Title: Leechcraft Author (including email): TG McClellien (tgmcclellien@yahoo.com) Pairing(s): Gríma/Théoden (imagined Gríma/Éowyn) Rating: R Summary: Grima assualts Eowyn in a way she'll never know Disclaimer: I don’t own any Tolkien characters, etc. Warning (only if necessary): Authors Note (if needed/desired): I think back in spite for why I am here, gazing upon Rohan’s aged king. Why I have been sent back to his side with that ache still there. Why I am now looking at his lips as he dozes in his chair and wondering... I watched her in the stables, settled amongst the tack. Amongst the scent of the beasts the Rohirrim cherish as much as their own children. She was there, climbing from the back of the horse she had been riding. How her long skirts lifted to show a delicate white shin, neatly muscled. Then the cloth swirled back around her legs as she turned and started to take the bridle from the long face of the animal that had bore her back to the stables. Quick fingers worked on the buckles, and slid over the metal bar that was the bit, coated in saliva from the animal. She turned then, straining upward to hang the bridle upon its hook. How neat and trim her body was beneath the dress that she wore. It only took a little bit of a skilled imagination to know what she looked like. Muscled thighs, and a smooth flat stomach. Ahh, what I would give to have those legs wrapped around my waist, and to be within her. I wondered if she was like a mare, and would squeeze and milk me. What sweet agony it would be. I would run my hands over her body, feel all there was to feel, and press my lips to aching nipples, drawing them in and grazing them with my teeth. Oh, how she would moan my name. ‘Gríma....’ Then, I would take her, harder than before. So hard that she cried. I would bruise her for everything that she had ever said that ruined my ideas of her, every spiteful word to me. I would bruise her for every time she looked upon me with hatred in her eyes! I must have made some noise, for in the moment of sweet bliss of my imagined room she turned and saw me. She saw me, with a fist clenched at my side, gritting my teeth as my other hand rubbed my thighs and self through the velvet I wore. Her eyes grew large, and her face contorted into that expression of disgust that she so often wore for me. I did not catch her curses as she stormed out of the stable, I was far too busy thinking of how I could change that expression. Again my hand finds the soft velvet of my garments, traveling slowly down my stomach, fingers playing with the belt briefly before traveling downwards over that ache. I shiver with the thought of what I could do. What I would do. After leaving the stable, I could not find Éowyn to fulfill what promises I had made to her in my mind. I have no doubt that she would tell Éomer of what I was doing in the stable. He would leave Edoras with spite for me held behind his teeth, and return with yet another token to trouble Théoden with. Always, he is trying to break my hold over this old king. My hold... I look around the Hall as I walk towards the throne he sits upon. It is dark, the embers of the fire are low. Surely, Théoden should have been put to bed by now. The guards must be waiting for my order. How... obedient. I feel a smirk tug at my lips as I sit upon the stair beside his throne and again survey the Hall. It seems now that there is no life. The Guards stand outside, as still as statues and nothing moves across the stone. Perfect. Still, I must keep a keen ear out. My eyes return to the face of Théoden. How far he has fallen from the days where he sat proudly in his seat, or even rode... now he crouches here near always, some haggard form beyond recognition. Quietly, he wheezes beneath the strain of his ruined body. The wood his throne is carved from is smooth, as I lay my hand where I have always laid it, and shift so that I may whisper in the king’s ear. He does not move much at my actions, only turns his head slightly and groans. Hm. It will not be council he receives from my lips this time. Slowly, I release my tongue from behind my teeth and trace the sagging curve of his ear. The bitter taste of salt is there, but the skin is soft. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine that this is Éowyn’s soft ear, peeking out of her golden locks. I lave his ear with my tongue, feeling him shiver at the touch. My hand leaves the arm of his throne and reaches out blindly, grabbing the robe that is wrapped around his shoulders. Fur, what an interesting texture when one cannot see. I can imagine... imagine that it is one of the robes that I have seen Éowyn wearing when the winds of Rohan are cold. Drawing away from tending the ear, my fingers continue down the fur ruff of the robe. My other hand by this time moves along my own leg. To me now it is Éowyn’s. Deft fingers unbuckle the belt about my waist, and reach within my clothing, seeking that aching shaft. Ah, the warmth of them! I shiver and lick my lips, grasping at that fur. Those fingers trace me, and rub me, making me want all the more until it hurts. What a sweet hurt... Grabbing the fur ruff firmly, I make those fingers release and I pull myself to my feet. I can move before that throne by feel, I needn’t open my eyes and realize that it is not the white lady in the throne before me. Following the fur ruff with my fingers, they come upon barely curled hair. Good... good. Grasping this hair, I prepare myself with my other hand. Those fingers are no longer Éowyn's, but my own. My own, parting my robe and moving my clothes aside so that I am released into the cool air of the hall. A hand rests on my bare hip, trying to push me away, and there is the groan of an old man. I tighten my grip in that hair, and pull his head down. He will obey my fantasy. Now there is breath, warm and promising. Mmm. I can imagine Éowyn between my knees, gazing upon me in soft wonder and breathing so... so hard for her want. I can see her crouched there, eyes wide and golden hair shimmering down her back, some spilling down her shoulders only slightly covering her breasts from my view. Her lips are bruised from hard kisses, and red marks travel down her milky skin on her back where my nails dug in. I reach out, and knit my hand in her hair, pressing her closer. I feel his old, chapped lips against the head, the hair of his beard rough. What... sensation. But he will not part those lips for me. He groans, and digs his nails into my hip, trying to push me away. Harder I push his head down, urging him to open his lips with my whispering. He does, trying to say my name... perhaps command me to stop this. He does not get to. I thrust, and ohhh... what warmth. In my mind she has taken me into her mouth, and her tongue is warm as it bathes me, swirling. Her lips lay upon the skin, moving slightly as she sucks. Her long white fingers tend the sack, toying with it as she tends me with her mouth. Sweet...sweet... I can not help but to bite my lip to hold back my mutterings of pleasure. I cannot let her know that she pleases me so. She must feel worthless. As worthless as she makes me. But my hips buck, and I’m driven deeper into that warmth. She makes a sound, almost laughter, around me. Her hands move to my hips, holding me down as she takes me in further on her own. Teeth scathe me, and I cry out in pain... I jerk away from Théoden, pulling some of his hair as I go. Now I open my eyes, and see that there is blood upon his lips. His eyes show some fire of what he used to be, and something new. Hatred of me. Perhaps... perhaps I was wrong to do this? What if Saruman’s hold upon this man is broken because of what I have done? But no. I look down and see that he has bitten me. It hurts, and is bleeding. Cringing, I feel. It is not too deep, and not irreparable. If I had stayed in longer, would he have bitten down fully? I find myself sneering at him as I sit back down on the stair, holding the cloth of my garments to my bleeding self. There is a sound outside, the pounding of hooves as they leave Edoras. Éomer was leaving then, and Éowyn would soon return to help the king... The blood was still upon his lips. Despite my pain, I turned to him with the cloth, and wiped it from his lips. That hate was still in his eyes. “Speak nothing of this, my liege... it is but a dark dream of an old man, lost in dark thoughts,” I hiss into his ear, and his eyes flutter. The light in them fades. I cannot help but smile to myself despite things. I clothes my garments around myself, and silently tread out of the King’s Hall to my chambers. There would be punishment for this bite. I would send Théodred out, Westward towards Isengard where the Uruk-Hai crossing the land were thickest. The king’s son would not return with life in his body.