Hard is the chill of the midwinter night, the gleaming stars reflected in sparkling snow. For the moment, the wind was still, no longer howling around the city of Edoras. For now, the only sound heard was the falling embers in the fireplace as they crackled, warming still against the frosty night outside.

Gríma, former Counsellor of a now dead King, could feel no cold. He breathed heavily, the new King's one hand on his back, the other entangled in his hair. He had placed his own hands at the other man's shoulders, boldly pressing their bodies together. Éomer answered by deepening the kiss, pushing himself against Gríma. He could feel the eagerness of the man's lips and tongue, and as he came real close, he found a bulge pressing on his thigh, mimicking the swell in his own trousers as he sucked a quivering tongue. Pausing to inhale deeply and regain composure, Éomer turned, facing the four poster bed. He began to guide Gríma slowly towards it. Stumbling backwards, the former many-things hit a bedpost and remained there as the King took a step back, easily freeing himself of Gríma's arms.

As Gríma caught his breath, he regarded the man before him. Such life-force, such passion! He would blow up as easily as fireworks if unattended, that much was for sure. That kiss… Had the Wormtongue ever been kissed before? He had, but the ladies he had experience with were not the kind to kiss on the mouth, and he had never known that such a simple thing could feel so special, so intimate.

Éomer began to undo his leather vest, easing the lacing and struggling out of it, face set with determination. Gríma remained by the bedpost, thinking that he should perhaps get rid of some clothing, but found himself unable to move. His encounter with the rider was one thing, and it seemed so long ago. This again was something else. Seemingly perceiving his state of mind, Éomer came to his aid, swiftly undoing his coat first and then moving on, touching him lightly while undressing him. Slightly encouraged, Gríma set to work on the King's shirt, unbuttoning it deftly. As Éomer let it fall off from broad shoulders, Gríma gingerly reached out to caress his chest and abdomen, leaning in to nibble cautiously with his mouth while his fingers sought their way down to undo the lacing of Éomer's pants. Had you ever thought to find yourself in this situation, Gríma, called Wormtongue? Or had you, Éomer, King of Rohan?

Free at last of layers of cloth, Gríma felt the bed hit the back of his knees as he was pushed onto it by his King. He looked hungrily at the sight before him; Éomer's warm, firm torso and his shapely thighs, muscular arms wrapping themselves around Gríma's body as Éomer crawled on top of him, steaming of that everlasting inner warmth. Gríma pulled him closer, hands exploring the way across his back and down his spine, hesitating before slowly caressing one firm buttock, trembling slightly as Éomer responded by pushing himself violently against Gríma's body, making him squeeze even tighter in reply.

Éomer gently freed himself of the embrace. He pulled back, looking at the man afore him as if uncertain what to make of him. Gríma sized the moment and pushed himself up, placing his hands tenderly on Éomer's hips. At the sudden sensation of Gríma's lips close to his member, Éomer let out a harsh gasp, steadying the other man's head with his hand, carefully setting the tune for this dance. Gríma called Wormtongue did his very best to please his King, tongue moving up and down the shaft, circling 'round its top to make Éomer cry out in delight, only to leave him impatient and needy, longing for the next stroke of that tongue, the next touch of velvet lips.

When Gríma paused to draw his breath, Éomer let out a disappointed grunt. But Gríma offered his hand instead to aid the King, carefully stroking his cock as he let his mouth find its way up along Éomer's body, testing, tasting, teasing as pale tongue and soft lips wandered upwards, finding hard muscles, soft nipples, a delicate collarbone. As he was gently kissing his way up Éomer's throat, Gríma could feel the other man's pulse throbbing violently against his lips, as if it was trying to break through the skin and shower him with all the heat within. He fancied that, should it happen, it would surely seem as if a second sun would had risen right there in the chamber. The thought both tickled and amused him, as he let his lips wander all the way up to Éomer's ear, breathing in it gently before turning slowly to come face to face with him. He wanted those full lips to meet his again, but he didn't feel bold enough to voice his desire, fearful now that the other man might not want to touch him further. He thought that surely, the King wouldn't find his scrawny limbs appealing enough that he'd want to explore them with hands and mouth. Surely Éomer would not waste another kiss on him but try instead to satisfy his need at once. Hesitantly, he let his hands drop, awaiting Éomer's next move.

