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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 2 years

Note

for the spooky prompts !! if the mood sways you, perhaps grima with "fog rolling on an open field" ?? 👀💀💗

I was asked for spooky and uh...wrote some spooky-adjacent smut instead. You're welcome world.

But thank you so much for the ask! I am happy to have cranked something out that is a one shot and not 8k words long - a marvel upon marvels.

Title: Wondrous Works

Rating: explicit

Characters: Grima, Eomer, the dead

Pairing: Grima/Eomer

Summary: The second harvest is being brought in, the sun is beginning its slow decent into long winter nights, and the dead are out to remind the living what is owed. But mostly, Grima and Eomer shag.

Note: takes place post-Cycles of Song/the war and also Be Not Afraid of Plenty but no need have read that monstrosity of a trilogy+ to follow this. Just know it's post-war and Theoden is still alive.

AO3 Link

Halloween Prompt List

Night, late, and the air is collecting itself into mist which hugs the ground of freshly reaped fields. Second harvest is the singing harvest. It is also the one to let the dead into the world of the living until Spring Jol where they will dissipate again into their halls and barrows and mounds. The unknown lands that exist within and atop of and beneath the known.

Gríma drinks fresh mead that could have stayed in the barrel for another month and watches the fog gather. Are there shapes within it? Shadows moving, creatures venturing to eat what was left for them but only through the safety of night when all is hidden.

In Gondor, there had been a man Gríma got drunk with during one of the many feasting days after Aragorn’s coronation and Gríma had explained second harvest to him and the hallow dark days that end come middle-March. There are moor-walkers, shadow-walkers, death-eaters, keepers of hungry grass, disir, aglcecas—

You used that word before, the man said.

Which one?

Aglcecas. But you used it to describe the crown-prince.

Gríma tisked, We don’t have crown-princes. We have king-elects and yes, I did use it for Éomer. It means…fiend and monster, to be sure. It can also mean hero or saviour or great warrior. At least, that is how I’ve heard it translated. It alters, depends who you’re speaking on.

The man squinted through wine at Gríma. Sizing him up or trying to see if he’s lying or not doing anything of the sort and just looking at him drunkenly. How would you translate it?

Formidable one. Devils and ghouls and spirits of fire and air are formidable. So are men lauded as heroes, but for different reasons.

Things have changed since June 3019. A great many things. Gríma would still use aglceca to describe Éomer, though.

Second harvest is brought in by everyone. Kings to peasant. Men, women, children. Everyone is in the fields swinging scythes for barley and einkorn and rye and oats. Those that aren’t in the fields are in the threshing barns, separating out the chaff. It floats through air, catches in hair. You spend the evening pulling it out, flicking it into the fire. It’s hot work, thirsty work, especially when summer heat is lingering long and will likely continue well into autumn. Night, then, is a relief.

Gríma scratches at the back of his neck, bits of dust and flecks of chafing. Low cooking fires, kept going by those up date, dot the countryside. Larger bonfires remain burning if you train an eye towards Edoras, the villages and homesteads that pour out from its sturdy walls. Gríma, though, is well beyond foregate and town. It’ll be an hour or so to walk back and he isn’t in the mood.

The fog has thickened, made itself a sturdy fortress. It will remain until morning until the sun gets going enough to burn it off. That means, early hours of gathering water and feeding chickens will need to be careful hours. The dead may still lurk in the mist past daybreak. When they come, they come hungry. They taketaketake and do not look too carefully at what, or who, it is.

A crunch of grass, breaking straw, then Éomer’s voice: ‘There you are. I was wondering where you got to.’

‘Admiring the stars.’

Éomer looks up, nods, yes they’re nice tonight. The moon small enough so they can shine through. ‘Are you kipping out here or going back?’

Gríma finishes his mead with a shrug. ‘Probably stay out here. We’re back in the morning anyway to finish the job.’

