OC: Sylvanas, works as a guard, confident
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings
Inspiration: Technically this is the last xmas request that’s been stubbornly refusing to let me finish it. Sorry for taking so long! The ending feels a bit rushed to me, but I wanted to post it and get it out there. Might go back to edit it later :)
Sylvanas isn’t sure what she minds more: that she has to guard the front of the palace while she gets snowed on and slowly turned into an icicle, or that she’s missing the festivities within said palace and everything that accompanies them.
She’s shivering in her fur lined cloak that she’s clasped right below her neck, shivering in her thick leather boots – shivering even beneath the chainmail coat of her armor and the gloves that aren’t stopping the cold from sinking into her fingers. And despite her position at the bottom of the stairs, she can still hear the loud twist of old Aldith’s fiddle careening through the air; hear the sound of drunken laughter and the clank of toasting cups. She can easily imagine the swinging gait of bodies dancing to the caustic music. The drop of the fiddle just…there, just before it picks up again – that’s when the men gather the women and lift them into the air in a delightful spin that makes the world seem like it falls away entirely…but for the sight of the man himself, the warm honey eyes, the dusty blonde hair, the broad shoulders –
Syl clears her throat and turns, making her way back up the stairs for little reason other than to preserve warmth. Movement makes the cold bearable, and so does the thought of the hot bath she’s going to draw for herself after her shift is over. She sighs at the thought, but her mind doesn’t wander very far from the honey-eyed man that spins her around to the sawing impatience of a fiddle.
He’d apologized profusely for putting her on the evening watch. Unavoidable, he’d told her – I’ll make it up to you. And then, pressed against the shadows and the stone, Eomer had buried her neck with kisses, leaving her with a firm idea of how, exactly, he meant to do so. More than the thought of a bath and a heavy mug of ale, Syl wants the fortress of his body, the warmth he gives so easily. If she’s being truthful with herself, it is those thoughts that stave the cold away.
With a wispy sigh, Syl tries to turn her mind away from such distracting thoughts. She leans against a pillar by the entrance of Meduseld. There is no use getting over eager about the many ways Eomer will make tonight up to her. She’s quite sure that whatever feeble images she attempts to conjure will not do the real thing justice anyway.
An hour passes in much the same manner, with Syl struggling to keep her head clear of her constantly tempting thoughts as she slowly freezes into that icicle. By the time a guard comes to replace her, Syl can actually only think of that bath and how nice it will feel. She rushes through the still festive main hall and darts into a side hallway, casting one feverish glance over the swarm of people but not seeing Eomer in the crowd. A quick visit to the armory, and she wrestles the chainmail and heavier articles of clothing from her body. It’s warmer in the palace, and as she hurries back into the hallway and casts one more glance into the main hall, the cold feels less poignant.
Eomer is still nowhere to be found. Bath first, then. Except she never gets the chance to call for one, because the moment she steps into her chambers, she catches sight of a hulking form taking up practically all of her bed.
Her first instinct is to gasp and draw away, even though she knows who it is. Surprise and warm happiness shoots through her. Eomer has never stolen into her room to wait for her before – it is rather a lovely sight. Which is why her second instinct is to whisper-shout, “Eomer!” and hurry to the bed with a grin.
He lifts himself up with a chuckle and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, just in time for Syl to throw herself into his arms. And then he’s rolling her over, pressing her into the mattress and darting his fingers over her stomach. She gasps in chocked laughter as he tickles her breathless.
“You’re freezing!” he exclaims barely a moment later, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his whole body. He tucks her against him, and she sighs with a giddy sort of happiness that comes from being so close to the man she loves. He really is like a furnace – within seconds, she feels so much better. But the chill has traveled into her bones, and it will take more than an embrace to rid herself of it.
“Standing in the snow for three hours straight doesn’t exactly make someone warm,” she mumbles against the skin of his chest. He runs his fingers through her hair and lets out a rumbling sigh. It sounds like he’s laughing at her just a little bit, and she glowers up at him petulantly.
“Have I not apologized enough for that?” he inquires. There’s a mischievous light in his eye that makes her squirm. Maybe it’s on purpose, who can tell? He sighs against when he feels her move against him, and she hides her smile into the crevice of his shirt, which is perfectly tousled in a half-undone way.
“No,” she immediately responds, “you absolutely haven’t. I believe I was promised at least a few heartfelt kisses for my suffering.”
