He'll miss mealtime. And Féola will most likely be displeased with him. But it will be worth it. He will be desired. He will be a part of something. Being a part of something is a good thing to be, on the whole.
Kneeling in the straw to carry out Gríma's first wish, according to Éomer´s impressive and sudden mindreading ability, Gríma slyly smiles. They have managed to relocate to the hayloft, which is at least a bit more secluded and thankfully shrouded in shadows. The horses have been fed already, up here is as safe and private as it´s going to get.
Hay gets everywhere. He has only been in here for a few minutes and already it has managed to creep inside his collar, itchingly dance down his back. Hay has gotten into Éomer´s hair, and if Gríma was in a mood to be particularly nasty, he would say that it doesn't much matter, no one can see the difference between hair and hay. The horses might notice, come time for feeding them again. But there is no need to say such things now, perhaps save them for another time. Éomer now is right how Gríma fancies him: hard and ready. Which is good, because they do not have all night. Which, in turn, is bad. But will have to do, for now.
Éomer's hands in Gríma's hair. Hay, of course, in Gríma's hair. He will probably end up getting hay up his arse, he thinks, but is fine with this as long as Éomer is right there with it. He will in that case have earned both, for he has very much put himself in this position. A tightening of hands in hair; the horse lord is annoyed either at Gríma's tardiness or at his unwillingness to voice his desires, quite probably both. Placing his hands on Éomer's thighs, stroking them slowly, Gríma puts his mouth near the hard bulge in Éomer's pants, breathes at it. He is cold, overall, but some little warmth of his own he can produce. Éomer's soft moan. Gríma's hands wandering up to crotch, thumbs slowly circling the insides of Éomer's thighs. Éomer leans back at the wall as Gríma manages to undo the lacings of his pants and release his cock, stroking it gently while breathing right at its tip. A yank in Gríma's hair. Go on, growls Éomer. Gríma, head to side, peeking up; I thought this was how I wanted it? I'm ever so sorry if I was mistaken, my lord. Éomer's exasperated expression; that is not what I meant and you know it. Oh yes, Gríma knows. Thank you for the clarification. Will go on as instructed.
Circling his tongue gently around the head of the cock, Gríma pulls at Éomer's pants to make them come further down. Fingers leaving Gríma's hair, Éomer starts to undo his vest and shirt, eager to get free of his clothes. Gríma smiles contently. He likes unclothed Éomer. Will have some more of that shortly. Holding Éomer's cock in place, he licks it all the way down to the base, making it moist before beginning to stroke it. A soft noise from Éomer. His one hand finds Gríma's shoulder, the other now gently cupping the back of his head as he urges Gríma to take him in his mouth. One more stroke before Gríma complies, slowly starts sucking the tip while flattening his tongue to continuously move along the cock's underside as he allows more and more of it to enter his mouth. Once inside, Éomer wants to thrust and Gríma allows it, opening for as much as he can take while holding on to Éomer's moving hips, closing his eyes as he tastes the salty arousal. He enjoys the smell, the taste, the hardness. He is hard himself, and slightly uncomfortable for it. The nearby haystack will provide a suitable place for the next installment of this venture, he thinks.
Éomer's eyes are closed, he is groaning while moving his hips rhythmically. Gríma could let him continue. Gríma will not let him continue. Gríma wants to prove his point from earlier, and thus must have everything play out according to Éomer's instructions. Which is all a bit silly, but then spring makes us silly and spring-related feelings might make us exceedingly silly and so there's that.
Pushing at Éomer's hips to get his attention and slow him down, Gríma relaxes his mouth, drawing in air as Éomer pulls out. Breathing heavily, he makes to stand. Éomer pulls him up, pulls him in; kisses him hotly. All that heat of his. Though mostly unclothed, he is by far the warmest one. Gríma leans into the heat, warming pale hands at Éomer's chest, reacquainting himself with muscles and skin and all that is soft or hard. Abdomen: hard. Softness at chest and again hardness, as muscles shift when Éomer makes to remove Gríma's clothes; these must come off. Gríma does not much like himself unclothed, but has found that Éomer does, so accepts the swift unbuttoning of shirt, unbuckling of belt and raises his arms so that Éomer can pull off his undertunic. Which drops unceremoniously to the floor. Hands, hard warm hands on his slender body. That is mostly hard but less for muscles and more for angles, scrawny Gríma has been called but not by Éomer. Pale skin smooth to the touch. A hand down to his crotch; yes, of course hard. Pants must come off but first they should make way to the haystack. Gríma tugs at Éomer to make him follow, and Éomer settles into the hay, pulling Gríma down on top of him. The hay all but engulfs them.
