Work Text:
TITLE: A BIT OF SPARRING ON A SUNNY DAY
AUTHOR: rubyelf
CHARACTERS: Eomer / Legolas
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: smut and minor boo-boos.
SUMMARY: Eomer tires of being trapped in Minas Tirith and having to behave like royalty on a day better used for other things. Legolas has an idea what sort of other things the day might best be used for. A bit of swordplay leads to... well, you know.
DISCLAIMER: Characters do not belong to me. They are just here to play
Written for the Slashy Valentine exchange... there are a whole bunch of awesome stories there to go read, if you don't have this comm on your list and don't see the posts. This was written in response to a request for Eomer / Legolas, some swordplay or practice, and no one-is-all-dominant-and-the-other-is-all-timid sort of thing.
So, the result is a bit of PWP. Enjoy.
A BIT OF SPARRING ON A SUNNY DAY
“You’re not still angry with him from your first meeting?”
Eomer turned from the edge of the balcony to face Aragorn.
“Who?”
Aragorn laughed, the crown on his head glittering in the sunlight. “The elf.”
Eomer scowled, realizing that Aragorn had indeed caught him watching the garden below, where Legolas was walking among the trees, touching the bark and peering up into the branches.
“He’s taken it upon himself to restore all the gardens in Minas Tirith,” Aragorn said.
“We have no gardens in Edoras,” Eomer muttered. “We do not have the time or the energy to waste on pretty things.”
“Perhaps now that you have Gondor as a full ally and the forces of Mordor no longer draining Rohan’s resources, life in Edoras will be less harsh than it has been in the past.”
Eomer nodded, trying to force himself to relax. Before they were both crowned, he had spoken to Aragorn as a fellow warrior, another man accustomed to a life of danger and hardship and sacrifice. He had expected to have that man’s companionship on this trip, his first to Minas Tirith since being named King of the Mark, but this Aragorn was not the same man. He seemed older now, more regal, carrying the weight of his kingdom with a quiet grace and certainty Eomer doubted he would ever possess. And when he’d arrived a few days ago he had been invited to dine with King Elessar and his Queen; with her proud features and innate elven poise, Arwen seemed born for the role, and though the royal couple had been gracious and sincerely welcoming, this only made Eomer feel more out of place.
“Hello, Estel!” a voice called from below. “And hello, Eomer!”
“Legolas,” Aragorn chided.
Legolas bowed, grinning. “I apologize, my Lord. I forget your old nickname is no longer to be used.”
Eomer was relieved to realize Aragorn was scolding Legolas not for his casual address of Eomer, but for his casual use of Aragorn’s own Sindarin pet name.
“King Eomer,” Legolas said, looking up at them, “if you have time, there is someone who would like to see you again.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Come down here and I’ll take you to him.”
Aragorn nodded. “Go, if you wish. We have no more meetings for today.”
Thank the gods for that, Eomer thought, shuddering.
Legolas was waiting at the entrance to the garden, dressed as always in green and brown, deceptively slight, his blond hair neatly braided.
“I hardly recognize you without your bow,” Eomer said.
Legolas smiled, blue eyes studying Eomer. “I take it when I go hunting. It’s not tremendously useful inside the walls of a city, especially not in peacetime. Besides, I’ve been an expert marksman for several hundred years; lately I’ve been working on my swordsmanship.”
“Oh?” Eomer asked, surprised; the elf had seemed just as adept with his slender double knives as he was with his bow and arrows.
Legolas shrugged. “It’s something to do. I started fighting orcs and spiders in Mirkwood even before I came of age, and no time in my life since then has ever been without battles, until now.”
Eomer sighed. “A lack of enemies to fight seems to leave some warriors feeling…”
“Out of place?” Legolas asked. “As if we’ve served our purpose and aren’t quite certain what we’re good for anymore?”
“Something like that,” Eomer admitted.
The elf laughed and extended his hand, grasping Eomer’s arm. His grip was firm and surprisingly strong despite the hand’s delicate appearance, and Eomer wondered, not for the first time, what the hint of something secretive and knowing behind the easy smile might mean.
“Who wanted to see me?” he asked.
“Follow me. I think you’ll feel more at home where we’re going.”
They walked together through the city, Legolas occasionally pointing out a small garden or patch of flowers tucked away in corners of the streets, and finally out through the main gates and down a low hill toward the stables. Eomer inhaled, the scent of grass and horses easing his mind, as Legolas leaned on one of the fences surrounding the broad pastures and whistled loudly. Out in the field, one white horse raised his head, ears pricked eagerly, and then set off at a brisk trot toward the elf.