His response is even more immediate. The teasing lilt of her voice fades away when Eomer drops his head and presses his mouth against hers in a sudden kiss. He’s very thorough. He’s always thorough, no matter what he is doing, but the way it translates into passion is astoundingly beautiful, and Syl lets out a breathless little whine when he pulls away before she is ready.
“I promised much more than that,” he tells her lowly, sliding a hand over the curve of her back and lingering at her stomach. His fingers idle on the stays of her leggings, just provocative enough to make her squirm again, but this time in anticipation and not teasing.
They share a little smile that sends her heart racing against her chest, which suddenly feels constricted in the tunic and tight breast band she’d thrown on that morning. Freedom will taste perfect tonight; she can already feel it ghosting through the air around her.
He sits up, hovering over Syl with a small smile and eyes that gleam with mischievous desire. “…I always keep my promises,” he murmurs, voice dropping low into a tone she recognizes as surely as if it were her own. It is filled with a passion that makes her smile even as her body erupts with subtle desperation.
“Glad to hear it,” she gasps as he slowly starts to undo the ties of her tunic. The leather stays by her neck are pulled away one by one. The anticipation lengths as Eomer reaches the last, resting just between her breasts. He pauses only a moment before flipping the fabric to the side and sliding his palm beneath the tunic to where her breast heaves beneath. It is still covered with that tight band, but she can clearly feel the heat of his skin sinking into her. And, already cold from her shift outside, she is taut and hard beneath his hand, pebbling even more with the extra incentive.
“Mm…” he breathes with a chuckle, “Looks like it might take me a while to warm you up.” The words are as much a warning as they are an observation, but she disregards them and breezily says, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
His lips twist up into a boyish smile. “You’re right about that. Since I’m in charge of your schedule, I’m giving you tomorrow off.”
Being a high ranking general and the nephew to the king definitely has its perks, it seems.
Syl giggles. His hand moves to the bottom of her tunic. As he pushes it up, she mumbles, “Hopefully you’ll give yourself the day off, too.” Even just the morning would be nice, she amends. Eomer rarely takes full days to himself.
She sits up so he can tug the tunic over her head and he raises an eyebrow, musing over her words as he works on the band around her chest. “That will depend entirely on you, my Lady,” he murmurs after a beat of contemplative silence. The breast band flutters away before she can respond, and when his hands cup her chest, Syl momentarily forgets why she wanted to speak in the first place.
She leans into him with a sigh, head tilted back. His mouth converges on her neck in gentle kisses, which only makes her head spin all the more. She could forget the entire world if he keeps this up.
“Is that a challenge?” she finally manages to say, humming pleasantly as his fingers spread warmth against her breasts. She hears him chuckle into her ear, then his lips brush over her earlobe and she shivers brilliantly. This time, it is not from the cold.
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he tells her quietly, and suddenly her back in pressing into the mattress, having been pushed there gently by the man that is now hovering above her.
She watches appreciatively when he pulls his shirt off. His bare chest is a sight to behold, rippling with hard muscles. She could worship his body and never want for anything in return, but Eomer won’t have it tonight. He’s made it clear already that the next few hours are hers alone.
He reaches for her leggings, fingers flying over the ties and loosening them faster than he had her tunic. Impatience now colors him, setting him alive with shades of passion that Syl could get lost in. She lifts her hips for him, helping with the process of tugging her leggings down her thighs. The determination she loves so much about him comes back in full force as Eomer wrests the fabric from her body and tosses it almost nonchalantly behind him. The sight makes her laugh.
“You are very impatient tonight,” she says between the pauses of her laughter. Eomer gives her a crooked smile and shrugs, bringing his fingers to his trousers and beginning to work them off his hips. Syl stares at him as he reveals inches more of his skin, carved and sculpted from countless hours in training. The sight of his bare upper body really doesn’t even hold a candle to the sight of him entirely bare. Impressive doesn’t quite cover it.
“Shall I go slower for you?” he asks with a teasing lilt. His pants join the pile of clothing on the floor. Sitting before her, completely bare, she thinks that if he goes slow she might actually die.
She props herself up onto her elbows, “I never said it was a bad thing.” She reaches out a hand for him, pressing her fingers to his wrist and pulling him forward. He goes without complaint and fits himself against the curves of her body.
