By: Dana
Summary: Grima shall have all that he wants and more.
Characters: Grima, Eomer
Pairings: Eomer/Grima
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: For Lynn Cheshire, though I couldn't give her fluff. Beta by Hyel.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

He had stood there, watching, as storm clouds gathered overhead, thick and black and grey; they stretched from one horizon to the other, heavy and dark, and it was like midnight instead of midday. And if you listened very carefully, you could clearly hear a song; buzzing, surging, rumbling, buried down deep in the charge of the storm.

Standing there, hair whipping in the wind, arm stretched out, fingers spread wide, Grima could hear.

Far out from the city, high above the plains, lightning lashed the sky. Jagged yellow-white bolts against black. Grima 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 Grima could feel Eomer behind - he was very distinctive, after all, and now Grima's senses sang with his presence. His sent, and his heat. The things he knew of Eomer, more deep than sweat and blood.

"Grima."

He felt the force of Eomer'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 Grima 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.

Grima's grin spread wide; he was only one snake amongst many.

So he relaxes, relents, and Eomer takes that silence as an apology accepted. That is often how it is; there are times when Grima would rather not hear Eomer's voice.

And Eomer is always too loud.

Neither is he known for his patience, and now his lips press hard, insistent, at the back of Grima's neck. "What brings you to this place?" he murmurs against skin, biting with his teeth.

Grima bends his head forwards, closes his eyes. A wish, that Eomer would only take what he wanted; that he would quiet himself, and busy himself otherwise.

Now Grima 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 Eomer that he wants; but Eomer and Eomer's affections are a means to his end.

"The storm," he says, at length; with Eomer's fingers pressing bruises on his skin.

Eomer is reminded of it, heavy grumbles and quick flashes, and it is closer, now, and closer still. His lips are gone from Grima's neck, but Grima can still feel those hands against his shoulders, and the moisture of Eomer's mouth is warm still on his skin. He can feel Eomer's breath.

Eomer is strong, too strong; he doesn't know his strength.

But neither does he know Grima's.

"What good is my forgiveness?"

Eomer chuckled, rubbing Grima'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, Grima? It was an accident, nothing more. Nothing less."

"An accident?" Grima chuckled, bitter, but that is how he is, and he would pull away from Eomer, now, if he was given the chance. "It was no accident."

"But it is behind us," and that is Eomer's reply, a heavier grip, squeezing tight. "He is my cousin, and he is Theoden-king's son. What good would it do, Grima, to complain?"

Not much, and while Grima would never admit it, he liked it, liked it best with Eomer's excuses. Now, his voice is low, mouth pressed to Grima's ear. "Let us go to my room," so calm.

The sky explodes, and rain falls down.

Grima's laughter is soft like a hiss. Startled by the sudden deluge, Eomer's grip loosens, and Grima turns, slipping away; turned, and then he faced Eomer, slender strong hands clutching at Eomer's vest.

Lightning, thunder. Maybe now Eomer could see another side of Grima; 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. Eomer crushed his mouth to Grima's, and Grima thinks of that moment when Theodred'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 Theodred had laughed. Now Eomer is kissing him, and it was just an accident; an accident, and Theodred is the son of the king. An accident, and Eomer's kiss is not so different from his cousin's fist.

Eomer's rough hands pushed at cloth that covered his shoulder, his tongue a heavy weight, thrusting in Grima's mouth. To give over; or to have Eomer senseless, reeling. Eomer broke for air, a moment, and buried his face against Grima's pale neck. Biting, kissing, sucking. There will be dark marks there, come morning, where Grima will hide himself in shadows.

But that is his way.

"Let me, let me," an urge, and Eomer growled, animalistic, down deep in his throat. And Grima is able to push him back, guide him, and Eomer stops only when he hits stone; and he is trapped, then, as Grima slid his way back into his mouth.

Grima, quick tongue, and deft hands, and the fastenings of Eomer's trousers loosened and then the flaps of cloth fall to the side and Grima bites on his lip, hard, and tastes blood; a blossom of bright copper salt dripping down their chin. Eomer tightened his grip on Grima's upper arms, and he doesn't cry out, squeezing so tight that there will be bruises there, too. And Grima freed himself, like a horse that has outsmarted its rider, and then Grima is sliding down to his knees, feeling stone underneath. Eomer could only groaned, and thrust, the rain warm on his face as he looks to the sky. Grima's hands gripped his bare hips, hard, and Grima's mouth slid, wet, over the tip of Eomer's hard cock.

A deep moan, and thin fingers dig in deep. Grima took in all of Eomer 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 Eomer, back, and Eomer 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 Eomer's voice rose up to join the storm and its song, a shriek of pleasure and pain, only then does Grima let himself move, and Eomer knows not to thrust, just to moan and feel and plead; and he does, demanding, commanding, but Grima 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 Eomer explodes in his mouth, white hot, and Grima takes it all in. Swallows, and sucks, and Eomer keens, his voice rising up and tangling with the pulse of the storm.

Lightning flashes, thunder cracks. Eomer is undone.

He rocks back against the wall, clawing at rough stone, and Grima rises up, wiping at his mouth. The rain is nearly blinding, and the face that Eomer turns to him is senseless, reeling.

Grima grins, touches Eomer's lips. Then he can lean close, and kiss him, let Eomer taste himself on Grima's tongue, and Eomer is groaning, grunting, as Grima sucks on his tongue. Grima's hands, so quick, tugging Eomer's trousers up from where they'd been shoved down to his hips. Grima's hands, fastening them tight.

"Forgiven?" Eomer is panting, his eyes half-lidded.

Grima just grins, and leans against Eomer's weight; for a moment, Eomer slides his arms around Grima, and Grima 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.

"Grima," Eomer says, moving on unsteady legs. "What keeps you here, now?"

Grima's eyes are closed, as he licks his lips. "I listen to the song," he says, and Eomer watches for a moment, thinking quietly, before he turns back, heading into the hall.

Grima 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.