for EMPY - faramir/eomer PG15
from: butterballer
pairing: faramir / eomer
rating: PG15
disclaimer: Tolkien made me do it.
notes: empy, i usually checked your journal for hints - stalking you a bit to find your taste, your preferences etc. i did my best, writing these. i did want to put in a "lot of kissing" but, since i have no reference with which to work for description, i did my best with what i had. i only hope you like these. Merry Christmas.
01
The winter was cold and it was cruel to warm, beating hearts. Under the fur covers to block the white sun and the glow of the fire, he shifted his weight and buried his face in a pillow, burying the call to fall apart. The cold was always a reminder of empty hands and the loneliness of having to brave the frost because of No Comfort. His father died on a day like this - and he was shivering, outside, snow crashing around him like white lies.
Suddenly, a hand brushed away a lock of his golden hair and his cold breath fell down his throat and into his heart and his blood shivered as the hand cupped his cheek, pulling his face upward, toward the sunlight and the day.
Faramir’s father died in a pyre and there were hot, summer days that found him under a waterfall, trying to quench his conscience. The filial obligation to be loyal, the guilt of living through, burnt his soul and his eyes watered. Faramir would make him calm and lift his eyes, like Faramir was doing now. Faramir took him into the light where he could see his lover’s face and live.
02
The broken colors and the grind of happiness around him were sharpened and drilled into Eomer’s consciousness as he gripped Faramir’s velvet waist, making small circles with his thumb. Rushing up his throat were a hundred words milling around his tongue, tickling it into speaking. Eomer’s round neglect for language and verbal communication was not a palpable barrier between them because Faramir always understood enough. Faramir hung on, feeling Eomer’s breath grow hot with all the words steaming.
“Eomer?”
“Faramir?”
Faramir twisted his head, aligning his mouth directly with Eomer’s ear, loving the brush of Eomer’s hair against his lips. He gripped Eomer’s waist and Eomer’s shoulder, gripped Eomer’s inability to make love in small letters and sounds because he must be an explosion of realization and confirmation, all at once.
“I know.” And Faramir kissed Eomer’s cheek.
03
The small flower was the thing wrong with him. He had been waiting to fill this moment. Faramir felt the tips of his fingers tingle, holding out the flower to Eomer. He started to rock on his feet, keeping the balance between Coming Closer and Going Away. The thing was yellow, like the color of his fear of Closing In and Falling Apart. He had pressed the thing between the pages of his favorite book. It needed the same pressure and intimacy, the almost complete union of assurance and dedication, he knew his body craved at night. He slowly turned his face from staring at the sad thing. He looked at Eomer’s expression. His long fingers reached over and opened Eomer’s crumpled fist, laying the flower slowly on his palm, lightly touching their fingertips. Cold Distance blew into his face with a light, passing breeze and he shivered.
Roughly, Eomer grabbed Faramir’s head, shoving his tongue inside Faramir’s mouth, becoming the sun with which the flower lived, pouring in the rain that nourished it. Eomer breathed on Faramir’s trembling lips, the strong sense of being held dissipating as Faramir opened his eyes - knowing, absolutely, that he was, now, being loved.
04
Being comfortable wasn’t something he was comfortable with. Turning over, eyes still closed, his hands and arms looked for the warmth of Comfort and the smooth response of something being beckoned. Faramir groaned, turned over towards him and placed a comforting hand on his waist, pressing small circles into his spine, still asleep. Eomer grunted, his body relaxed as Faramir’s hands unbuttoned and removed the layers of problematic anxiety and tension.
The stunted thought in his mind started to shrivel and die and the glow of its death churned out “You tolerate the illusion of safety?”.
Mumbling, almost asleep, Eomer answered, loving the soothing rhythm of the medicine flowing from Faramir’s consistency.
“I am safe.”
05
The shattering startled him awake. Faramir opened the door to the King’s study where he left Eomer to the hounds of politics.
Eomer was asleep near the fire, spilt ale and a shattered pint-mug beside his chair, glowing amber steadily like the cold ash settling over and cooling Faramir’s panic. His eyes closed, weary after the fright.
He approached Eomer’s padded bench and kneeled, running a hand through Eomer’s hair. Faramir soothed his distemper towards the higher court by the delicacy of the gold, silver strands and the rage weaved in Eomer’s mane. Eomer could not afford to show his impatience.