“Arod,” Eomer said, grinning. “I didn’t know you kept him.”
“I didn’t,” Legolas said, leaning over the fence to scratch the horse’s nose affectionately. “After the last battle I let him go and told him to go home to Rohan. He came back.”
“Our horses are very loyal to their riders,” Eomer said. “When they trust their rider, there’s almost nothing they won’t do for them.”
Legolas smiled fondly and whispered something to the horse in Sindarin. Arod tossed his head and stepped back, giving the elf a sharp look.
“What did you say to him?” Eomer asked.
“I told him that if he still trusted me after all the placed I’ve taken him, he must not be a very smart horse.”
Eomer reached out, and Arod nudged his hand in greeting, lips feeling over the man’s fingers to search for possible treats.
“Sorry, friend. I have nothing for you today.”
Legolas reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped in paper.
“What’s that?”
“Molasses candy,” the elf said, slightly sheepish. “That’s what he’s looking for. I think he’s addicted to them.”
He extended his hand and Arod gently plucked the candy from his palm and stepped back with a blissful expression, crunching the morsel with his teeth.
“I am glad to see an old friend again,” Eomer said. “It makes me feel almost like myself again.”
“I suppose Aragorn’s had you trapped in meetings and discussions all day since you got here, hasn’t he,” Legolas said. “Dreadful things. I avoid them at all costs. It’s a shame men don’t climb trees as well as elves do… that’s where I hide when he’s looking for me.”
Eomer rolled his eyes. “I wish I could get away with that. I feel like I’ve been trapped in little rooms in uncomfortable chairs for an eternity.”
“Perhaps you need some exercise,” Legolas said, and Eomer caught that knowing, inquisitive smile again. “You might feel better if you had a chance to stretch your muscles and be active for a while. If you’d like, I’ll go ask the kitchen to put together some food for us, and we can go riding for a while.”
The thought of being out under the sun on horseback was irresistible. “I think that would improve my mood considerably.”
“Good,” the elf said. “I’ll meet you back here shortly; go change into some less formal attire and come back. And bring your sword… perhaps you can assist me in testing how well my practice has been going.”
Eomer raised an eyebrow. “Won’t Aragorn be annoyed if he looks for me and I’ve disappeared?”
“I’ll take all the blame for it. I enjoy annoying him. Next to archery and swordplay, it’s my third favorite hobby.”
Eomer bit his tongue to silence the abrupt, unbidden question that popped into his head; why would he ask the elf what his fourth favorite hobby was? Did it have something to do with that blue-eyed gaze that seemed to be asking him a dozen silent questions of its own.
He returned to his rooms and changed into riding pants and a loose tunic, thinking to himself that perhaps all elves were impossible to understand and that perhaps Legolas was just a typical example of his notoriously incomprehensible race. He arrived back at the stables to find Legolas waiting for him at the edge of the pastures, Arod and Eomer’s horse already prepared and tugging at the reins, eager to be off. Eomer glanced at the broadsword on the elf’s belt.
“I thought you fought with those two elf blades.”
Legolas shrugged. “I told you. I like new challenges. It’s always quite satisfying to master something new.”
For a moment Eomer was quite certain there had been something suggestive in the elf’s tone, but he slapped the thought out of his head. Just because he found the elf interesting… well, more than interesting; the combination of fairness and grace with wiry strength intrigued him, and there was no denying the elf was an attractive creature. But that certainly didn’t mean that Legolas had anything besides a pleasant ride and some swordplay in mind…
“Are you all right, my Lord?” the elf asked.
“Eomer,” he corrected, forcing himself to stop thinking about the alternative meanings of “pleasant ride” and “swordplay” and imagining Legolas in the act of riding something besides a horse, and what he might do with his own personal weapon.
“Very well, Eomer. You seem… distracted.”
“Just thinking about all the foolishness Aragorn has poured into my head over the last few days.”
“Ahh. He’s been known to do that. Are you ready?”
“Certainly. Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular. Away from the city. I grow tired of it occasionally.”
He swung himself easily onto Arod’s bare back. Eomer, despite a lifetime on horseback, felt a bit clumsy as he hauled himself into the saddle, but Legolas just smiled at him and turned Arod’s head to the south.
“Shall we?”
“Lead the way, elf.”
They rode for a while in contented silence, the horses setting their own pace. Eomer, used to spending days on horseback, was so used to the rhythm of a horse’s stride that he could very nearly doze without losing his balance, especially under the warm summer sun that baked down on their shoulders.
