Fic: Where Now the Horse and the Rider, Jim/Eomer, NC-17
Title: Where Now the Horse and the Rider
Author: caitri
Rating: NC-17 (Language, Sex)
Pairings: Kirk/Éomer
Word Count: 1,805
Summary: X-over with LOTR, takes place during That Which They Defend. H/C porn, basically.
Disclaimer: I know this may come as a shock, but I am not, amazing as it may seem, Gene Roddenberry, J.J. Abrams, Paramount or Bad Robot. Just so you know. With apologies also to J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson, and Karl Urban while I’m at it.
Acknolwgedments: Kindly beta'd by suddenlyswept.
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
Éomer son of Éomund had half-expected to die today. Somehow he had not thought that his Uncle would be dead instead, and he definitely had not thought that his sister Éowyn would be lying ghost-pale on a pallet somewhere in the Gondorian Houses of Healing. It had probably been a foolish hope born of too much wishful thinking, but in his thoughts he had imagined her safe and sound in Meduseld, Erkenbrand at her side. In his heart of hearts, he had even allowed himself the hope that the War would end in victory, and in the years to come his sister would be the Queen of Rohan, and perhaps name a second or third son for him. As the days grew ever darker, this small dream seemed even too much.
His fist hurt from punching the wall earlier. Béma’s beard, but all of him hurt after the battle, and the days spent in the saddle before that, and the Battle of the Hornburg before that.
“Éomer, come,” Jim Kirk said gently, and he allowed the man to pull him away from the Houses of Healing, knowing that if he did not go willingly that Aragorn would take precious moments to yell at him rather than tending to the wounded, and he would find himself removed from the House whether he wished it or no. He supposed he should feel grateful that he would have some moments of rest, but as yet his heart was too pained to feel aught but resentment and exhaustion.
Jim led him within the Tower proper to a small room the man had somehow procured-most likely through those damnable bright smiles of his. The Rodorbeorn could likely charm a rabbit into a stewpot, if he wished. “Sit,” the Man from the Stars ordered him, and he did as Jim busied himself with unpacking a bag. There was no furniture in the room; just pallets of their bedrolls, and a bucket of water. The water was clear and clean, though, and Éomer was abruptly aware of how long it had been since he felt properly washed. He removed his armor with quick efficiency, setting it aside, and then removed his undertunic, heavy with dried sweat.
“Alright, then, Eoh,” Jim said as he turned back to him, “assume the position. You’re going to wash.”
“You’ll get no argument from me this night, James T. Kirk,” he muttered. Jim smiled at him briefly, then dipped a piece of linen into the bucket and used it as a sponge to clean away the ring of grime around his neck. The light cloth came away with a dark layer of dust, blood (not his, thank Eru) and grime.
He sighed as Jim’s hands moved over him gently, the water luke-warm on his skin. After a moment of allowing the Rodorbeorn to have his way, he took a piece of cloth himself, dipping it into the bucket as well.
“Man from the Stars,” he said simply. Jim had stripped down to his undertunic earlier, and he obligingly pulled it over his head now, revealing a pale chest lightly covered with a dark gold fuzz. Éomer placed his hand on the place over the other man’s heart, lips quirking upwards. Strange as it would seem, having only known the sky warrior a few short weeks, he now trusted no one more, wanted no one more.
Jim shot him a questioning, amused look, but said nothing as they continued their ablutions in silence. Jim scrubbed his back, pressing down firmly on taut, abused muscles so that the washing became a massage as well. Éomer refrained from hissing in pleasure, but only just, before returning the favor. When they were both as clean as a single bucket of water and two bits of cloth could make them, Jim revealed the contents of the other bag he had obtained from somewhere: food. They shared a simple meal in silence, and then lay back in their bedrolls.
The Rodorbeorn was asleep immediately, as was his habit. Éomer himself lay in the dark, thoughts chasing themselves around his mind fruitlessly. He cared about the odd stranger far too much, he knew-and there was no hope for it. After some time he finally slept, but his dream was restless-reliving the memories of the long day before, of finding Théoden dead underneath Snowmane, of finding Éowyn still and white on the ground.
In the way of dreams, it changed from memories to fears: Jim, laughing as he rode Seren, bright eyes suddenly dulled in death as he was pierced by Easterling arrows. Blood trickled from his mouth, as crimson as his Rohirric armor, as he fell to the ground, which trembled at the march of dozens of Mûmakil…
Éomer’s eyes shot open, and he was upright and half on his feet before he realized that he was in the Tower, quiet and strangely peaceful and dark around them. Jim muttered something in his sleep. “Bones,” it sounded like, the name of his closest friend on his star ship: his battle-friend, his gúthwinë. For a moment, Éomer felt an intense feeling like jealousy, and then he sighed, letting it go as he lay back down, examining Jim in the darkness.