Faramir got to his feet, he sat himself beside Eomer, taking Eomer’s free arm in an embrace, colliding with the responsibility to protect, to aid - to love. He rested his chin on Eomer’s shoulder before kissing Eomer’s cheek, loving the rasp of his lips against the beard and the moan for the groan of his heart. Faramir’s heart stopped to listen to the silence of togetherness.
Shaking like a tremor, he gathered his knees to his chest, knowing Eomer was preoccupied, even in his dreams, with the country and the rule. The threats, in the time of peace, were anything and everything trivial that might escalate into disorder and descend into anarchy. Short of breath from fighting the ambush of the threat with him, Faramir retreated into silence and his dreams. No Eomer, just life.
ONE RING TO RULE THEM BOTH
The weight of the thing held his mind in place after the ale, the celebratory wine, the long haul of paper-pushing in his study. He rubbed his temples, feeling the heat generated by his thoughts as they chafed against each other, ruining the solemnity of the chill winter night with the large, disastrous mangling they made of his voice as he screamed at himself. He groaned into his hands, close to tears for the want of touching it and holding it. He braced himself against putting it on and knowing what was on the other side if he allowed himself the freedom to accept the consequences of giving in to Want. He rubbed his forearms and looked around the dimly lit place. He felt cramped in it.
Eomer silently pushed the door open but Faramir jumped, alert, haggard against the completely relentless struggle of his will against the gravitation of his body and soul and mind towards the thing and the promise of the thing and the life he could have with the thing.
“Faramir?” Eomer’s voice came into his mind slowly, lazily, stealing into the little space left that wasn’t occupied with images of himself and the thing.
“Eomer.”
He slid his hand into his tunic, reaching into the secret pocket. He took the thing from next to his skin. It glinted - gold and powerful and it held his eyes even as he stood and walked around his desk, towards Eomer.
“Eomer.” He felt Eomer’s skin tingle as he singed Eomer’s face with his look, the gold of the ring still throbbing in his right hand.
“Wear it, Eomer. Wear it and be mine.” His eyes blazed and he felt what little heart he had left crumble as his hot blood rang with the cry for domination, cry for what he needed and wanted.
pairing: faramir / eomer
rating: PG15
disclaimer: Tolkien made me do it.
notes: empy, i usually checked your journal for hints - stalking you a bit to find your taste, your preferences etc. i did my best, writing these. i did want to put in a "lot of kissing" but, since i have no reference with which to work for description, i did my best with what i had. i only hope you like these. Merry Christmas.
01
The winter was cold and it was cruel to warm, beating hearts. Under the fur covers to block the white sun and the glow of the fire, he shifted his weight and buried his face in a pillow, burying the call to fall apart. The cold was always a reminder of empty hands and the loneliness of having to brave the frost because of No Comfort. His father died on a day like this - and he was shivering, outside, snow crashing around him like white lies.
Suddenly, a hand brushed away a lock of his golden hair and his cold breath fell down his throat and into his heart and his blood shivered as the hand cupped his cheek, pulling his face upward, toward the sunlight and the day.
Faramir’s father died in a pyre and there were hot, summer days that found him under a waterfall, trying to quench his conscience. The filial obligation to be loyal, the guilt of living through, burnt his soul and his eyes watered. Faramir would make him calm and lift his eyes, like Faramir was doing now. Faramir took him into the light where he could see his lover’s face and live.
02
The broken colors and the grind of happiness around him were sharpened and drilled into Eomer’s consciousness as he gripped Faramir’s velvet waist, making small circles with his thumb. Rushing up his throat were a hundred words milling around his tongue, tickling it into speaking. Eomer’s round neglect for language and verbal communication was not a palpable barrier between them because Faramir always understood enough. Faramir hung on, feeling Eomer’s breath grow hot with all the words steaming.
“Eomer?”
“Faramir?”
Faramir twisted his head, aligning his mouth directly with Eomer’s ear, loving the brush of Eomer’s hair against his lips. He gripped Eomer’s waist and Eomer’s shoulder, gripped Eomer’s inability to make love in small letters and sounds because he must be an explosion of realization and confirmation, all at once.
“I know.” And Faramir kissed Eomer’s cheek.
