with the unbearable compulsion to close the remaining space between them - to kiss him, to have his tongue thrust down her throat and his teeth bruising her lips, his hands roaming and carrying that heat with them, over throat and breast and belly and aching, hungry cunt.
It takes a conscious effort to rip her gaze away from his mouth, and more effort still to meet his eyes. Her sword is half-drawn, now, steel bared and shining in the candlelight; she grips it so tightly that her knuckles are white, as though it might serve as some talisman against him.
"I should have killed you when you first laid hands on me," she spits, her lip drawn back from her teeth. It is an animal look, a wild look; there is no dignity left in it, with tears in her eyes and sweat slicking her brow. But if she cannot fall back on dignity, then at least anger is something she knows. "Whatever enchantment you have put on me, whatever curse, you will pay for it, you cur. Now..."
Now leave. Take your hands off me and leave, ere I strike you down; I will not hesitate again. Except that she will hesitate, does hesitate. It is a wild, brutal thing, this need that twists and claws inside her. She can fight it only so far. She can fight it enough to summon indignation, to hurl invective at him, even to draw her blade. But to be left alone now, untouched, with the cold comfort of her own body... it would be more than she can bear.
Had she thought she was lonely, all those long nights in the shadows of Meduseld, weeping for any warmth and comfort? Had she thought that she wanted Aragorn, when she saw him, when she retreated into privacy after their meeting and dreamed of him pinning her down against the grass? Had she thought that she knew what desire was? None of it is even a shadow of what she feels now, battering against her like a mace-blow, and she can no more stand against it than against such an assault. To even be this close to someone is to be overtaken by the need; to feel the slightest brush of warmth is to imagine pouncing upon it, dragging out every ounce of pleasure until she is satiated; to look at Jaime's face is to imagine it contorting with effort and pleasure as he fucks her against every surface in this room.
A low, needy whimper escapes her, and she pulls back from him until the bedframe makes farther retreat impossible. The sword in her hand trembles noticeably, coming up between them (like his cock would, if you freed it, and would that not be a sight to see?) but not quite moving to drive him back. Her lips are parted, her chest heaving against the painfully heavy cloth that covers achingly hard nipples.
"Not you." To her disgust, it comes out nakedly pleading; and she knows, saying it, that it will delight him all the more; and she is filled with a hot, surging hate that does nothing but fuel that other, all-consuming heat. "Do not do this. Do not do this to me." Do everything to me. Take me every way, and turn me over and take me again, and do not hesitate. Another whimper, shuddering and low, at the thought. She cannot help her eyes from drifting downward, to see whether he is hard, to see what the shape of him is. She hates herself for her weakness, even more than she hates him. It takes all of her will not to drop her sword, spread her legs, and leap into his arms.
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sforzinda
aphro thread for perforo - CW: dubcon/noncon, sexual assault and harassment
Date: 2023-08-14 02:54 am (UTC)Futile, and dangerous. Not in the way that she had expected and half-hoped for: the distance, the threats of the crossing, the knives in the dark. All these things, she was prepared for, and knew herself capable of facing.
She was not prepared for a nobleman of the court - a Kingsguard, no less - to throw propriety and politics to the wind, and accost her in the stairwell, to pin her against the wall with his full bulk and do his level best to take her with or without her consent. Even Gríma Wormtongue was never a fraction so outrageous in his advances.
Ser Jaime, it seems, was not prepared for a woman who, weak shield-arm or no, has trained herself rigorously in combat as long as she has been able, and who has stared evil in the eye without flinching. A woman who was prepared, in the breach, to knee him in the exposed crotch, almost break his nose, and tell him with a knife to his throat and steel in her eyes, that if he laid hands on her again, she would castrate him before she killed him, and face the consequences if she must. He was not prepared for a daughter of Eorl, and she escaped that night with her honour and her maidenhead intact - but the experience has shaken her to her core, and she has slept every night since with her door locked and barred, two of her own men at watch outside. Not that she has told them why, of course. She is too proud to admit to such a thing, much less to how it has awakened her to a depth of fear and anger she did not know she could still feel.
