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Wet Rag
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,250
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,250
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Wet Rag
Title: Wet Rag
Author: YamiNoWedge (Mechante_Salope@yahoo.com)
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Legolas/Éomer/Aragorn
Warnings: Slash, lemon, threesome, questionable consent
Summary: After the battle of Pelennor Fields, Éomer is dirty. So he gets a bath. Haha.
Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to... well, not me. Tolkein's son, I suspect.
Notes: I promised my friend that once she watched all three LOTR movies, I would write her a slash story with the characters of her choice. She chose these three. Please tell me what you think!! No flames (like “you suck” or “this is stupid” w/out an explanation) please, but constructive criticism (“I liked it / didn’t like it because [blah] and you could improve your writing if you [blah2]) is encouraged!
They had emerged victorious from the battle that was suppose to bring about the doom of Mankind, yet still Éomer stalked heavily to his assigned quarters in Minas Tirith. For even in victory, Gondor and Rohan paid a great price. During the battle, both kingdoms had lost their ruler – Gondor, the Steward Denethor; Rohan, the King Théoden. Said King was his uncle, and had been very dear to him most of his life, seeing as he had raised Éomer and his sister, Éowyn, as his own after their parents died.
When he found his uncle dead in the field after the battle, Éowyn was lying next to him, unconscious and injured, but not gravely so. A rumor about her and the Lord of the Nazgûl was spreading amongst his men like disease – one that shocked, disquieted, and horrified him all at once. One of his subordinates claimed to have seen her vanquish the Witch-King single-handedly, but as much as he trusted his men, Éomer felt it was absurd.
Sure, his beloved sister was fairly skilled with a blade, but she would have been neither the first nor the ablest to go against the despised ringwraith. If she did, in fact, kill it, there would certainly have had to be some other force at work.
But at the moment, who killed the Nazgûl was not nearly so important as the fact that it was dead, and that it was not killed in time to save his uncle. While he knew it to be true, although it did not really sink into him yet, nor had it even formed itself as a conscious thought, Théoden’s death foisted upon Éomer the title of King of Rohan, and with it all the rights and responsibilities of such a position.
Though he would deny it to anyone save Éowyn that should accuse him thusly, he felt ill prepared for his kingship. Granted, all his life he had been aware that he might one day be King, but since his uncle, not his father, was King, he had never been trained for the crown. Weeks earlier, he had found his only cousin, heir to the throne, fatally wounded in the Fords of Isen, and he had not since had the time to begin a training regiment suitable for his inheritance.
Éomer fumbled with the doorknob to his temporary quarters and dragged himself inside. His head spun from exhaustion, weary from three days of horseback riding, several hours of battle, and the ensuing chaos after they learned that his uncle had been killed and immediately turned to their devastated new King for answers to questions he had not yet had the chance to solve. Leaving the door wide open, he collapsed onto the bed for a long-desired full night’s sleep.
Éomer awoke to a warm, pleasant feeling. He felt graciously refreshed, warm, comfortable, clean…. A mental frown marred his reverie. Not wanting to rise from his much-deserved slumber, he fidgeted in an attempt to get a better idea of his environment. Much to his confusion, the sound of lapping water filled his ears, and something wound itself around him from behind to lie like a wet rag on his chest.
His warrior reflexes acting up, his eyes snapped open as he started to struggle, only to stop when he saw who was with him: the ranger from the North, Aragorn. Realizing there was someone behind him when the rag started to scrub his chest gently, he turned his head around to see who was doing it.
It was the Elf, Legolas. “Good morning, sleepy-head,” the normally aloof and silent Sinda said, moving the rag in small circles. “Sleep well?”
The Rohirrim was so groggy and confused, the only response he could muster was, “Fine. You?”
“Oh, I did not sleep last night,” he admitted, almost bragging, and continued to work with the rag. “I worked through it to tend for the dead and wounded. A little earlier I finally stopped to have a bath, and then Aragorn informed me that there was one person yet who really needed some help.”
That was easily the most the new King has ever heard the Elf say in one day. If it is me of whom you speak, I am neither dead nor wounded. So if you would be so kind…”
“What is the matter, Éomer?” Aragorn asked. “Are we not your friends?”
Éomer scoffed. “I do not give my friends surprise baths!”
“But you were dirty,” the other human said as innocently as he could.
