Once upon a Midsummer eve
It's the festival of summer solstice, or the Midsummer feast, as it's commonly known in Edoras. The night that is no night, merely the sun changing minds on its way to bed and climbing back into the sky as the people dance and sing and make merriment. Maidens wear flowers in their hair and young couples hoping to get married in the summer jump together through small fires to cleanse themselves of errors past and bring blessings to their new future together. Children stay up far too late this night, and adults even longer. There are those who go to bed early, but seldom to sleep. It is the true beginning of summer, and the night itself is said to be magical. To help the magic in coming, there's usually large quantities of alcohol at hand, good beer for the commoners and only the finest wine for those as can afford it.
Gríma Wormtongue was one of those who could, in those days, and he swirled the golden liquid in his cup gingerly as he strode across the square, lazily watching the people of Edoras. Exclusive white wine, brought out from the cool underground storehouse especially for this occasion: a sharp cold sensation in his mouth and a refreshing feel, quite unlike the subtle drowsiness brought on by the red wines usually served at the court. Gríma was not known to be a drinking man, mainly because drinking dulls both mind and judgement, but he was quite fond of treating others to drinks for exactly the same reason. This grape juice, however, seemed to contain very low levels of alcohol, Gríma thought, as he graciously accepted a refill at the next refreshment counter, carefully placing a coin in the palm of the maid. He ignored her shudder at the touch of his cold fingers, knowing too well of the whispers and rumours about his person but decidedly paying them no mind. Not tonight.
He watched people coming and going, but put no effort in it. No, not tonight, when everyone's mind was elsewhere than on the affairs of the kingdom. He kept an eye out for the lady Éowyn, as always; thinking she might be here somewhere, smiling and rosy cheeked, laughing and dancing. Drinking, perhaps? Letting the cool, fresh wine wash the lines of thought and worry from her precious forehead… Gríma must allow himself a slight smile at this point, recognizing his own musings for just the same kind of foolish thoughts he was hoping the lady Éowyn might have. She'd never! Dancing and laughing she might be, hiking her skirts up, the better to swirl around like a firefly, but not losing self-control in public. Never. She could not be led astray by a drink or two, and he admired her for that. Few men could say the same, although, admittedly, they had most likely never been told not to drink too much, not to lose control, less bad things happen to them or they wake up hurting in the bed of a stranger… Gríma cut his thoughts short. Such things were not common in Edoras, to his knowledge (and his knowledge was quite vast). To get his mind of such unpleasant thoughts, he absent-mindedly accepted yet another cup of wine, moving again from the counter and up toward the thick castle walls, idly thinking they might provide a better view to spot the White Lady. She was always in the back of his mind, distracting like a drop of cold water running down his spine.
Here, above the fires and the crowd, the air was chilly, as it gets early in the season. It was ever windy in Edoras, but tonight it was more of a soft breeze, a gentle promise of warmth blowing in from the south. Gríma made way toward a nook he knew well, one from which he'd get a good view of the dancers below. Perhaps it was the thought of being able to catch a good glimpse of a dancing Éowyn that made him quicken his step, perhaps it was the drink that made him less cautious than usual. Either way, it wasn't until he'd stepped into the deep archway in the wall that he realized he was not alone. Someone else had found it before him; Lord Éomer, third Marshal to the king, and the one person he'd felt most lucky having managed to avoid all night.
Gríma, though baffled, quickly regained the initiative: "Pardon me, my lord, I did not realize this arch was already taken."
He made a hasty combined bow and twirl, trying to make a swift escape from the archway. He was hindered, however, by a muscular arm blocking his way. The third Marshal wore an unreadable expression, barely visible in the light from the fires below. Anger? Gríma knew Lord Éomer to be hot headed, but this seemed a bit much.
"Why do you come here," asked Éomer, "to watch and to prey on… our women?"
