Recipient: savageseraph (2nd story)
Pairing: Miranda, David and a host of others seen.
Warning violent BDSM
Summary: Life isn't always what is expected, it can be defragmented and rough and yet you can still know what you want, even if you can't verbalize it.
Notes: Merry Christmas to my giftee, may it be all you deserve and I hope that if this wasn't exactly what you asked for, that you at least had a quiet moment to enjoy the ride.
Post-reveal Notes: Thank you to the two wise ones, who aren't on LJ who said sure let me read.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Her fingers were dancing across the images in her lap, her eyes were glazed and he could see that he had lost her again.
He was finding her this way more and more, yet again another reminder that while she had chose him, he wasn't who she had wanted. Something inside him had said once that he should be offended by the fact that for her, he was not mister right -- but rather mister right this minute.
He had thought that he was going to be okay with that, had been spending more and more time trying to be okay with that and only now was finding that he was nowhere near okay with that.
There were nights that he'd come home from filming and she'd been off of her mind, talking of the lovers past, friends' names that seemed more like blasphemy rolling off of her tongue. Obscene in the way that reminded him of secret hushed moments in the boys gym when they'd discuss what they'd do with the power they were discovering in their own bodies growing up.
She had been like a oubliette, all secrets and power and it was all he could do the first time he saw her in that light to not rip and ravish, take and make her submit to him, to finally make her break and bend to his will.
If she had only been able to see him for him, instead of a piss-poor substitute for which ever lover she couldn't whinge and break to her will, she would have seen that he would have been the perfect one to break her and rebuild her out of the strains that had been awakened from that accursed filming oh so many years before.
But he wasn't Faramir and she sure as shit wasn't the shield maiden.
She was scared and she was aching for the nights when she'd be made to submit to her lovers, a daisy chain for the fair Eowyn's glorious hair.
The same hair that Lawrence was fascinated by and Sala would fist in his hair as he rode her until she would beg to rut into the ground or against the side of the couch, anything to give her the release he would desire.
There were nights when her blood would burn and she could hear Viggo's words sung to her in Spanish under the New Zealand starry night sky as his hand would cover her mouth and his collar worn under her sweater equally as grounding as he took her by words but not by force.
Those were the nights when she would scream at the man.
She wanted him to take her, to make her his. To be the man she saw glimpses of under that same sky as he watched her be taken before he turned and walked away.
There was want and need. He wasn't force and animalistic, he wasn't passion and heat, there wasn't even like on the nights when she would rail off the list of names that was designed to remind her of what had brought her to this moment and also to remind him of where she had been, of being used as a weapon to bring him down off the marble pillar of control.
She wanted him to be the steel blade, to slice into her skin and lance this need from her body.
They all thought of her as submissive, to bend easily to their wills and to be passed like party favours from co-star to co-star. But they didn't know the real her.
She could wait. She wanted him and she'd get him.
She could bend him as she had bent; he was as smart as she was, smarter even from the nights when they had curved together in quiet need. He was what she wanted though she couldn't put a finger as to why it was that she needed him so.
- - - -
For the men that she had been with, she brought out many things in them. It was rather an unspoken club. They had known that like a hurricane, she came into their lives and left when they were tired. But never had they understood one important thing and Miranda never offered clarification on it.
She grew as tired of them as they did of her. Give and take was an age old belief and would still be there long after they were all dust and gleams about to become reality in another person's eye.
There were nights when she was used to replace the ghosts of an ex that was lost, to become the one who crushed them into the ground to regain their sense of pride.
She was a canvas for blood swirls and open cuts, feeling the burns long after the candle was snuffed out, hiding the rope burns under the shy smile of a courtesan who knew never to talk too much.
Little girls learn early how to wrap the world around their fingers before the world snaps that theory back like an elastic. Miranda needed to chose her eyes, listen to the way her heart beat against her chest and count back to those days.
Miranda used the contradiction of who and what she was to best effect in the scene where Eowyn faces Aragorn with a sword in her hand, allowing him to regain mental footing where they gave and took away the limits each had thought. That night she hadn't held a sword but a strap on with a vampire glove.
In the years that followed, when she would catch glimpses of the movies or a still or even her very own action figure, it would all come back. Muscle memory, scent or touch all combining and reminding her of the important tenet that was burnt into her brain.
That Love is love, even when it's tinged with candle bright pain.