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Standing there, hair whipping in the wind, arm stretched out, fingers spread wide, Gríma could hear. Far out from the city, high above the plains, lightning lashed the sky. Jagged yellow-white bolts against black. Gríma could taste the storm, too, heavy, hot ozone, on his tongue, flooding his nose. He watched the play of lights through the slits of his fingers; fingers that were, and always would be, too pale, and too thin. And yet he stood tall before the doors of the Golden Hall. His lip throbbed where it had been split. He tasted blood and the bitter salt of sweat. Too much, too little. No matter what, it was always too late. His fingers curled in on themselves and he dropped his balled fist down at his side. A grin spread on thin lips, a grin that that knew more than those lips would ever say. A grin that made his broken lip sting. And Meduseld's mostly empty porch was less empty than it had been a moment before. The doors had opened, closed, and Gríma could feel Éomer behind - he was very distinctive, after all, and now Gríma's senses sang with his presence. His sent, and his heat. The things he knew of Éomer, more deep than sweat and blood. "Gríma." He felt the force of Éomer's words as strong fingers curled over his shoulders, a grip like steel, and stone, a voice that could cause even the strongest man to feel weak. But Gríma was hardly the strongest of men. "Forgive me. Forgive my cousin." Forgive a split lip, forgive his cruel barbs. I cannot stop them, and I cannot stop him; but he is the son of the king, and I will crawl to you, after. I will beg of your forgiveness, and I will take it, too. Gríma's grin spread wide; he was only one snake amongst many. So he relaxes, relents, and Éomer takes that silence as an apology accepted. That is often how it is; there are times when Gríma would rather not hear Éomer's voice. And Éomer is always too loud. Neither is he known for his patience, and now his lips press hard, insistent, at the back of Gríma's neck. "What brings you to this place?" he murmurs against skin, biting with his teeth. Gríma bends his head forwards, closes his eyes. A wish, that Éomer would only take what he wanted; that he would quiet himself, and busy himself otherwise. Now Gríma is trapped. He's been here before. He'll be here again. But there will come a time, and he will have all that he wants - and more. And he could sing. Wish away, wish away, all I want will soon be mine. And you will be dead, and I will dance at your grave. It isn't Éomer that he wants; but Éomer and Éomer's affections are a means to his end. "The storm," he says, at length; with Éomer's fingers pressing bruises on his skin. Éomer is reminded of it, heavy grumbles and quick flashes, and it is closer, now, and closer still. His lips are gone from Gríma's neck, but Gríma can still feel those hands against his shoulders, and the moisture of Éomer's mouth is warm still on his skin. He can feel Éomer's breath. Éomer is strong, too strong; he doesn't know his strength. But neither does he know Gríma's. "What good is my forgiveness?" Éomer chuckled, rubbing Gríma's shoulders - his fingers, so thick and heavy with rough calluses, his breath, so hot. I thought that this was in the past, the wind seems to say. "Why should you not, Gríma? It was an accident, nothing more. Nothing less." "An accident?" Gríma chuckled, bitter, but that is how he is, and he would pull away from Éomer, now, if he was given the chance. "It was no accident." "But it is behind us," and that is Éomer's reply, a heavier grip, squeezing tight. "He is my cousin, and he is Théoden-king's son. What good would it do, Gríma, to complain?" Not much, and while Gríma would never admit it, he liked it, liked it best with Éomer's excuses. Now, his voice is low, mouth pressed to Gríma's ear. "Let us go to my room," so calm. The sky explodes, and rain falls down. Gríma's laughter is soft like a hiss. Startled by the sudden deluge, Éomer's grip loosens, and Gríma turns, slipping away; turned, and then he faced Éomer, slender strong hands clutching at Éomer's vest. Lightning, thunder. Maybe now Éomer could see another side of Gríma; a side he hadn't, yet, a wide, manic