The man smelled strongly of spirits. Gríma, thoroughly annoyed, still thought it wisest to agree with his young Lord while in this state, and snapped: "Oh, precisely so. Much like yourself, my lord. And now I must leave, my lord."
"You go nowhere; you hear me? You watch and peek, always trying to steal a glance, always watching… " Éomer leaned closer to Gríma, almost growling. Gríma, still thinking it the best way to escape, nodded:
"Quite. I'm surprised to find you here though, my lord." At this point, Gríma couldn't help himself but to spitefully ask, "Pardon my curiosity, but whom exactly were you watching, glancing, peeking for yourself?"
"I… you."
"Yes?" tried Gríma, when no further explanation was coming. Éomer, clearly unfocused and confused from his original train of thought, drank deeply from the bottle in his hand and looked straight ahead.
"Watching you, watching her… " he mumbled, taking yet another swig from his bottle.
"You are the watcher of us all, then," Gríma concluded impatiently, finding the situation absurd. "Why, my lord, he continued, that drink sure smells… interesting. Mind if I take it off your hands?"
Gríma was starting to realize that Lord Éomer was far too drunk, and that whatever ill things happened to the third Marshal tonight would have happened in the presence of the hardly beloved Gríma Wormtongue. Better not risk that.
"They make it from apples, I'm told. Healthy for you. Makes you grow hair on your – " here, the young lord bumped his chest in explanation, burping while doing so.
"Charming, " snorted Gríma, "I should try. "
"Surely," said Éomer, pouring the contents of the bottle into Gríma's cup, delicately bumping the cup with the bottle to make a mocking toast:
"To watching. To Rohan. To hair on your chest!" And Éomer, suddenly quite too cheerful, drained whatever was left in the bottle.
Gríma, slightly confused and ill at ease with the way the situation was headed, reflexively mumbled something in response and drank deeply from his cup. The sensation, it was like nothing he'd ever tasted before. Sweet and yet sour, the taste had fire to it; burning down his throat, causing his eyelids to twitch and his toes to curl. The drink may have been made from apples, but those apples must have had a really bad day. They were aggressively pounding the liquor down his system, making him sweat and freeze at the same time. Gasping for air, he took a staggering step and reached out for support. The closest thing at hand seemed to be Lord Éomer, and Gríma grabbed the man's upper arm in an attempt to regain balance. The third Marshal, unfortunately, could hardly stand upright himself, and ended up pulling Gríma down on top of him in a messy pile. Éomer then started to laugh briskly at the absurdity of the situation. Gríma couldn't help but be affected: such a sight! This was truly ridiculous. The Marshal and the Councillor, respectable men and sworn enemies, reduced to nothing but drunk children on a Midsummer night!
Suddenly, Éomer's laugh had turned softer, hoarser; suddenly, his hand had moved from Gríma's shoulder and came entangled in his hair. Suddenly, it was all going too fast. Gríma barely had time to think that this must be utter madness, but Éomer had covered his mouth with his own before the thought could be voiced. There was the young Rohirrim; testing, tasting, trying before boldly pressing on and Gríma felt himself answer, felt his body rush in to take over while his mind continuously screamed that this was crazy, outrageous, impossible! But his limbs wouldn't listen anymore.
Gríma felt his body taking the reins as all his blood came rushing downwards, leaving him slightly lightheaded. Every natural doubt was gone. And the body in charge told him that he very much liked this new, unexpected situation. A bulge pressing into his thigh also told him his body was not alone in this. Éomer was breathing heavily, heaving himself up and repositioning Gríma in his lap while still kissing him, biting his lower lip with sharp teeth.
Gríma tried to pull away, asking breathlessly: "What are you doing?"
"Beating you at your own game, ha ha!" Éomer was clearly as lightheaded as ever Gríma.
"What do you mean," whispered Gríma, slightly dazed.
"Tongue wrestling!" The answer came accompanied with a giggle.