03
The small flower was the thing wrong with him. He had been waiting to fill this moment. Faramir felt the tips of his fingers tingle, holding out the flower to Eomer. He started to rock on his feet, keeping the balance between Coming Closer and Going Away. The thing was yellow, like the color of his fear of Closing In and Falling Apart. He had pressed the thing between the pages of his favorite book. It needed the same pressure and intimacy, the almost complete union of assurance and dedication, he knew his body craved at night. He slowly turned his face from staring at the sad thing. He looked at Eomer’s expression. His long fingers reached over and opened Eomer’s crumpled fist, laying the flower slowly on his palm, lightly touching their fingertips. Cold Distance blew into his face with a light, passing breeze and he shivered.
Roughly, Eomer grabbed Faramir’s head, shoving his tongue inside Faramir’s mouth, becoming the sun with which the flower lived, pouring in the rain that nourished it. Eomer breathed on Faramir’s trembling lips, the strong sense of being held dissipating as Faramir opened his eyes - knowing, absolutely, that he was, now, being loved.
04
Being comfortable wasn’t something he was comfortable with. Turning over, eyes still closed, his hands and arms looked for the warmth of Comfort and the smooth response of something being beckoned. Faramir groaned, turned over towards him and placed a comforting hand on his waist, pressing small circles into his spine, still asleep. Eomer grunted, his body relaxed as Faramir’s hands unbuttoned and removed the layers of problematic anxiety and tension.
The stunted thought in his mind started to shrivel and die and the glow of its death churned out “You tolerate the illusion of safety?”.
Mumbling, almost asleep, Eomer answered, loving the soothing rhythm of the medicine flowing from Faramir’s consistency.
“I am safe.”
05
The shattering startled him awake. Faramir opened the door to the King’s study where he left Eomer to the hounds of politics.
Eomer was asleep near the fire, spilt ale and a shattered pint-mug beside his chair, glowing amber steadily like the cold ash settling over and cooling Faramir’s panic. His eyes closed, weary after the fright.
He approached Eomer’s padded bench and kneeled, running a hand through Eomer’s hair. Faramir soothed his distemper towards the higher court by the delicacy of the gold, silver strands and the rage weaved in Eomer’s mane. Eomer could not afford to show his impatience.
Faramir got to his feet, he sat himself beside Eomer, taking Eomer’s free arm in an embrace, colliding with the responsibility to protect, to aid - to love. He rested his chin on Eomer’s shoulder before kissing Eomer’s cheek, loving the rasp of his lips against the beard and the moan for the groan of his heart. Faramir’s heart stopped to listen to the silence of togetherness.
Shaking like a tremor, he gathered his knees to his chest, knowing Eomer was preoccupied, even in his dreams, with the country and the rule. The threats, in the time of peace, were anything and everything trivial that might escalate into disorder and descend into anarchy. Short of breath from fighting the ambush of the threat with him, Faramir retreated into silence and his dreams. No Eomer, just life.
ONE RING TO RULE THEM BOTH
The weight of the thing held his mind in place after the ale, the celebratory wine, the long haul of paper-pushing in his study. He rubbed his temples, feeling the heat generated by his thoughts as they chafed against each other, ruining the solemnity of the chill winter night with the large, disastrous mangling they made of his voice as he screamed at himself. He groaned into his hands, close to tears for the want of touching it and holding it. He braced himself against putting it on and knowing what was on the other side if he allowed himself the freedom to accept the consequences of giving in to Want. He rubbed his forearms and looked around the dimly lit place. He felt cramped in it.
Eomer silently pushed the door open but Faramir jumped, alert, haggard against the completely relentless struggle of his will against the gravitation of his body and soul and mind towards the thing and the promise of the thing and the life he could have with the thing.
“Faramir?” Eomer’s voice came into his mind slowly, lazily, stealing into the little space left that wasn’t occupied with images of himself and the thing.
“Eomer.”
He slid his hand into his tunic, reaching into the secret pocket. He took the thing from next to his skin. It glinted - gold and powerful and it held his eyes even as he stood and walked around his desk, towards Eomer.
“Eomer.” He felt Eomer’s skin tingle as he singed Eomer’s face with his look, the gold of the ring still throbbing in his right hand.
“Wear it, Eomer. Wear it and be mine.” His eyes blazed and he felt what little heart he had left crumble as his hot blood rang with the cry for domination, cry for what he needed and wanted.