grin, a split upper lip, eyes that flashed yellow, reflecting the stormy sky. "No. Let us stay here." A grin, and laughter. Éomer crushed his mouth to Gríma's, and Gríma thinks of that moment when Théodred's fist had first hit; the grinding feel of hard knuckles against skin, when his lip had split and tooth had dug into the inner flesh of his lip. He had tasted blood, and he had fallen to his knees. Dust curled as he fell, and Théodred had laughed. Now Éomer is kissing him, and it was just an accident; an accident, and Théodred is the son of the king. An accident, and Éomer's kiss is not so different from his cousin's fist. Éomer's rough hands pushed at cloth that covered his shoulder, his tongue a heavy weight, thrusting in Gríma's mouth. To give over; or to have Éomer senseless, reeling. Éomer broke for air, a moment, and buried his face against Gríma's pale neck. Biting, kissing, sucking. There will be dark marks there, come morning, where Gríma will hide himself in shadows. But that is his way. "Let me, let me," an urge, and Éomer growled, animalistic, down deep in his throat. And Gríma is able to push him back, guide him, and Éomer stops only when he hits stone; and he is trapped, then, as Gríma slid his way back into his mouth. Gríma, quick tongue, and deft hands, and the fastenings of Éomer's trousers loosened and then the flaps of cloth fall to the side and Gríma bites on his lip, hard, and tastes blood; a blossom of bright copper salt dripping down their chin. Éomer tightened his grip on Gríma's upper arms, and he doesn't cry out, squeezing so tight that there will be bruises there, too. And Gríma freed himself, like a horse that has outsmarted its rider, and then Gríma is sliding down to his knees, feeling stone underneath. Éomer could only groaned, and thrust, the rain warm on his face as he looks to the sky. Gríma's hands gripped his bare hips, hard, and Gríma's mouth slid, wet, over the tip of Éomer's hard cock. A deep moan, and thin fingers dig in deep. Gríma took in all of Éomer that he could, a little, a lot, only stopping with the pressure of the head pushing at the back of his throat. Almost gagging. And then he can hold Éomer, back, and Éomer strains against that hold; his hands flat back against the stone, arching, head thrown to the sky. Holding, and nothing more. Everything and all. When Éomer's voice rose up to join the storm and its song, a shriek of pleasure and pain, only then does Gríma let himself move, and Éomer knows not to thrust, just to moan and feel and plead; and he does, demanding, commanding, but Gríma is giving and taking at a pace all of his own. Boneless, senseless, that is what Grima wants, and that is what he's given, when Éomer explodes in his mouth, white hot, and Gríma takes it all in. Swallows, and sucks, and Éomer keens, his voice rising up and tangling with the pulse of the storm. Lightning flashes, thunder cracks. Éomer is undone. He rocks back against the wall, clawing at rough stone, and Gríma rises up, wiping at his mouth. The rain is nearly blinding, and the face that Éomer turns to him is senseless, reeling. Gríma grins, touches Éomer's lips. Then he can lean close, and kiss him, let Éomer taste himself on Gríma's tongue, and Éomer is groaning, grunting, as Gríma sucks on his tongue. Gríma's hands, so quick, tugging Éomer's trousers up from where they'd been shoved down to his hips. Gríma's hands, fastening them tight. "Forgiven?" Éomer is panting, his eyes half-lidded. Gríma just grins, and leans against Éomer's weight; for a moment, Éomer slides his arms around Gríma, and Gríma is certain that he will see to this man's fall. "Forgiven," he lies, turning to walk to the edge. The wind whips, the lash of the rain; so hard, and stinging his cheeks. "Gríma," Éomer says, moving on unsteady legs. "What keeps you here, now?" Gríma's eyes are closed, as he licks his lips. "I listen to the song," he says, and Éomer watches for a moment, thinking quietly, before he turns back, heading into the hall. Gríma stands there, lifts his face to the sky, closing his eyes to feel the biting kiss of the rain. All is moving, frantic, and he sucks the salt from his lips; now, the storm's song is open, pounding, and all the world is dark. |