No; she will not remain in this place a moment longer than she must. As soon as the tides are favourable, and the summer storms passed, she will do what she has never done in her life before: she will admit defeat, and turn away, and set sail for home.
But for now, she is here, and what can she do but play her role? She wears her sword openly, now, hanging at the hip of her fine embroidered gowns: it is clear that they will not respect her regardless, so she may as well be disrespected with a weapon close to hand. Beyond that, she is a model of restraint and cold dignity, speaking softly and holding herself tall, maintaining at all times the etiquette that her position demands. She does not even look at Ser Jaime on the unfortunate occasions when she must be in a room with him - although she keeps him in her periphery, the way a horse that has been bitten may watch a rabid dog, ready to kick or bite at a threatening move. She will not give him the satisfaction of her attention, and she will not let him know that he has hurt her. She is ice and steel and stone, as she learned to be in those dark times when Gríma held sway. There is no warmth in her - but there is nothing to be impeached in her behaviour, either.
And so she makes her way, and will not give ground to the feelings that threaten to make themselves known, the anger and fear and grief, to have come through so much and still find herself back where she began, a maiden adrift in a world of men, biting her tongue and holding her peace and suffering the indignities of an inescapable situation. At least this one, she thinks, has an end. The tides will change, and she will be gone.
The tides have not changed yet.
She is sitting at the high table, a polite smile carved onto her marble countenance, listening to the revelry without being any part of it, when she feels something else change. At first, she thinks it is only the wine (of which, it must be said, she has drunk more than she is accustomed to, in the days since the encounter in the stairwell): that she has begun to grow drunk already. There is a strange light-headedness that seems to have come upon her, and a heat in her belly and all through her, as though the hall is suddenly much warmer than it was a few moments ago. Something prickles at the back of her neck, where her hair is swept up into a Westerosi style; a shiver, like unseen fingers caressing her spine. It is not unpleasant.
Éowyn shifts a little in her seat, clearing her throat, and resolves to drink no more tonight, unless it is soundly watered. She has overindulged, that is all: but it will pass soon enough.
It does not. Not the heat - which she now realises is not centred in her belly at all, but somewhat lower - and not the sense of drunkenness, and not the growing feeling that her dress is too tight and restricting all of a sudden, and not the breathlessness that seems to have overtaken her. Her skin prickles, absurdly sensitive; she is unpleasantly aware of the colour that must have come to her cheeks.
It is drink, she reasserts to herself; it is stronger wine than Rohan's, and she is drunk, but she is still herself, and she can carry herself through this. It is, if she is entirely honest, not the first time she has felt this kind of inappropriate desire - even if it is by far the strongest. She managed, did she not, to keep herself from throwing herself wholesale at Aragorn, even when she might have done. She wonders, with aching clarity, whether he would have held true to his elf-maiden if, instead of begging him to let her fight and die with him, Éowyn had instead dropped to her knees and shown him what else a shieldmaiden could offer to her lord. Or climbed into his lap, mounted him, and ridden him to an ecstasy that...
"My lady?"
There is a hand on her arm, and the touch is almost unbearable. She realises, then, that she is holding her goblet so tightly that it shakes; that she has spilt her wine; and that people are staring at her - the cold, unapproachable maiden, flushed and fidgeting, so tense now that she has begun to tremble.
She looks up at the man whose hand is on her arm - a man of Rohan, a minor lord, married and well thirty years her senior - and is suddenly gripped with the question of what his cock looks like, and whether that hand on her arm might not be put to better use. It is at that moment, finding herself giving real thought to the question of whether he fucks his wife gently or with the boldness of a warrior, that Éowyn realises that she cannot stay here.
She stammers out something - she scarcely knows what, or even whether she is speaking to him in Westron or Rohirric - about how she has been struck with a megrim. No, no, she does not need a healer. She does not need an escort. She needs to go to her room, and rest. Alone, she tells him, and then again: alone.
Under the circumstances, not that it is much comfort, she is holding herself together admirably. She is largely steady as she rises, despite the aching awareness of every movement of her thighs. She keeps her back straight and her hands at her sides, and she settles her goblet down on the table, and reassures her retinue that she has no need of them, and with all the dignity that her considerable willpower can summon, she flees.