‘Is it safe?’ Éomer teased. ‘With spirits and sprites lurking about to make mischief.’

‘Worse than mischief, usually.’

‘I suppose you’ve your patron protector to hand, if you need him.’

Gríma makes no reply. It may be over a year since the war ended, and gods, he may be attempting to hash out his weregild and do amends and all that, but he remains loathe to give up all secrets. He calculates what’s told and untold. He thinks Éomer suspects something for the man brings up the entity more than is reasonable.

‘First night of second harvest is for mischief,’ Éomer points out. ‘Your nights are later.’

‘What do you mean my nights?’

‘Spirits and seidrcræft—that’s the dark nights.’

Gríma hums agreement. He tilts his head, ‘Are you saying these nights are yours?’

A flash of a grin, full impish glee. ‘Never. I’m the future king. I must learn to be serious and maintain decorum. Éothain says that I’ve improved drastically. Erkenbrand seems less inclined to sing my praises.’

‘He likes you well enough, my lord.’

‘He preferred my cousin.’

Gríma shrugs. There’s nothing to say to that. Éomer can shake swords at the ghost of Théodred all he wants. Wrest the crown from the hands of a shade whose memory haunts Éomer’s instep. Or does for the moment. Crowns and thrones have a specific sort of power to overwhelm and Gríma suspects that when Éomer assumes the mantel of kingship it will blind the world and force those memories to lay themselves to rest.

At the moment, though, there is no kingship. A future thought of it, but no present reality. It remains on Théoden’s shoulders. So Éomer is just a marshal of the mark and nephew to the king and making a lewd face at Gríma, full of innuendo, before tugging him along towards a haystack and kissing him.

Gríma hisses, ‘Éomer—we’ll get caught. Don’t be daft.’ To which Éomer replies, ‘I’ve never shagged someone behind a haystack before.’ Gríma, tartly, ‘Overrated in my experience.’ Éomer grins his wicked grin, the one made of quick fire and works to reverse Gríma’s blood, causes his head to cartwheel.

‘I always forget you were a farm-boy. You’re so well versed at appearing urbane and your accent never drops. Not to mention your general aversion to anything approaching physical labour.’

Before Gríma can reply Éomer’s mouth is against his again and Gríma is pressed into the hay which sticks into skin, more dust will slip beneath tunic and shift than what has already gathered from the day. He will itch and chafe away for it. He suspects it’ll be worth it.

‘Truly,’ Gríma whispers, ‘we should go elsewhere.’

‘Don’t want anyone seeing you on your knees?’

Gríma exhales through the thought of someone knowing Éomer is his and his utterly and his to all ends of the earth and gods he would burn the world down if Éomer asked him to—

‘Discretion, my lord,’ he says. ‘Better part of valor.’ Éomer leans in, breath warm against Gríma’s neck. He kisses beneath Gríma’s ear while tugging hard at Gríma’s hair and there is a second kiss, soft, painfully soft, the suggestion of teeth, tongue against skin. Gríma wants to meld into Éomer. Wants to fuse into him wholly, entirely, and never separate. Éomer’s other hand cups the side of his face and they’re against each other—work tunics and hose are light, thinner wools of autumn, and he can feel Éomer hard. Rubs his palm between the younger man’s legs causing Éomer to make a noise, a half-gasp, then they’re back to kissing, mouths hungry and wanting.

A song strikes up, a workman’s lay. Three men, Gríma thinks, by the sound of it. Close to them. Too close. Gríma steps away, adjusting hair and belt and the skirts of his tunic as Éomer does the same. Thankfully the moon is small and so there’s plenty of dark to hide in. They can be like the disir, unseen until they wish to be seen. Éomer grabs his hand and nods out to the fields and between them, a stream where they both know there to be divets and grottos, little sacred places to be secret in.