The new King stared at his seemingly insane friend. “Of course I was dirty!” he exclaimed, and paused to tear the rag from Legolas’s hand. “I have not had the chance to bathe since a week before yesterday’s battle, and contrary to you apparent beliefs, I can bathe myself!”
“Oh, how skilled you are!” Legolas teased. “Did you hear that, Aragorn? He can bathe himself!” The last sentence was an excited whisper.
So the Elf was familiar with sarcasm.
Éomer attempted to stand and leave, or at least go to a slightly more private bath, but when he did so, the blonde behind him just pulled him backwards onto his lap, bringing his knees up and forcing his legs to splay outwards.
From his position, the Rohirrim could easily feel something quite hard push against his buttocks, an instantly he knew that it would take very little shifting to be impaled on it. He took a deep breath to calm himself so that he would not insult his “friend” when he let him know that he was not interested, during which time Legolas stealthily put his arms around Éomer’s arms and torso, preventing him from going anywhere.
The Man twisted his head around to throw his best scary look at the Elf and hissed, “Is this how you plan to ‘help me’? Well, I should let you know that I have had my share of maidens, and that I need no help in getting laid!” The sound of disturbed water reached his ears, and he turned his head back around to find something dismaying. During his rant, Aragorn had quietly and smoothly straddled him, his legs potentially able to wrap themselves nearly around the two of them. As it was, he held himself off of Éomer’s lap so that he was kneeling over them, leaning against Legolas’s knees.
The Dúnedain tsked at him. “Of course we do not think you need help in getting laid, mellon-nín. What you need help with is relaxing.” He rubbed his large hands over the other Man’s chest and shoulders, stopping when they were around his brawny neck. “You see?” he asked, indicating how tense he was. “You are wound far too tight. Your muscles are practically one big knot. Is that not painful?”
Sincere concern shone in the Ranger’s eyes.
Éomer’s mind screamed at him to struggle, to escape. As much as he revered the two with him, he had never been with a male before, and the prospect unnerved him. Yet resist he did not. While he gave his response, he wondered why he just sat there, and he considered the possibility that, deep down, he was intrigued. “It gets uncomfortable at times.” He never had been with a male before…. “What do you plan to do about it?”
“This,” was the simple answer, and as Aragorn bent down to kiss him, the Rohirrim’s heart skipped a beat, and the two closed their eyes. Not until the Ranger was convinced that the kiss would not be broken did his hands slide down Éomer’s body, massaging all the knots out of the otherwise perfect chest.
Once the subject of their interest was too far-gone to grasp the wet rag in his hand, Legolas deemed it to be safe to loosen his hold on his arms so that he could harmonize his actions with those of the Dúnedain. As Aragorn assaulted Éomer’s mouth and torso, the Elf kissed and suckled the back and crook of his neck, kneading his back with his skilled fingers and knuckles.
When he thought the others were ready, the Man on top slid one of his hands down to gently rub and fondle the other human’s semi-hard shaft. It was not merely semi-hard for long. As he brought it to life, his collaborator moved to prepare their “friend.” When his slender Elven finger grazed the tight opening, Éomer’s arms jumped in mild shock, and one of them snaked backwards to grasp Legolas’s hand – the one that was on his hip. The Woodelf grinned and almost awed out loud at his desire to hold his hand.
The Elf did not take a long time with stretching his “friend;” he just wanted to lessen the pain he would feel when they actually started having sex. He looked at Aragorn, who slid his hand under the Rohirrim, and Legolas helped him lift the Man between them. With that motion, the Dúnedain impaled himself swiftly on Éomer’s shaft, and before he exhaled his gasp, the blonde on bottom slid his erection evenly but slowly into the new King.
Immediately he could tell by the cringe on his face and the tightness of his body that Éomer had never had a male lover. Or at least he had not allowed himself to be taken. To reassure him, the Elf placed tiny kisses on his neck and squeezed his hand.
They waited until Éomer got used to the intrusion, and then they slowly started a simple up-down motion. From his position, Legolas knew he would have a hard time thrusting properly, so instead they used their hands to move their “friend” up and down between them.
Never having been taken before, the new King was at a loss concerning what he should do. His companions seemed to have everything under control well enough, and though one hand was being held by one of Legolas’s, his other hand was just hanging at his side. He tried to figure out what to do with it, putting it on Aragorn’s shoulder, then his side, then his hip.