It is a little better in the corridors, though not much. The air is cooler, and there is less noise, and, most of all, there are fewer people. Fewer women with their breasts heaving beneath their gowns, begging to be cupped and kissed and sucked. Fewer men laughing with mouths ripe for the kissing, and cocks that she cannot help but imagine hardening for her. Fewer eyes, watching her shame, making her wonder whether their enjoyment of it would be solely political.
...She is lying to herself. It is no better. She lets out a low, stifled moan, and lengthens her pace, almost running now. She cannot think far ahead, but far enough to know that there is only one clear route forwards through whatever madness, whatever enchantment, whatever curse has gripped her. She must be alone, yes, but not to rest: she must exorcise this desire the way she has exorcised lesser shadows of it in the past. Alone.
When she at last reaches her room, she is beyond thought. The ache in her loins is maddening, a hunger so great it has become pain. Her heart hammers in her chest, against her ruined ribs. The fine linen of her shift feels like coarse sandpaper against nipples that have grown hard and swollen, aching to be touched. Desire is a beast, coiling in her gut, clawing at her until she can hardly breathe.
There is no question of finding her keys. It is all she can do to close the door behind her, slamming it shut and at last releasing the tension that has kept her somewhat straight-backed and dignified. Panting, she stumbles towards the bed, her hand already moving between her legs, grinding clumsily through the layers of skirts and shift. The sharp, aching pleasure of that touch makes her stagger, crying out, catching herself against the bedpost; and then she is tearing at her skirts as well as her weak left hand will allow, yanking at the too-thick fabric in frenzied desperation, trying clumsily to pull her gown up high enough to get her hand properly underneath; and, falling forward again until she is almost doubled over against the support of the bedframe, she thrusts her hand up against the wet, clinging linen of her ruined shift, letting out an obscene moan that she no longer has it in her to stifle, and begins to rut against the unnatural, unbearable need that has her straining her damaged arm, rocking between the hand between her thighs and the steadying grip she has on the bedframe, and--
And she hears the door click shut behind her.
She is not, it seems, entirely lost. She has strength enough, pride enough, even now to stop her vain, frantic ministrations; to stagger upright and turn, face aflame and eyes gleaming with tears of sheer frustration and want, to face the man who, she realises with a sick lurch when she sees the gleam of gold, is the architect of all her suffering.
Her hand is damp with her own arousal. Her skirts are no longer pulled up to her waist, but neither are they in any kind of array. She is panting, her grey eyes almost black with wild lust, the reek of sex thoroughly clear in the air. Still, unsteady as she is, she manages to get her hand to her sword, manages to face him down - even as she must lean against the bedpost to keep her knees from buckling.
"You." She spits it: lust, it seems, does not preclude venom. At the same time, unwelcome thoughts crowd her mind. His is the first man's cock she has seen, actually seen, harden for her; his mouth the first that has found hers in passion, outside of dreams. She wonders what he would have done, if she had not been stronger than he expected: for the first time, there is more to the thought than horror. She wonders what he tastes like. She feels the urge to vomit, hating herself for the thoughts that assail her, hating herself more for their allure. Her hand, unsteady as it is, tightens on the hilt of her sword. Her voice, unsteady as it is, is not an invitation. "What have you done to me?"
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Date: 2023-12-13 11:19 pm (UTC)One hour? he'd pressed, setting the concoction aside, his interest and his gold both fading before the potion-maker's eyes. And who's to say she won't throw herself at the first lucky guard she encounters? Some thankless fool enjoys the benefits of my gold before I have a chance to catch her. A worry he does not feel, truthfully - certainly he would not allow a hapless guard to intervene with his designs. It is only that he wants very much to hear what comes next, and the old man does not hesitate to reassure him.
Oh, no, my lord. It is you she must have. There can be no words to describe it. These, of course, were words belonging to a talentless salesman, for who would make no effort to describe the merits of his product? But the assurance came with a randy grin, and the potion had in fact been brewed with one of Jaime's own golden hairs, though whether that was only a bit of dramatic flair, he couldn't say. Perhaps he enjoyed the fact that no words could convey the power of what his gold had bought. Perhaps there was no greater selling point than that truth he already knew, and had known all his life: it could only be him. In this discreet undertaking, as in all things, he was peerless. He left with the potion in hand, caring not at all what it had cost him.