The man in Gondor Gríma drank with had been surprised by how closely the Éothéod live with their dead. How their barrows and mounds are where couples plight troths and where families picnic on high holidays in summer. Chairs and benches are left open at meals to accommodate the unseen and silent. Berries left on bushes after the second week in September for the fallen brave to feast on. The dead are dead, they are in the halls of their ancestors, but they are also in the home of everyone person in Éomarc.

Éomer leads them down along the embankment and towards a tucked-away space created by an overhang of a tree and the steepness of the bank at this particular spot. There is some grass, and it’s not too muddy, so will do for the time. Gríma finds Éomer’s hands on his face again, kissing him, he’s walked backwards into the wall of the embankment. Rocks and tree roots press against back as Éomer leans fully into him. Gríma tugs at Éomer’s belt, loosening it then it drops to the ground. By the water, and in the deepening hours of night, the world begins to cool so Gríma pushes tunic skirts aside, thankfully short for they’re labouring clothes, and begins unlacing hose. No finesse, here. No taking time. No forbearance. Restraint means little as Éomer moans into Gríma’s mouth when Gríma wraps his hand around Éomer’s cock.

Gods, he gets hard knowing he can make Éomer moan like this. That he can make Éomer restless and reckless. That Éomer wants to fuck him face first into the earth, shove his cock inside Gríma hard enough, deep enough, often enough to make the thought of riding a horse painful. That Gríma could order Éomer to walk on him and he would. There is a delightful thread of power in this. Woven through, at times, with sheer mysticism at why.

Why him? Éomer should throw him in a river, all things considered. Do as Gríma’s brothers did a hundred times throughout childhood. It being little more than is deserved—and there are men and women who would tell Éomer he’d be well justified in it. But Gríma doesn’t wish to look too closely at the why and the wherefore. He doesn’t want to know what might lie beneath it. He doesn’t want clarity because shining light upon the why might make Éomer leave and that would be worse than dying.

Currently, Éomer is whispering that he wants Gríma’s mouth on his prick. He wants Gríma sucking on him. He wants to see him gag for it. He wants to watch Gríma swallow. He wants to know his semen is inside of him. All the while Gríma is gasping, yesyesyesgodsyesohgodsplease and wanting to rub himself up Éomer’s thigh, wants to ride Éomer, climb him like a tree, anything, but Éomer is pulling Gríma’s hand off his cock, he’s stilling Gríma’s hips which had been moving against Éomer.

‘Wait,’ Éomer hisses against Gríma’s ear. ‘You’re a patient man, you can wait.’

He is not a patient man, Gríma wants to say. Why does Éomer think he ran so fast to Saruman when there was the threat of darkness looming (greed and power aside)? No hope and no patience to wait for hope. A desperate need to be doing something, anything, to have some control and moving fastfastfast to make it happen. So fast he dove off a cliff. Granted, this is hindsight. At the time he thought he had deliberated on it, thought it through to exactitude. Anyway.

Éomer pushes Gríma down to his knees, thankfully not making a joke about future crowns and thrones, which he has done in the past and Gríma replied, Nothing is less arousing than your sense of humour.

Fingers are in Gríma’s hair as he wraps a hand around the base of Éomer’s cock before taking it in his mouth. Everything zeros in to this moment, the noises Éomer is making interspersed with whispers of ohgods yes and fuck I like you like this, also the taste of Éomer’s prick, the way it feels in his mouth, against his tongue, the smell of arousal, sweat from the day, also damp earth, autumnal tree litter going to molder beneath itself.

Gríma wants to touch himself. Wants to pull himself off while Éomer spends down his throat. But he keeps his free hand on Éomer’s hip, fingers digging in as Éomer rocks forward slightly. Glancing up, he meets Éomer’s gaze, a hungry, fearsome, aggressive look. All fire. Not dissimilar to how he looks in battle when blood is up and he’s just killed someone. Gríma thinks Éomer could kill him right now and he’d be happy. He closes his eyes again, feels Éomer’s hand tighten in his hair, tugging on it and pushing him down so Gríma’s mouth is against the hand working the base of Éomer’s cock. He works on breathing. On not gagging. Though he thinks Éomer would like it, knows Éomer would like it, but he doesn’t want to give him everything. Éomer is used to having things given to him. Being a nobleman does that. Gríma likes to make him work, from time to time.

