Title: Of the Alliances of Gondor and Rohan
Author: Lorielen
Pairing: Éomer/Faramir
Rating: ... strong R, I guess
Summary: title says it all
AN: for Rhysenn, as a token for her wonderful screencaps!

Although the alliance between the king of Rohan and the steward of Gondor had deteriorated considerably over the years, what with Denethor’s and Theoden’s pride, fact remained that they shared borders, a common tongue and were, in a distant degree, related. And perhaps it was the fragility of the bond between the lords of each kingdom that led two captains, both scarcely listened to by their respective lieges, to forge closeness of their own.

Northern Ithilien was at hand for the riders who patrolled the eastern fields of Rohan, and often enough did the two companies provide aid to each other faster than would either landlord.

Although… Osgiliath wasn’t that far, and Faramir was perfectly aware that his brother would fly to him, should he send word. But that would only lessen his already precarious worth before their father’s eyes and so the second son of the steward of Gondor preferred to have someone he could call upon without having to answer to Denethor about it – at least not immediately.

As an exchange of favours and protection it began, quickly becoming swordsmen camaraderie. A horse borrowed, a meal shared, a smile on the lips of the leader of the eorlinga’s that send the most marvelous chills up Faramir’s spine and made him feel a forbidden warmth as he mirrored the curl of lips.

A sip of wine, and Éomer’s hair glinted, straw-coloured and framing his earnest and honorable face, a mane similar to those of his beloved horses, and Faramir wondered whether it’d feel any softer to the touch of his fingertips.

All of a sudden the son of Gondor was discreetly startled with his own nerve and fighting to keep his fingers from shaking as he felt at the other’s man’s thighs under the table.

Planning, they needed to discuss planning, Éomer claimed as he dragged the barely sober Faramir from the room into somewhere private.

Éomer smelled of horses, of horses and straw and earth and spicy urgent ness as he pressed against him; he tasted salty with the faintest hint of herbs and the wine’s acrid stinging, and his kiss was powerful and demanding.
Faramir’s knees gave out, which ended up being a good thing, considering the new and convenient height of his mouth.

Worn armour was discarded swiftly, and all too soon Éomer was panting, at which Faramir smiled most wickedly and increased the suction. Utterly spent Éomer offered no resistance when the Ithilien captain claimed his well-toned body for his own delight; his strong fingers found the smooth inner warmth of Faramir as the rohirim was, ironically enough, ridden to exhaustion. A hot groan on Faramir’s neck, and the steward’s son yanked at the curly hair on the chest beneath himself.

They smelled of sweat, metal, horses and sex as they lay side by side in the thoughtful silence of first-timers’ post-coitus.

Unspoken as the increasing drifting apart of their lieges, a bond was woven between Faramir of Gondor and Éomer of Rohan.