An even easier task it was to secure a servant to deliver the prepared drink to the fair lady of Rohan on the night of the feast. She would not know that it had come not from the kitchens, but from the golden lion's own hand. Having evaded him once before, she must be arrogant enough to believe that she need not worry about evading him again. She had pressed her blade to his throat, had driven her knee into his groin, and no doubt heralded her escape as a victory. He would not be daft enough to accost her again, knowing she would open his throat should they meet a second time in darkness. A grim and haughty woman, certain that her dignity and her station would protect her. Or her guards, if nothing else. Her gods, perhaps, if she held any.
Their encounter had left no such impression upon him. He had felt the cold bite of her blade, yes, and her abrupt knee had lent him a lasting bruise, but he had not retreated in fear or shame. He had not retreated at all, by his own estimation: he had not landed his first strike, but he would land his second. She had managed a perry, however unexpected, but the battle was not done.
Almost as startling as the confrontation itself was the unbecoming fact that there had been a misunderstanding at all. What reason had she to refuse him? She knew his name, his rank, and his reputation. It did not stand to reason that she might prefer another, or would rather lead her life with no attentions at all. And even if she did - one or the other, the finer points of her refusal did not interest him - she would not say no. She could not. He had not asked, and did not mean to. Never in the histories did a lion ask. They would not start now.
Yes, it is true: he had stood dumb and blinking, hot blood thrumming blind and lost through him as she fled, but he had not retreated. He had simply designed a new approach.
And he had been impatient in its making, for it was not in his nature to wait. Not for the honing of his steel, not for the readying of his horse, not for the slaking of his thirst or the satisfying of his hunger. The world as he had always known it bent to his whim. It bent willingly for the most part, and what did not bend was broken. A path could always be hacked through unyielding bramble. A coward could always be intimidated. Pleasure could always be bought.
He does not arrive at the feast gloating that his victory has been paid for, however. There is little glory in a fistful of gold. Blood is sweeter, and has always promised a more thrilling rush. He might have chosen to toss his gold at two eager grunts to hold the unflinching lady down, if he did not care to hunt. He could have had what he wanted days ago, and at a much cheaper price, and been done with it. One need only glance at the golden knight's predatory green eyes, however, to know that it is the hunt he craves. So he had put his gold to better use, so that he would not be denied the satisfaction of watching his prey stagger before him, of watching the shadow of defeat - his own looming shadow - fall across her. Only now, thanks to what had been poured into her dark wine, she would meet his eyes with an unspeakable plea in her own.
It seems at first that the evening is unfurling according to his personal fantasy: the obedient servant delivers the proud goblet, and the lady drinks. He watches with hawkish focus for a moment, aware that maybe the her woman's sensibilities will alert her to something strange about the drink. When the wine touches her lips, Jaime's careless trust in the codger who brewed his potion is revoked, and it seems likely that their guest will taste his foul intentions in the wine. It is a fleeting hesitation, and he is braced by it only for a moment, maybe two - and she sets the goblet down. She does not grimace or cry out that she has been poisoned. She takes another polite sip. The thrill rises once more.
Do hours pass before that sweet elixir overtakes her? It seems so, but so too does the sun seem to take days to arc across the sky when he is impatient for the next day to come. But it takes her after all, at last - she rises, she is trembling, she is unsteady. She is frightened, though she disguises it well. She is anxious to depart this warm, bustling, raucous place. She senses now that something is wrong, and finds herself in the same moment unprepared to face it. The sight of the serene, collected woman so near to shambles makes Jaime's blood run hot and hard. He falls into step behind her, prowling, dappled by shadows that reach for and fall from him like asking hands.
To her borrowed rooms she goes, as she must, and the golden kingsguard is wearing an easy smile as he arrives behind her. He pauses just outside the door, relishing how fiercely she has slammed it, and savors the first taste of his victory: a helpless cry from within. She is hoping for some swift, sad release, surely; no, she will be praying for it by this point, if she has the gods to listen. He waits a second longer, a rare instance of self-imposed restraint, allowing her the briefest of privacies, and then he invites himself in.