The Rodorbeorn lay on his side, head cushioned on one arm with the other half-curled over his face, fingers dangling limply over his eyes as if to shield himself from a nonexistent light. His blanket was drawn up to his shoulder, and he twitched intermittently, exhausted muscles spasming irregularly. He murmured, his voice too low to make out the words (assuming Éomer could have made sense of his odd babble, anyway), his brow furrowed fretfully.
“Hush, my gúthwinë, hush,” he murmured, and pressed a sudden, impulsive kiss on the man’s shoulder. His skin was warm, scented with sweat and dust from the long journey. Jim’s tense body soothed at his touch, so he found himself planting another kiss, and then another, and another, drawing away the blanket to trace the line of the other man’s body.
Jim’s sleepy murmuring became a low moan, and Éomer felt something inside of himself leap and burn as the other man wakened slowly. With a suddenness that he hadn’t expected, he knew he had to have this man, needed the comfort and heat of his body, needed the feel and sound of him to chase away the pain of the day. He put his mouth against Jim’s ear, breathing on it hotly. “If you wish me to stop, now is the time, James T. Kirk,” he said. He took the lobe of Jim’s ear in his teeth, biting the flesh there gently.
Jim moaned again, pressing his body up against Éomer’s, incipient erection hardening against his thigh. “What kind of fool do you think I am?” Jim’s voice was rough with sleep, but his words were warm with promise. “I’ve been waiting for this for ages.”
Éomer groaned, kissing him then. Jim tasted like the bread and apples from their meal hours ago, his tongue darting out and stroking his own playfully. He moved to straddle the Rodorbeorn, and felt Jim’s own arousal hard against his. He shifted slightly, moving so that Jim’s erection was just against his ass, freeing his cock and letting it lie trapped between the heat of their bodies as he kissed the man again.
Jim’s breathing was harsh with want, scrambling to get his own cock free, to get closer. The heads of their cocks bumped together, and Éomer wondered for a moment, as he savored the slide of flesh on flesh, if it was possible for a Man to dissolve in a flame of lust. He had played games such as these when he was younger, but he had had little time for love-play since he became the Marshal of the Mark. He felt his desire keenly, and then to his surprise, felt the other man shaking.
He stopped, immediately. “You tremble.”
“It’s the cold,” Jim said. “It’s nothing.”
“As you say.” He fought to keep his voice even, to not let his disappointment show. If the man didn’t want him, not really- “Are you sure you wish to-continue? I would not have you come unwilling.”
He could hear Jim’s amusement in the dark, and allowed himself to relax, to let the frozen fear within him melt. “Not an issue, trust me,” Jim said, pressing his hardness against him once more, in proof. “Although if we’re going to talk about coming…”
Éomer chuckled, and kissed him again. Jim’s flesh beneath his was warm, and he grasped Jim’s cock firmly, toying with it, even as the Rodorbeorn slipped a deft finger into his ass, toying with him. “My heart,” Éomer murmured, “my heart, my friend, my sky warrior.” He spoke in Rohirric, almost babbling with pleasure and exhaustion. “I want you--please--!”
As if Jim understood, he rolled him over, taking Éomer’s cock in his mouth and continuing his ministrations avidly, with a skill and enthusiasm that quickly brought him to the edge, and then past it. “Blessed Eru!” he cried, gripping the man’s shoulders tightly.
The Rodorbeorn made a smug sound of pleased amusement, then a whuff! of surprise as Éomer rolled him over to return the favor. He took care with his work, using his mouth and tongue to elicit a variety of sounds from the Man from the Stars.
“I’m coming!” Jim warned, and after a moment his mouth was filled with the heavy, salty taste of the other man.
Afterwards they lay together, Jim’s head in the crook of his arm, their heads close. Éomer kissed the back of his neck, damp with the sweat of their pleasure. “The cock will crow too soon.”
“I’ll say,” Jim said in sleepy contentment.
“Youngling.” Éomer couldn’t help himself, pulling at Jim’s ear lightly with his teeth.
“I like you like this, Eoh,” Jim said to his surprise.
“Oh?”
“Happy.” Jim burrowed closer. “You’re different when you’re happy.”
“I haven’t been happy in a long time, my gúthwinë. Not until you,” Éomer said.
Jim said nothing; he was already asleep again. The Rohir contained his disappointment-he had years of practice at it, after all. “The cock will crow, my love,” he murmured, “and then we will both awake. Mayhap the new dawn will be brighter then.”
