Hierarchy

Title: Hierarchy
Author: Lizzie (ravens_slavegirl@yahoo.co.uk)
Rating: R, I guess. Nothing *that* graphic.
Pairing: Aragorn/Éomer
Warnings: None except for excessive use of flowery language and of course, slash. Like duh.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. Besides, all you'll get is a set of malfunctioning fairy lights and a much-saddened fangirl if you do.
Summary: Purple Prose Aragorn/Éomer PWP written for the Sons of Gondor Gondor/Rohan pairing challenge. It needs a new title, and I'll be eternally grateful to anyone who suggests one.

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Hierarchy
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In desperate hours the fingers grasping roughly at his waist he finds most welcome; the lips and teeth and burning stubble at his throat he welcomes too. The heat and hunger of that mouth he finds intoxicates him, dizzies him, spreading forth like flaming fingers over sweat-slick skin. They rove now over every plane and delve down deep in every aching hollow; as his body's set on fire he knows the cold, cold air is not enough to keep his head from spinning, and all the while somewhere inside he understands that he should stop. He should push away those eager kisses, extricate himself from what he cannot but believe will prove to be a guilty, awkward situation.

There is a wrong here tugging on his conscience, an undercurrent speaking lowly to him of the harsh regrets to come. Morality inside his head is voiced most oft by Arwen; tonight the voice he hears is not hers but his own. Much as he desires belief that this release is merely transitory, he knows within himself that by both men it shall be remembered always. For two such men, two sons of kings, such acts may bring down rifts between great nations. He should stop.

Yet he does not. He gasps instead and tastes his lover's name upon his lips. He hears it after.

Too much armour lies between them, and though each would feel the beating of the other's warrior's heart, they content themselves instead with less and more. It was no conscious thought or choice they made that brought them here but frustration, lust and heat, and here in heat is lust fulfilled. Éomer, with damp gold hair, presses sticky kisses to his lover's throat, fingers grasping, catching at the rings of mail beneath the heavy leather vest. Quite by surprise does Aragorn find his own hands move and drag those searing lips from at his throat to meet his own - they kiss hot and hard with teeth and tongues, urged on by wild desire and pain at fingertips tight-twined in long-worn hair. Éomer leans close and presses near, the taste of blood and ash upon his skin. Aragorn against the wall gasps aloud as down low through leather their hardened wanting meets.

A frenzy of undressing follows, partial, fevered... until rough, tanned hands wrap warm around the shaft of Aragorn's long manhood, fingers teasing with obvious intent. Through heavy-lidded eyes does Aragorn glimpse a wicked smile and brown eyes which fair weep with lust, before compliant he is turned and rests face-first against the cold stone wall. He moans low as Éomer presses slow inside him, cool and slicked with underlying fervour. Their fingers twine against the rough-hewn stone and Éomer thrusts forward, filling him complete with passion greater than the pain. They move together, panting, harder, fleshy sounds of skin on skin as both men groan and Éomer's searching mouth he feels move to trace his jaw.

Release comes momentarily - first Aragorn's by Éomer's skilled hand, then Éomer himself with deepened thrust, long and loud. Aragorn turns; they prtogetogether, clutch tight and rest their weight against each other, their nakedness wet and warm and easier then than Aragorn's reckoning would make it. The tips of Éomer's fingers trace the pattern of Aragorn's bracers at his wrist, and Aragorn smiles. In a desperate hour, he now knows that both men needed this release.

Heavy footsteps echo in the corridor so as to disrupt their momentary peace, though neither man sees fit to move from their embrace. They stand and let the message come, let its bearer see them there amid the glow of wanton passion just now passed. Their clouded eyes turn to him now and he averts his own, a blush climbing in his cheeks as he announces to them Théoden's intent. They regret their act for not an instant as the king's man leaves and they two dress, fastening cold clasps and laces, smiling, almost laughing in their afterglow.

And it is now, at this moment, that realisation dawns; Aragorn had thought to banish rank from this encounter, set aside all notion of the past and of the future in which they both will play their part. But he sees that it does matter, who they are, their high lineage and their fate. What was shared between two men was this heat that will burn on inside as they must needs part and go their separate ways. Through the struggles of the months to come this flame of memory shall burn, a tie, a light, and both men know:

When Elessar does bear his crown, so shall one day Éomer bear his, the kings of Gondor and of Rohan crowned. And when upon their brows their circlets sit, these two great kings of men shall stand and gaze to lands both distant and true close; one sees a man with tall, proud steed who rides the plains wild as the wind - the other sees a tower white, its banners caught up high by morning breeze. There Éomer sees Aragorn, fate fulfilled and faith renewed. Each of two kings shall rule and live to be presented at the other's court, to clasp arms and smile with faces flushed in hot remembrance. All around them voices, hearts and cups will rise in celebration of neglected treaties now renewed, the Evil long defeated.

But none shall know of what has passed. That between them is their secret.

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End
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