Ducking after her, softly closing the door behind him, he is greeted first by the shameless slap of sex. It is a scent, as rich to him as the scent of any meat to a hungry hound, and it is the electric vibration of the air. It is the tension he breaks when he steps into the room, and it is the laughable sight of his prim and noble guest with her skirts hiked up as if he'd stumbled upon an artless tryst, as if he'd scared away her fumbling lover. But there is, as he delights in knowing, no lover - it is only the proud lady and her hand, and her tearful eyes, and that ineffectual hand nobly finding her sword. He does laugh at the sight of her, a sound that is cheerful and light above her humiliation.
You, she says, and that word is finer than a hand upon the skin, because now she knows it, too. Now she knows that it can only be him - that it could only ever be him. Is she looking upon him, as the old man said she would, with a dawning, keening horror? She knows what must be done - or, at the very least, her sodden cunt knows it - and if that pretty potion has done its work, there is nothing she will not give to see it done. What have you done to me? He turns the words over in his head, tasting the pearls of desperation in her voice, leisurely advancing into the room, not needing to spend any more than he already has. And it is the alchemist's promise that answers her, though it need not be spoken: There can be no words to describe it.
He laughs again, charmed, blithely ignoring the sword she means to grasp. Instead, he lifts his own hand to her cheek, brushing aside a wayward lock of hair, fingers fanning like a lover's over her bright cheek. His kindly bearing is betrayed by the venom he murmurs back in turn, bringing his face close, smoothing over her threats and her hate.
"It's rather unseemly to leave your host's feast so early in the evening, my lady."
no subject
Date: 2023-12-14 12:10 am (UTC)It takes a conscious effort to rip her gaze away from his mouth, and more effort still to meet his eyes. Her sword is half-drawn, now, steel bared and shining in the candlelight; she grips it so tightly that her knuckles are white, as though it might serve as some talisman against him.
"I should have killed you when you first laid hands on me," she spits, her lip drawn back from her teeth. It is an animal look, a wild look; there is no dignity left in it, with tears in her eyes and sweat slicking her brow. But if she cannot fall back on dignity, then at least anger is something she knows. "Whatever enchantment you have put on me, whatever curse, you will pay for it, you cur. Now..."
Now leave. Take your hands off me and leave, ere I strike you down; I will not hesitate again. Except that she will hesitate, does hesitate. It is a wild, brutal thing, this need that twists and claws inside her. She can fight it only so far. She can fight it enough to summon indignation, to hurl invective at him, even to draw her blade. But to be left alone now, untouched, with the cold comfort of her own body... it would be more than she can bear.
Had she thought she was lonely, all those long nights in the shadows of Meduseld, weeping for any warmth and comfort? Had she thought that she wanted Aragorn, when she saw him, when she retreated into privacy after their meeting and dreamed of him pinning her down against the grass? Had she thought that she knew what desire was? None of it is even a shadow of what she feels now, battering against her like a mace-blow, and she can no more stand against it than against such an assault. To even be this close to someone is to be overtaken by the need; to feel the slightest brush of warmth is to imagine pouncing upon it, dragging out every ounce of pleasure until she is satiated; to look at Jaime's face is to imagine it contorting with effort and pleasure as he fucks her against every surface in this room.
A low, needy whimper escapes her, and she pulls back from him until the bedframe makes farther retreat impossible. The sword in her hand trembles noticeably, coming up between them (like his cock would, if you freed it, and would that not be a sight to see?) but not quite moving to drive him back. Her lips are parted, her chest heaving against the painfully heavy cloth that covers achingly hard nipples.
"Not you." To her disgust, it comes out nakedly pleading; and she knows, saying it, that it will delight him all the more; and she is filled with a hot, surging hate that does nothing but fuel that other, all-consuming heat. "Do not do this. Do not do this to me." Do everything to me. Take me every way, and turn me over and take me again, and do not hesitate. Another whimper, shuddering and low, at the thought. She cannot help her eyes from drifting downward, to see whether he is hard, to see what the shape of him is. She hates herself for her weakness, even more than she hates him. It takes all of her will not to drop her sword, spread her legs, and leap into his arms.