“Good,” he murmurs, sounding a little hoarse now that he can feel every inch of her pressed up against every inch of him. It is a glorious feeling. “Because I don’t think I could even if I tried.”
She doesn’t have a chance to respond – which is good. Talking is definitely not something she wants to participate in right now. And don’t actions speak louder than words anyway?
Kissing Eomer definitely feels better than talking to him. At least in this moment, on this day – a day that had been spent with only the warmth of her thoughts to stave off the cold. She needs this. She needs him. And every part of him feels a thousand times better than ever before.
She does not see the bigger picture, at first. Syl is caught up between the intricacies of him, the push and pull of all his pieces fitting together with hers. The details stick out to her the most – honeyed mead sweet on his tongue, rough fingertips surprisingly soft, every subtle shifting drag of his skin that would raise goosebumps over her flesh. The gentle lilting brush of his mouth against hers, the way he kisses her so deeply yet so reverently, as if he is asking permission with each pass of his lips.
“Eomer…” she breathes, a jilted sigh that escapes her before she can reign it in. Has she ever felt this relaxed with other men? Not that there had been many, but the thought still remains. Eomer shows her that passion burns even brighter when it is not rushed. It’s a little strange, considering how impatient Eomer can get. Perhaps that’s why it feels so special.
She wants him to feel that too, so she whispers quietly, “I thought of you constantly today.” The words are muffled against his lips, drowned in his kisses – which slow and pause when he hears her. A boyish smile spreads over his face. He raises a hand to push a strand of her hair away and she bites her lip. “…You kept me warm out there.”
A chuckle leaves him, dragged over the dark contours of his voice, creased with that happy lowlight that often gravitates over the familiar pleasure of being with the one you love.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he murmurs, turning his attention down to her neck and layering kisses over her skin. “Those thoughts must have been very wicked, to keep you so warm.” Ah. He wants to hear them in full. She is only too eager to share.
With a shift of her hips, a subtle grinding motion that moves over his erection, Syl breathes, “Very wicked. More wicked than what you’re currently doing.”
Another chuckle, but this time it’s just as breathless and full of desire. He continues the motion she’d started, grinding his hips slowly against hers. She is so wet, and every pass of his body makes him crave more. Always more.
“I think I can fix that,” he mumbles, and his mouth tumbles to her breast at the same time as his fingers find her core.
It’s such a sudden touch that she gasps brokenly and arches into him; a wild mess that lurches straight into pleasure without a backward glance. She’s thankful for those rough calluses on his fingers. The way they gently scrape over her – the tangible friction - it all makes her clench her hands around his shoulders and moan.
He lets out a swift curse and against her breast, mutters, “You make me want to go insane.” If insanity tastes as sweet, he’d gladly delve right into it.
She lets out a breathless laugh that goes right to his groin and has his gritting his teeth. With a sigh, he nuzzles against her. The rough feel of his stubble makes her skin feel hyper sensitive and raw, like she’s exploding into so many pieces. She can only hope that he will put her together again after he takes her apart. Then again, Eomer has a particular penchant for doing just that.
“Then go insane,” she whispers, curling her legs around his waist. His fingers feel good, but she is empty of him and needs to change that. The feeling of him breaching her, filling her – that physical tie that connects them – that is what she needs.
He decides that he will. Go insane that is. With her. He needs to be inside her just as desperately as she needs him. A twist of his wrist and his fingers leave her core, only for Syl to drag them suddenly to her lips. With heavy desire, Eomer watches her tongue curl around his digits, feels the silken way she sucks herself off of his skin. And because he can’t possibly take that sight without doing something, anything, Eomer groans and leans down to kiss her properly.
She’ll be the death of him, he thinks. Rather than finding his end in a glorious battle, he’d rather find it in her arms strong around him.
Lining himself up, he fills her.
“Mmmm…” Syl gasps, arching against him. It’s a little rough, at first – the scrape of him against her inner walls. She isn’t as ready as she could be, but Eomer is slow and gentle with her. He watches her face carefully, pulls back from his insatiable desire to ensure that she is okay.
His thumb brushes over her cheekbone and he bends down to kiss the corner of her eye. A moment is spent shivering beneath him, but not in pain. The feeling of connecting with someone on such a deep level is staggering, and because it’s Eomer, the feeling is even more so. She pushes her hips up to take him deeper, and he groans against her neck at the way she so easily steals his breath.