Author: caitri
Rating: NC-17 (Language, Sex)
Pairings: Kirk/Éomer
Word Count: 1,805
Summary: X-over with LOTR, takes place during That Which They Defend. H/C porn, basically.
Disclaimer: I know this may come as a shock, but I am not, amazing as it may seem, Gene Roddenberry, J.J. Abrams, Paramount or Bad Robot. Just so you know. With apologies also to J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson, and Karl Urban while I’m at it.
Acknolwgedments: Kindly beta'd by suddenlyswept.
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
Éomer son of Éomund had half-expected to die today. Somehow he had not thought that his Uncle would be dead instead, and he definitely had not thought that his sister Éowyn would be lying ghost-pale on a pallet somewhere in the Gondorian Houses of Healing. It had probably been a foolish hope born of too much wishful thinking, but in his thoughts he had imagined her safe and sound in Meduseld, Erkenbrand at her side. In his heart of hearts, he had even allowed himself the hope that the War would end in victory, and in the years to come his sister would be the Queen of Rohan, and perhaps name a second or third son for him. As the days grew ever darker, this small dream seemed even too much.
His fist hurt from punching the wall earlier. Béma’s beard, but all of him hurt after the battle, and the days spent in the saddle before that, and the Battle of the Hornburg before that.
“Éomer, come,” Jim Kirk said gently, and he allowed the man to pull him away from the Houses of Healing, knowing that if he did not go willingly that Aragorn would take precious moments to yell at him rather than tending to the wounded, and he would find himself removed from the House whether he wished it or no. He supposed he should feel grateful that he would have some moments of rest, but as yet his heart was too pained to feel aught but resentment and exhaustion.
Jim led him within the Tower proper to a small room the man had somehow procured-most likely through those damnable bright smiles of his. The Rodorbeorn could likely charm a rabbit into a stewpot, if he wished. “Sit,” the Man from the Stars ordered him, and he did as Jim busied himself with unpacking a bag. There was no furniture in the room; just pallets of their bedrolls, and a bucket of water. The water was clear and clean, though, and Éomer was abruptly aware of how long it had been since he felt properly washed. He removed his armor with quick efficiency, setting it aside, and then removed his undertunic, heavy with dried sweat.
“Alright, then, Eoh,” Jim said as he turned back to him, “assume the position. You’re going to wash.”
“You’ll get no argument from me this night, James T. Kirk,” he muttered. Jim smiled at him briefly, then dipped a piece of linen into the bucket and used it as a sponge to clean away the ring of grime around his neck. The light cloth came away with a dark layer of dust, blood (not his, thank Eru) and grime.
He sighed as Jim’s hands moved over him gently, the water luke-warm on his skin. After a moment of allowing the Rodorbeorn to have his way, he took a piece of cloth himself, dipping it into the bucket as well.
“Man from the Stars,” he said simply. Jim had stripped down to his undertunic earlier, and he obligingly pulled it over his head now, revealing a pale chest lightly covered with a dark gold fuzz. Éomer placed his hand on the place over the other man’s heart, lips quirking upwards. Strange as it would seem, having only known the sky warrior a few short weeks, he now trusted no one more, wanted no one more.
Jim shot him a questioning, amused look, but said nothing as they continued their ablutions in silence. Jim scrubbed his back, pressing down firmly on taut, abused muscles so that the washing became a massage as well. Éomer refrained from hissing in pleasure, but only just, before returning the favor. When they were both as clean as a single bucket of water and two bits of cloth could make them, Jim revealed the contents of the other bag he had obtained from somewhere: food. They shared a simple meal in silence, and then lay back in their bedrolls.
The Rodorbeorn was asleep immediately, as was his habit. Éomer himself lay in the dark, thoughts chasing themselves around his mind fruitlessly. He cared about the odd stranger far too much, he knew-and there was no hope for it. After some time he finally slept, but his dream was restless-reliving the memories of the long day before, of finding Théoden dead underneath Snowmane, of finding Éowyn still and white on the ground.
In the way of dreams, it changed from memories to fears: Jim, laughing as he rode Seren, bright eyes suddenly dulled in death as he was pierced by Easterling arrows. Blood trickled from his mouth, as crimson as his Rohirric armor, as he fell to the ground, which trembled at the march of dozens of Mûmakil…
Éomer’s eyes shot open, and he was upright and half on his feet before he realized that he was in the Tower, quiet and strangely peaceful and dark around them. Jim muttered something in his sleep. “Bones,” it sounded like, the name of his closest friend on his star ship: his battle-friend, his gúthwinë. For a moment, Éomer felt an intense feeling like jealousy, and then he sighed, letting it go as he lay back down, examining Jim in the darkness.