As those pale blue eyes looked apprehensively into his own, Éomer could sense the change although he did not rightly understand it. The man had worn a small, inward smile but it had left his lips and the look he now wore could best be described as pleading, although for what, Éomer did not know. I could spend a lifetime trying to figure out what he's thinking, thought Éomer, but I was never known for patience.

"Is something wrong," he asked instead. Gríma shook his head dismissively and bent down as if to continue his ministrations, but Éomer's hand caught him by the chin and brought him back up, peering inquiringly into his eyes. The pleading was still there, though the man sought clearly to disguise it.

"I thought I'd told you, no more lies," said Éomer. Gríma looked nervous, but the King's expression was mild, his fingers now gently caressing Gríma's cheek, finding some loose strands of hair and carefully tucking them back behind one ear. Not since childhood had he felt such a tender touch, thought Gríma, nor since ever. He closed his eyes momentarily, leaning in to the touch, allowing strong fingers to stroke his face. That such small a thing could feel so confidential, he had not known. He had expected something quick and rough, had braced himself for it. But now there was this, and it felt so good, he didn't quite know how to handle it. Overcome by emotion, he trembled slightly, not daring to open his eyes. For he was sure that if he did, the King would find tears in them.

Éomer simply watched as Gríma took a deep breath to steady himself, blinking a few times as if to clear his mind of something. He caught hold of Éomer's hand, gently pressing the fingers against his lips, kissing them.

As his hand brushed past Gríma's cheek, Éomer thought he felt something wet, but he didn't comment on it. "You must tell me," he said instead, "if there is something on your mind. I was never much good at guessing."

Clearing his throat, Gríma looked away, slightly abashed. "Nothing is wrong," he ventured, "only… different." He did not want to mention the rider, but the King had required the truth. He fell silent, awaiting Éomer's reaction.

"Different," said Éomer flatly. He had not expected to have his skills compared with those of Hémfal, but then, he didn't know what he had expected. He decided to just humble the man for once. "Different… bad?" he asked, ever the believer of a direct approach.

"Oh, no," Gríma hastened to assure, "never that. Only… different. I had not thought… I didn't…" he broke off, not ready to admit to the feelings the King had awakened in him.

"Different good then, I take it." Éomer was beginning to lose his patience; arguing the meaning of a word like this when there were so much better things to do. However, he must try to remember that Gríma's past experiences were limited, as the man himself had admitted. "How about this: if things get, shall we say, different bad, you will let me know?"

"I say it's fair, my Lord," Gríma answered, a small, grateful smile on his face. "As you rule, I find just. I am ever your –"

Éomer rolled his eyes at the man's formal tone and leaned down to silence him, his lips closing in over whatever words Gríma had planned to say next. Now, he willingly opened his mouth instead, admitting Éomer's tongue and encircling it with his own as strong arms wrapped themselves once more around his body. Weathered yet soft hands felt their way gently to explore him, breaking new ground where before there was wasteland. Gríma was eager to see that wasteland go. As Éomer's hands set to work, Gríma felt the man's heat spread across his own body, sharing its warmth with him.

Outside, the wind howled anew, piling up yet more snow for the men of Edoras to swear over on the morrow. Inside, as the embers died down, Gríma closed his eyes, finding himself all at the King's mercy. It was, he decided, not a bad place to be.

The end

A/N: Thank you for reading!

Inspired by many great works, I decided to make my own addition to the Gríma/Éomer (Grimomer?) fandom. Also, I always wanted to write that AU where Gríma Wormtongue takes Frodo's offer and survives.

Reviews are always welcome!