The dulled pain changes, then, into something astoundingly beautiful.
Their hips begin to move at a steady pace. Shallow breaths are exchanged, lips brushing over skin and some of Eomer’s long hair falls down over his shoulder and tickles her cheek. She reaches up to thread her fingers into the blonde strands, tangling into them and pulling his head close to hers. The kiss she bestows upon him is gentle, a little sloppy but adequate in its purpose, and he all but sinks into her (in so many ways) as he kisses her back.
Syl is no longer cold. The chill that had followed her inside has long dispersed, morphing into a heat that can only come from another’s body pressed diligently against hers. She wraps her legs around his waist and her hands flutter down from his hair to his shoulders. She’s always loved his shoulders. Broad, muscled, tanned from the sun. She grips them now with almost possessive fingers, caught up in the intense desire to get closer. Always closer.
“Syl,” he breathes, just a short little sound that barely registers. But she hears it and the sound of her name threaded through with that raw passion makes her feel like she’s combusting beneath him. Of course, that feeling cold also be the result of the way his hand shifts up her body, from hip to breast, and lingers there as he palms her.
The gentle thrusting of his lower body propels hers into subtle shifts, and with his hand cupping her breast, every movement seems to spur on the rough calloused feeling of his skin against hers. She arches into him, pushing her chest against his hand and moaning softly as he rolls his fingers over her taut nipple.
He buries his head into the crook of her neck and sighs, a deep satisfying breath that is accelerated with every pass of his hips. He fills her like no other, more than just physically, until she is gasping beneath him and pleading for him to go faster, take her harder. His gentleness is endearing and lovely, but she craves the force of his passion even more.
He does not disappoint. A jolt of skin and he all but pushes her hips into the mattress as his pace picks up. She lets out a desperate moan and grips his upper arms tightly, moving one hand to travel across his back to grasp his rear. Every thrust he gives is accompanied by the insistent pull of her as she drags him closer, deeper.
“Eomer – “ she mumbles, her voice pitched somewhere between desperation and satisfaction. She is so close – just a little more and she’ll be there. She’s got a feeling he is in a similar position, because the sound of his name has Eomer groaning and thrusting even faster, moving one hand down between her legs to spur her on even more.
The press of his thumb against her clit is enough to send her completely over the edge, and Syl lets out an immediate moan that holds the traces of his name. Her body throws itself into an arch and suddenly she can’t control herself as she spins fast over the edge of her own desire and into the rough undercurrents of his.
“Oh!” she cries, the only indication of her finish. But it is enough. Eomer watches with passionate smoky eyes as she succumbs to the fire, shivering against him as her eyelids flutter and her body quakes. And the feel of her squeezing him, every contraction of her inner walls, makes him shiver in a similar way as he falls forward to follow.
The heat of his release does not fill her though. Eomer is nothing if not careful. He pulls out of her at the last moment and spills himself against her abdomen with a groan. The sight of him pumping himself to his finish is almost enough to make her want to start all over again, but the exhaustion of the night seems to have caught up with her, and all Syl can do is watch him with half lidded eyes.
He pushes a breath past his cheeks as he looks down at her, no doubt finding the sight of her covered in his finish satisfying in a way only a man could. She feels satisfied as well, wearing it against her skin. In some strange instinctual way, she rather thinks of it as a mark that she is his, and vice versa. But still, Eomer looks a little guilty about it. He always does.
“I’ll get a rag,” he murmurs, voice hoarse from the intensity of the night. As he clamors off her, Syl sits up to admire the way the moonlight caresses every curve of muscle. He is truly handsome, more so tonight.
After he cleans them up and joins her in bed, Eomer pulls the blankets up to their chins and they share amused laughter. The cold has returned, but vanishes just as quickly once he has gathered her up against his chest and has tangled their legs together.
“Your verdict, my lady?” he wonders as he nuzzles her face into her hair. She laughs softly.
“Hmmm…I don’t know,” she murmurs with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, “I think maybe you’ll need to make it up to me more.”
His eyebrows raise into dry surprise, but he doesn’t look displeased by any means. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Well I’m sure we can do something about that.”
As he leans down to kiss her, she sighs in contentment against him. What had begun as a not so pleasant day has transformed into a dream. And like a dream, the night gently crushed itself into a stillness that softly dragged them down into sleep.