Without breaking tempo, Aragorn removed his hand from its position to guide the Rohirrim’s hand to his own shaft. The younger Man took the hint and started to stroke it.
He was beginning to wonder why any man would be so inclined to take it up the arse, when the Elf under him shifted, and he nearly screamed. What he did do was moan pitifully and pridelessly. He could hear himself over the splashing of the water and the very interesting noises the others were making, and he blushed.
It was not long before he got over the embarrassment of the situation and added his own strength to the motions, bucking his hips up in time with his companions. For uncounted minutes it was the same sequence over and over – down, stroke, splash, up, stroke, splash – until he could feel his own control slipping away from him, and all three orgasmed at the same time. He fell back against Legolas’s chest, letting his head lie on the Elf’s shoulder. Aragorn slumped against him, spent, to lie his forehead on the princeling’s other shoulder. The trio was breathing so hard, they made ripples in the water, and the two on top could feel their bodies sway with each breath taken by one or ones under them.
Not until their breathing had slowed and the water had cooled did any of them open their eyes or say anything, but when they did, it was the Dúnedain who sat up, looked at Éomer, and said, “You are not nearly as tense as before. You must admit, this feels much better.” He gently ran his hand over the Rohirrim’s smooth, relaxed pecs, inviting Legolas to join him.
“Oh, it does!” the Elf exclaimed from behind.
The Lord of the Mark gazed curiously at the Man still straddling him. Before he had thought that he knew him well enough, as he was usually an excellent judge of personality, but this experience changed that notion completely.
Aragorn stood up in the tub and offered his hand to the younger Man, who took it and stood up in front of him. Without a sound – an amazing feat in water – Legolas stood up, as well, and stepped out of the tub. They started to dry themselves off, and before Éomer could follow their example, the Ranger said, “You should finish bathing and meet us in the King’s hall. Gandalf, Gimli, and we are going to decide what to do next.”
The Rohirrim glanced down at himself. He had thought that he had been lean, but by the look of things, he guessed that sex had a way of undoing that. He sat back down in the tub to finish bathing, and he picked up the discarded rag. He looked at it for a moment, then raised his head just in time to see the door shut.
~fin
Author: YamiNoWedge (Mechante_Salope@yahoo.com)
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Legolas/Éomer/Aragorn
Warnings: Slash, lemon, threesome, questionable consent
Summary: After the battle of Pelennor Fields, Éomer is dirty. So he gets a bath. Haha.
Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to... well, not me. Tolkein's son, I suspect.
Notes: I promised my friend that once she watched all three LOTR movies, I would write her a slash story with the characters of her choice. She chose these three. Please tell me what you think!! No flames (like “you suck” or “this is stupid” w/out an explanation) please, but constructive criticism (“I liked it / didn’t like it because [blah] and you could improve your writing if you [blah2]) is encouraged!
They had emerged victorious from the battle that was suppose to bring about the doom of Mankind, yet still Éomer stalked heavily to his assigned quarters in Minas Tirith. For even in victory, Gondor and Rohan paid a great price. During the battle, both kingdoms had lost their ruler – Gondor, the Steward Denethor; Rohan, the King Théoden. Said King was his uncle, and had been very dear to him most of his life, seeing as he had raised Éomer and his sister, Éowyn, as his own after their parents died.
When he found his uncle dead in the field after the battle, Éowyn was lying next to him, unconscious and injured, but not gravely so. A rumor about her and the Lord of the Nazgûl was spreading amongst his men like disease – one that shocked, disquieted, and horrified him all at once. One of his subordinates claimed to have seen her vanquish the Witch-King single-handedly, but as much as he trusted his men, Éomer felt it was absurd.
Sure, his beloved sister was fairly skilled with a blade, but she would have been neither the first nor the ablest to go against the despised ringwraith. If she did, in fact, kill it, there would certainly have had to be some other force at work.
But at the moment, who killed the Nazgûl was not nearly so important as the fact that it was dead, and that it was not killed in time to save his uncle. While he knew it to be true, although it did not really sink into him yet, nor had it even formed itself as a conscious thought, Théoden’s death foisted upon Éomer the title of King of Rohan, and with it all the rights and responsibilities of such a position.