When Éomer comes, it’s with a gasp that deepens into a moan, and he tugs at Gríma’s hair for something to do with his hands and Gríma swallows what he can before pulling away, taking deep breaths and working his jaw. Suddenly Éomer is before him, kissing him soundly and pushing him backwards so he’s sitting. Gríma wants Éomer on top of him, pulls him close as Éomer moves clothes out of the way, undoing enough to have his hand around Gríma’s cock. He’s tight, warm, Gríma loves the feel of it. The callouses, the way Éomer strokes him, the way he whispers, all heatedly, tell me what you want, show me how you like it. Gríma buries his face against Éomer’s neck, breath hitching. Éomer says, ‘I like watching you come, I like watching you touch yourself while I touch you’ and wants him lying back, half propped against the wall, but Gríma won’t move, prefers his arms around Éomer’s shoulders, his face hidden. Éomer’s hand tightens, Gríma moans, whispering, ‘Oh gods’ into Éomer’s hair and skin and oh stars help him he wants to meld bodily into Éomer’s hair and skin and bone.

When he spills, it is quiet. Hardly noticeable. Éomer is slow, entirely pleased with himself as they unweave from one another. A damp hand holds Gríma’s face still. Gríma wants to look anywhere else but Éomer is directly before him and close. He looks at Gríma, through Gríma, a cutlass stare then, a sudden smile as Éomer leans in and kisses him.

Around them, fog gathers. Whispers and hums of the dead and the creatures of rivers at night, of barrows and the unknown, gather. Gríma rummages through the bag on his belt and pulls out a candle. He lights it. Sets it between them and the river. Feels Éomer settle near him with a comment that he should return to his lodgings soon. Lest he be missed. But there’s no rush. They can stay here, like this, for a little while and pretend that when the sun rises everything will be different. No crowns. No past riddled with poor decisions. Somehow, during the night, a mist will billow in, blanket the world, consume everyone, and spit them out wholly as they ought to be.

‘Or not,’ Éomer continues. ‘I suppose we are as we ought to be, right now. Because of what we’ve been and done.’

‘That is how it works,’ Gríma replies. ‘The part of our soul that is us is like wax. It imprints with what has happened. We are made of what we have seen and done and who we have met and what we have heard.’

‘Ah,’ Éomer grins. ‘You are coming around to my way of thinking at last. If the part of your soul that is you is wax, then you can reshape it. Or portions of it. Even though you think you were born set in stone.’

Gríma sniffs. The candle flickers. Gutters as a breeze brushes by. Or a spirit. Somewhere in a distant field, a guttural howl but not of any wolf or hound. Éomer sighs, gets up and dusts his clothes down. He holds his hand out for Gríma. Gríma looks at it, hesitates a second, before accepting it. Never having had much himself, he wonders how much kindness a person can accept before it becomes a burden on their souls. Like alcohol, he assumes some can bear more than others.

But look at this night—the stars and the smell of the harvest and there’s Éomer humming some dirty soldier’s song, waiting for Gríma to snuff out the candle and come along with him back to the warmth of a hearth fire and mulled wine. The smell of myrtle and sagebrush and sweetgrass.

Around them, there is mist and fog and the dead who are made of memories. As they walk back, slow and with patience, Gríma supposes he will find out how much his own souls can bear before like a shelf with too much on it, the weight of the goodness of world breaks them.

#writing #ask #reply #writing meme #halloween meme #grima wormtongue #eomer #griomer #lotr #lord of the rings #lotr fic #cycles of song #be not afraid of plenty #swimming through fire #wondrous works

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