Clearly thinking himself the joker of the month, the young lord pulled Gríma down again, eagerly wrapping his tongue around his, as if to demonstrate his words. Gríma felt amused. This was high level, coming from Lord Éomer. Wrestling, indeed! Well, let's see then, young Marshal, who will come out on the winning side, hmm?
Evidently, Éomer had done a bit more actual wrestling in his day. Wrapping one arm around Gríma's waist, he began to rub against him, breathing more heavily as the bulge in his pants made contact with Gríma's thigh or groin. With the other hand, he started to unbutton his shirt, eagerly finding his way inside it and touching Gríma's chest with strong, nimble fingers.
"You should have had some more drink," he breathed into Gríma's ear, "there's hardly anything here!"
"Spilled most of it on you," Gríma replied, tossing his now empty cup aside. "Perhaps it could still be rescued," he continued drowsily, starting to plant small kisses down Éomer's neck, as if trying to salvage the beverage spilled. Reaching down, he carefully began to loosen the young lord's clothing, deftly working his way down the shirt, tentatively pausing at the belt holding up the trousers.
Éomer took to full combat with Gríma's shirt, furiously battling it off him, along with the woollen cloak worn atop of it. Gríma, chilled and somewhat hesitant in the soft breeze, asked:
"You wouldn't happen to have another bottle, would you?"
Éomer, quite unaware of the sudden doubt, answered: "Sure, right this way," guiding Gríma's hesitant fingers steadily back down to his pants, placing them on that pulsating swell to clarify his intention.
Gríma gasped as he caught the meaning of the joke, but had no time to respond, as Éomer gently but firmly pushed him down from his lap and started to undo his own trousers. Gríma, on his knees, felt rather than saw Éomer's cock spring free of its restraints, and he felt lucky that the young man couldn't see the flush of colour on his cheeks as he bent down towards it.
The musky scent of arousal filled his nostrils as he let the tip of his tongue touch the head of the erection. Salty, rounded; he let his tongue trace a path around it before slowly, carefully, forming his lips to an o and opening them only to the tip of the cock, deliberately sucking it slowly, pushing it almost all the way out before letting it back in, tongue cautiously following its curved shape.
"We shall have to –ah, think of a better nickname for you- your- your tongue," whimpered Éomer above him, fistful of the Gríma's hair in his hand.
Gríma could feel Éomer trying to force his head down to take him full length into his mouth, but he endured the pull of his hair, painful as it became when he released the tip of the cock to let his tongue run all the way down to its base, finding the balls and licking them teasingly before taking them into his mouth, tongue moving swiftly between them.
"It's true then: you are wicked," growled Éomer, fingers tightening in Gríma's hair. He was more used to immediate satisfaction from those he brought to his bed, and this teasing was agonising him, yet exciting beyond belief: who would have thought?
As Éomer moaned and tugged at him, Gríma took pity and moved up to take him all in mouth. When Éomer began to move his hips rhythmically, Gríma let his fingers carefully stroke the still wet balls, causing the other man to cry out in delight. Finally able to still his desire, Éomer thrust none too gently, nearly causing Gríma to gag, then swiftly drew out again, finding a steadier rhythm. Gríma succumbed and followed, flattening his tongue the better to have it run up and down, moisturizing the erection. He let his free hand find its way up Éomer's torso. Oh. Here was undoubtedly the proof of just how deep down that bottle this little lord must have looked, thought Gríma, circling his fingers around Éomer's nipples, and again down, feeling that muscular abdomen move steadily underneath the palm of his hand.
Another hand caught hold of his: Éomer, closing in on his sweet release, squeezed the hand of his benefactor and pulled it up to his mouth, furiously kissing the palm and the thin white skin on the wrist, right atop of the vulnerable blue veins. And with a final deep thrust, Éomer came, head thrust back and clutching on tight to the back of Gríma's head, firmly holding him in place.