The Rodorbeorn lay on his side, head cushioned on one arm with the other half-curled over his face, fingers dangling limply over his eyes as if to shield himself from a nonexistent light. His blanket was drawn up to his shoulder, and he twitched intermittently, exhausted muscles spasming irregularly. He murmured, his voice too low to make out the words (assuming Éomer could have made sense of his odd babble, anyway), his brow furrowed fretfully.
“Hush, my gúthwinë, hush,” he murmured, and pressed a sudden, impulsive kiss on the man’s shoulder. His skin was warm, scented with sweat and dust from the long journey. Jim’s tense body soothed at his touch, so he found himself planting another kiss, and then another, and another, drawing away the blanket to trace the line of the other man’s body.
Jim’s sleepy murmuring became a low moan, and Éomer felt something inside of himself leap and burn as the other man wakened slowly. With a suddenness that he hadn’t expected, he knew he had to have this man, needed the comfort and heat of his body, needed the feel and sound of him to chase away the pain of the day. He put his mouth against Jim’s ear, breathing on it hotly. “If you wish me to stop, now is the time, James T. Kirk,” he said. He took the lobe of Jim’s ear in his teeth, biting the flesh there gently.
Jim moaned again, pressing his body up against Éomer’s, incipient erection hardening against his thigh. “What kind of fool do you think I am?” Jim’s voice was rough with sleep, but his words were warm with promise. “I’ve been waiting for this for ages.”
Éomer groaned, kissing him then. Jim tasted like the bread and apples from their meal hours ago, his tongue darting out and stroking his own playfully. He moved to straddle the Rodorbeorn, and felt Jim’s own arousal hard against his. He shifted slightly, moving so that Jim’s erection was just against his ass, freeing his cock and letting it lie trapped between the heat of their bodies as he kissed the man again.
Jim’s breathing was harsh with want, scrambling to get his own cock free, to get closer. The heads of their cocks bumped together, and Éomer wondered for a moment, as he savored the slide of flesh on flesh, if it was possible for a Man to dissolve in a flame of lust. He had played games such as these when he was younger, but he had had little time for love-play since he became the Marshal of the Mark. He felt his desire keenly, and then to his surprise, felt the other man shaking.
He stopped, immediately. “You tremble.”
“It’s the cold,” Jim said. “It’s nothing.”
“As you say.” He fought to keep his voice even, to not let his disappointment show. If the man didn’t want him, not really- “Are you sure you wish to-continue? I would not have you come unwilling.”
He could hear Jim’s amusement in the dark, and allowed himself to relax, to let the frozen fear within him melt. “Not an issue, trust me,” Jim said, pressing his hardness against him once more, in proof. “Although if we’re going to talk about coming…”
Éomer chuckled, and kissed him again. Jim’s flesh beneath his was warm, and he grasped Jim’s cock firmly, toying with it, even as the Rodorbeorn slipped a deft finger into his ass, toying with him. “My heart,” Éomer murmured, “my heart, my friend, my sky warrior.” He spoke in Rohirric, almost babbling with pleasure and exhaustion. “I want you--please--!”
As if Jim understood, he rolled him over, taking Éomer’s cock in his mouth and continuing his ministrations avidly, with a skill and enthusiasm that quickly brought him to the edge, and then past it. “Blessed Eru!” he cried, gripping the man’s shoulders tightly.
The Rodorbeorn made a smug sound of pleased amusement, then a whuff! of surprise as Éomer rolled him over to return the favor. He took care with his work, using his mouth and tongue to elicit a variety of sounds from the Man from the Stars.
“I’m coming!” Jim warned, and after a moment his mouth was filled with the heavy, salty taste of the other man.
Afterwards they lay together, Jim’s head in the crook of his arm, their heads close. Éomer kissed the back of his neck, damp with the sweat of their pleasure. “The cock will crow too soon.”
“I’ll say,” Jim said in sleepy contentment.
“Youngling.” Éomer couldn’t help himself, pulling at Jim’s ear lightly with his teeth.
“I like you like this, Eoh,” Jim said to his surprise.
“Oh?”
“Happy.” Jim burrowed closer. “You’re different when you’re happy.”
“I haven’t been happy in a long time, my gúthwinë. Not until you,” Éomer said.
Jim said nothing; he was already asleep again. The Rohir contained his disappointment-he had years of practice at it, after all. “The cock will crow, my love,” he murmured, “and then we will both awake. Mayhap the new dawn will be brighter then.”