Fic: Excuses
E-mail: the_smooth_one910@hotmail.com
Rating: I like to think PG-13. But ish.
Warnings: Depending on your tastes, this could get squicky.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: Read and see.
Summary: It's not wrong when it feels so good.


“I beg of you,” he pleads, his eyes wide. “Walk away. Do not do this.”

It’s as if I don’t hear him, and I grab him by his hair, pulling him close up against my body. “Don’t tell me you do not want this as much as I,” I tell him.

He lies when he says, “No.” His mouth lies, but his body does not. It does not surprise me that he resisted me thus far; he is just that noble and pure. Yet I know it will not last long. I know he will give in, and when he does, there will be no going back, there will be no excuses. He will fully submit to passion, and when he does that, he will submit to me.

I simply smile at him and press myself against him, briefly, rubbing against him, but roughly, for the demure does not please him. “You are betrayed, darling,” I say, my hands wrapping around him, wrapping around places I should not dare to venture.

“Gods,” he gasps, and I am close, close to victory. One hand caresses his face, trying to read his eyes and understand what he was feeling. So dark, so lovely.

“Why do you fight, love?” I whisper.

“This is wrong,” he murmurs desperately, shutting his eyes and biting his lip as I continue the motions with my hand. A strangled groan is released, deep within from his throat, and the rest of his moans are drowned out with my lips on his, pressing and urgent and ready.

Tongues dances, tongues duel, and it’s perfect, and it’s as it should be. There’s nothing anyone can say to deny this, that this is how it is meant to be, that this is how we both want it.

When our lips finally part, the look in his eyes is so hungry, so needy. He’s desperate now, trying to keep control, trying not to give in. You won’t win, my love. Not when you’re so close to giving in to me.

“Please don’t,” he begs, almost panting.

“Tell me,” I start to say, my hand now inside his pants, rubbing and pulling and flicking my wrist. “How can something this good be so wrong?”

“Eowyn,” he pleads.

I press him down onto the bed, one hand keeping his shoulder pinned to the bed, the other undressing him. He pleads, but I won’t relent. I know this is what he wants, I know his mind almost as well as he does.

“I’m not your enemy. You don’t have to fight me,” I whisper to him, my face close enough for my breath to make his eyelashes flutter.

“No,” he says again, but it’s such a faint whisper, it floats away like the wind.

I smile. “Yes.”

I know him, my beautiful brother. Excuses will never work on either of us.

And I have won, Eomer, as I had known I would all along. As it was always destined to be.


How many hobbits can we fit in a bed?
This ain't floating my boat!
Home, Jones!


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