Title: Power of Words

Author: Nevoreiel (lamort_noir@hotmail.com)

Pairing: Grima/Éomer

Rating: PG-13 for its share of slashyness and a bit o' non-con.

Disclaimer: J. R. R Tolkien and Co. owns all, no infringement meant. The phrases from the movie are copyright by New Line and the screenwriters.

Notes: Written on a whim and as a branching out into other pairings. A last Huzzah! before the New Year.

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His voice was so cold at times but it never failed to set Éomer's blood boiling. After all, there must be a reason that he was called Wormtongue.

Grima knows what he can do with words; veiling truth and serving lies, only they're so well concealed that no one can tell the difference and some don't care to.

Grima found pleasure in tormenting Éomer – to speak with Theoden's authority and see him seethe with silent fury. Wormtongue watched him pale as Éomer's own thoughts betrayed him, straying to Grima's fascination with Éowyn. The mind made it more horrible than Grima could ever contrive.

But it was not this that Grima delighted in most. Most anyone could drive Éomer to anger or fear but only Grima could cloud his eyes with lust.

It was a thrill to watch the body succumb to his words. And so, he now stood, appraising the proud Éomer as he sat on his bed. It was plain that he did not wish to be there just the same as he did not wish to leave.

Smiling cruelly, Grima stepped closer and tilted the blond head up so he could see his eyes. "It would be so easy to make you beg," Grima almost hissed. He lowered his head and sharply kissed the unresisting lips. He gripped the jaws with an unnecessarily strong hold, fingers digging into the soft cheeks.

Éomer's tongue was pliant, his mouth hot, and Grima took at his pleasure. Breaking away, he pushed Éomer back and sat on his hips, cloak spread about him.

Finger's raked sharply against Éomer's evident enjoyment and Grima drank in greedily the pained moans. He reached to undo the ties and watched as panic crept into Éomer's eyes. But one cool touch of his hand and Éomer was arching off the bed, eyes pleading for more.

Being naturally pitiless, Grima withdrew his hand, wiped it on Éomer's tunic, and rose.

Grima scowled down at a befuddled Éomer, "Too easy."

The End

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A/N: Feedback appreciated.