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
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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.