Though he would deny it to anyone save Éowyn that should accuse him thusly, he felt ill prepared for his kingship. Granted, all his life he had been aware that he might one day be King, but since his uncle, not his father, was King, he had never been trained for the crown. Weeks earlier, he had found his only cousin, heir to the throne, fatally wounded in the Fords of Isen, and he had not since had the time to begin a training regiment suitable for his inheritance.
Éomer fumbled with the doorknob to his temporary quarters and dragged himself inside. His head spun from exhaustion, weary from three days of horseback riding, several hours of battle, and the ensuing chaos after they learned that his uncle had been killed and immediately turned to their devastated new King for answers to questions he had not yet had the chance to solve. Leaving the door wide open, he collapsed onto the bed for a long-desired full night’s sleep.
Éomer awoke to a warm, pleasant feeling. He felt graciously refreshed, warm, comfortable, clean…. A mental frown marred his reverie. Not wanting to rise from his much-deserved slumber, he fidgeted in an attempt to get a better idea of his environment. Much to his confusion, the sound of lapping water filled his ears, and something wound itself around him from behind to lie like a wet rag on his chest.
His warrior reflexes acting up, his eyes snapped open as he started to struggle, only to stop when he saw who was with him: the ranger from the North, Aragorn. Realizing there was someone behind him when the rag started to scrub his chest gently, he turned his head around to see who was doing it.
It was the Elf, Legolas. “Good morning, sleepy-head,” the normally aloof and silent Sinda said, moving the rag in small circles. “Sleep well?”
The Rohirrim was so groggy and confused, the only response he could muster was, “Fine. You?”
“Oh, I did not sleep last night,” he admitted, almost bragging, and continued to work with the rag. “I worked through it to tend for the dead and wounded. A little earlier I finally stopped to have a bath, and then Aragorn informed me that there was one person yet who really needed some help.”
That was easily the most the new King has ever heard the Elf say in one day. If it is me of whom you speak, I am neither dead nor wounded. So if you would be so kind…”
“What is the matter, Éomer?” Aragorn asked. “Are we not your friends?”
Éomer scoffed. “I do not give my friends surprise baths!”
“But you were dirty,” the other human said as innocently as he could.
The new King stared at his seemingly insane friend. “Of course I was dirty!” he exclaimed, and paused to tear the rag from Legolas’s hand. “I have not had the chance to bathe since a week before yesterday’s battle, and contrary to you apparent beliefs, I can bathe myself!”
“Oh, how skilled you are!” Legolas teased. “Did you hear that, Aragorn? He can bathe himself!” The last sentence was an excited whisper.
So the Elf was familiar with sarcasm.
Éomer attempted to stand and leave, or at least go to a slightly more private bath, but when he did so, the blonde behind him just pulled him backwards onto his lap, bringing his knees up and forcing his legs to splay outwards.
From his position, the Rohirrim could easily feel something quite hard push against his buttocks, an instantly he knew that it would take very little shifting to be impaled on it. He took a deep breath to calm himself so that he would not insult his “friend” when he let him know that he was not interested, during which time Legolas stealthily put his arms around Éomer’s arms and torso, preventing him from going anywhere.
The Man twisted his head around to throw his best scary look at the Elf and hissed, “Is this how you plan to ‘help me’? Well, I should let you know that I have had my share of maidens, and that I need no help in getting laid!” The sound of disturbed water reached his ears, and he turned his head back around to find something dismaying. During his rant, Aragorn had quietly and smoothly straddled him, his legs potentially able to wrap themselves nearly around the two of them. As it was, he held himself off of Éomer’s lap so that he was kneeling over them, leaning against Legolas’s knees.
The Dúnedain tsked at him. “Of course we do not think you need help in getting laid, mellon-nín. What you need help with is relaxing.” He rubbed his large hands over the other Man’s chest and shoulders, stopping when they were around his brawny neck. “You see?” he asked, indicating how tense he was. “You are wound far too tight. Your muscles are practically one big knot. Is that not painful?”
Sincere concern shone in the Ranger’s eyes.
Éomer’s mind screamed at him to struggle, to escape. As much as he revered the two with him, he had never been with a male before, and the prospect unnerved him. Yet resist he did not. While he gave his response, he wondered why he just sat there, and he considered the possibility that, deep down, he was intrigued. “It gets uncomfortable at times.” He never had been with a male before…. “What do you plan to do about it?”