Gríma reflexively swallowed as the warm liquid hit the back of his throat, the taste reminding him somewhat of unbaked bread. He stayed there, perfectly still until Éomer reluctantly let go of his head and allowed him to withdraw. Carefully running his lips up one last time, Gríma could finally draw a sharp breath. As he lay panting between Éomer's legs, he realized that they were still holding hands. Dully thinking to aid he throbbing ache in his own pants, made none the better of his kneeling position, Gríma tried to pull free. Éomer moved all of the sudden, as if he had been asleep and just now woken. He grabbed Gríma forcefully by his arms, turning and pinning him back down on the ground as he came on top to straddle him. Gríma winced, sharp pebbles biting in to his shoulders, and tried to break free but to no avail. Éomer grabbed both wrists of the squirming man and brought them high above his head, allowing him to hold them down with one hand while trying to free Gríma of his pants with the other. Seeing Éomer's intention, Gríma became still and allowed him to set to work with loosening the lacing holding his trousers in place and letting rough fingers, hardened by years of apprenticeship by the sword, pull him free of the clothing and finally taking him in hand, almost embracing his full length in one warm palm.
As Éomer began to move his hand, surprisingly gently, Gríma tried to get up from the unforgiving pebbles on the ground. However, Éomer bent down to kiss him, pushing him down once more. Gríma contended himself by thrusting hard into his hand, to which Éomer responded by making his movements harder and faster, tightening his grip on the erection. As the pace quickened, Gríma bit his lip, trying not to cry out loud. Éomer, upon noting this, got a malicious glint in his eyes and let his movements come to a halt. As Gríma opened his mouth and inhaled sharply to voice a protest, Éomer squeezed tightly and stroked him up and down just once.
"What do you think you're d – oh, ooh!"
"That's right, sing for me or I'll stop dead," laughed Éomer, clearly enjoying himself.
"Why, you – oh! You bast – ah, ah, bastard!" Gríma, hips moving compulsively, thrust angrily into the hand of his captor, groaning obediently as to reassure Éomer that his handiwork was indeed satisfactory. Such vanity! he thought angrily, and then, more admiringly; how ingenious.
As Gríma's moans increased in volume, Éomer quickened his pace until Gríma finally was allowed to release all over his own belly. Éomer remained his grip for a few strokes more, then carefully let go. Curiously, he smeared his fingers in the warm fluid, tracing a simple pattern around Gríma's navel. Gríma, sprawled on the ground, breathed heavily, trying to regain control of his sweaty limbs.
A sudden noise made the two of them stir. Voices moving up the castle wall, an unwelcome reminder of the world outside. Éomer, old reflexes kicking in, was on his feet in a heartbeat, donning his belt, quickly brushing his hair back in place while Gríma fumbled about for his spread garments, panic rising as he sobered up, mind once more trying to take the reins.
"You stay," hissed Éomer, carefully peeking out from the archway. "These are simple boys, leave them to me." With that, he swaggered out in front of the two young Rohirrim and approached them while still doing up his shirt.
"What a night, eh? You boys must make it back down to the fires now, I bet some pretty face is waiting for you there, right?" Jokingly elbowing the youngest lad, making him laugh and flush, Éomer placed his arms fatherly around the two boy's shoulders, turning them swiftly and making way back down to the square.
Gríma, nervously glancing out to watch them go, caught the departing words of the Marshal:
"And did you try the beverage old Braenowyn brought?" Lord Éomer turned his head slightly, glancing back along the wall. "They say it's made of apples, but it'll sure put hair on your – "
The party took a turn, and was gone. Still hiding in the shadows of the archway, Gríma Wormtongue waited, patiently, until the sound of their footsteps had died away. Only then did he sneak out of the arch, eyes darting around before he hurried back home to the Golden Hall, silently taking a vow never to touch that wretched drink again.
A/N
I own nothing. Yes, I may have borrowed Nanny Ogg's apple schnapps, well spotted! No, I have no regrets. Also, I have nothing against alcohol in general. But then again, when I make a drunken fool of myself there are no nations at stake...