“This,” was the simple answer, and as Aragorn bent down to kiss him, the Rohirrim’s heart skipped a beat, and the two closed their eyes. Not until the Ranger was convinced that the kiss would not be broken did his hands slide down Éomer’s body, massaging all the knots out of the otherwise perfect chest.
Once the subject of their interest was too far-gone to grasp the wet rag in his hand, Legolas deemed it to be safe to loosen his hold on his arms so that he could harmonize his actions with those of the Dúnedain. As Aragorn assaulted Éomer’s mouth and torso, the Elf kissed and suckled the back and crook of his neck, kneading his back with his skilled fingers and knuckles.
When he thought the others were ready, the Man on top slid one of his hands down to gently rub and fondle the other human’s semi-hard shaft. It was not merely semi-hard for long. As he brought it to life, his collaborator moved to prepare their “friend.” When his slender Elven finger grazed the tight opening, Éomer’s arms jumped in mild shock, and one of them snaked backwards to grasp Legolas’s hand – the one that was on his hip. The Woodelf grinned and almost awed out loud at his desire to hold his hand.
The Elf did not take a long time with stretching his “friend;” he just wanted to lessen the pain he would feel when they actually started having sex. He looked at Aragorn, who slid his hand under the Rohirrim, and Legolas helped him lift the Man between them. With that motion, the Dúnedain impaled himself swiftly on Éomer’s shaft, and before he exhaled his gasp, the blonde on bottom slid his erection evenly but slowly into the new King.
Immediately he could tell by the cringe on his face and the tightness of his body that Éomer had never had a male lover. Or at least he had not allowed himself to be taken. To reassure him, the Elf placed tiny kisses on his neck and squeezed his hand.
They waited until Éomer got used to the intrusion, and then they slowly started a simple up-down motion. From his position, Legolas knew he would have a hard time thrusting properly, so instead they used their hands to move their “friend” up and down between them.
Never having been taken before, the new King was at a loss concerning what he should do. His companions seemed to have everything under control well enough, and though one hand was being held by one of Legolas’s, his other hand was just hanging at his side. He tried to figure out what to do with it, putting it on Aragorn’s shoulder, then his side, then his hip.
Without breaking tempo, Aragorn removed his hand from its position to guide the Rohirrim’s hand to his own shaft. The younger Man took the hint and started to stroke it.
He was beginning to wonder why any man would be so inclined to take it up the arse, when the Elf under him shifted, and he nearly screamed. What he did do was moan pitifully and pridelessly. He could hear himself over the splashing of the water and the very interesting noises the others were making, and he blushed.
It was not long before he got over the embarrassment of the situation and added his own strength to the motions, bucking his hips up in time with his companions. For uncounted minutes it was the same sequence over and over – down, stroke, splash, up, stroke, splash – until he could feel his own control slipping away from him, and all three orgasmed at the same time. He fell back against Legolas’s chest, letting his head lie on the Elf’s shoulder. Aragorn slumped against him, spent, to lie his forehead on the princeling’s other shoulder. The trio was breathing so hard, they made ripples in the water, and the two on top could feel their bodies sway with each breath taken by one or ones under them.
Not until their breathing had slowed and the water had cooled did any of them open their eyes or say anything, but when they did, it was the Dúnedain who sat up, looked at Éomer, and said, “You are not nearly as tense as before. You must admit, this feels much better.” He gently ran his hand over the Rohirrim’s smooth, relaxed pecs, inviting Legolas to join him.
“Oh, it does!” the Elf exclaimed from behind.
The Lord of the Mark gazed curiously at the Man still straddling him. Before he had thought that he knew him well enough, as he was usually an excellent judge of personality, but this experience changed that notion completely.
Aragorn stood up in the tub and offered his hand to the younger Man, who took it and stood up in front of him. Without a sound – an amazing feat in water – Legolas stood up, as well, and stepped out of the tub. They started to dry themselves off, and before Éomer could follow their example, the Ranger said, “You should finish bathing and meet us in the King’s hall. Gandalf, Gimli, and we are going to decide what to do next.”
The Rohirrim glanced down at himself. He had thought that he had been lean, but by the look of things, he guessed that sex had a way of undoing that. He sat back down in the tub to finish bathing, and he picked up the discarded rag. He looked at it for a moment, then raised his head just in time to see the door shut.
~fin