“You look much more at ease than you did earlier,” Legolas noted.
Eomer nodded. “Thank you for assisting me in my escape.”
“I had my own motives,” Legolas said.
Eomer sat up and looked toward the elf with some astonishment. Legolas grinned back at him.
“I told you, I need someone to test my swordsmanship against,” he said.
“I see,” Eomer said, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “And there is no one in Minas Tirith worthy of testing yourself against?”
Legolas chuckled. “I will admit to having a particular interest in your swordsmanship. I had heard some tales about the riders of Rohan…”
“I didn’t know we were so well-known for our swordsmanship.”
“That wasn’t the sort of story I was thinking of,” Legolas said, and there was that knowing smile again, but then he suddenly reined in his horse and looked to the east. “There’s a creek just down in that little valley. The horses can have a drink and perhaps you’d like some lunch.”
“Perhaps,” Eomer said.
“Or perhaps you would like to work up an appetite first,” Legolas suggested.
They reached the creek and unsaddled the horses, leaving them to graze; horses trained by the Rohirrim did not wander far from their riders. Legolas drew his sword and inspected it, turning it back and forth in the sunlight.
“A fine blade,” Eomer noted.
“A gift from King Elessar. In reward for my loyal service. Come, draw your sword, King Eomer, and we shall test each other out.”
Eomer drew his own sword, trying to remind himself that despite the elf’s slender frame and deceptive slightness, he had seen the same elf hack orcs to pieces and put arrows through their eyes. He took a defensive stance and waited.
“I’m ready when you are.”
“Excellent,” Legolas said lightly, and attacked.
Eomer found himself driven back by the force of the blows, but after his initial surprise he rallied and shoved Legolas backwards before launching his own attack. Legolas parried it, and Eomer noted with some satisfaction that the elf was not quite as skilled with this heavier sword as his usual elven blades, but the satisfaction did not last long, because Legolas brought his sword against Eomer’s with enough force to send painful tingling numbness through the man’s hands.
“You are stronger than you look,” he noted.
Legolas grinned, fierce and alert, his eyes bright. “I know.”
Eomer attacked again, and this time actually managed to make the elf stumble under the force of his blows, but Legolas regained his balance and succeeded in bouncing off his heels and launching another blow at Eomer. The man blocked the blow expertly and shoved again, using his greater weight against his opponent, but this time Legolas anticipated the maneuver and allowed himself to move with Eomer, using the man’s own momentum to unbalance him, and while Eomer was regaining his footing, brought the sword around again. This time Eomer moved just in time to block the blow, but it was an awkward angle, and the elf’s sword skittered up the length of his own and stuck the man in the upper arm.
Legolas dropped his blade immediately. “Are you hurt?”
Eomer glanced at the sleeve of his tunic and found it bloody. Legolas was suddenly very close to him, unlacing his tunic before Eomer could react and moving to pull it over his head. Eomer finished removing the tunic, noticing a sharp sting in his arm, and examined what appeared to be a fairly shallow gash.
“It’s nothing serious. I think I’ll survive.”
Legolas frowned. “I didn’t intend to injure you.”
“It’s a scratch,” Eomer said, amused by the elf’s concern. “If you’d like, we can get back to sparring.”
“No,” the elf said firmly. He motioned to their gear, sitting on the grass by the creek. “Come and sit. We’ll have some wine and something to eat. I’m not going to spar with someone who’s injured.”
Eomer rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Well, if it’s stopped bleeding by the time we finish our meal, I’ll believe you,” Legolas said, opening one of the packs and drawing out a bottle of wine wrapped in cloth and a basket of bread and cheese and apples. “Sit down.”
Eomer tried to ignore the elf watching him closely as he ate, but by the time he had finished his bread and cheese and had nearly finished devouring his second apple, Legolas seemed satisfied that he was going to survive his injury.
“You didn’t eat very much,” Eomer noted.
Legolas leaned back and studied the apple he was carefully slicing with a small, sharp knife, raising each slice to his mouth with the blade. Eomer watched the elf’s tongue carelessly flick out to lick the juice off the blade before returning to his work.
“Elves don’t eat as much as mortals do.”
“I’ve seen elves out-eat a lot of mortals I know.”
“True,” Legolas said. “Perhaps I should say that elves don’t need as much food as mortals do, and we prefer not to over-eat unless we expect to have plenty of time to rest and recover afterwards.”
He ran his tongue over the blade again, this time cleaning both sides thoroughly before sliding it back into the sheath at his belt. Eomer reached for the bottle of wine, but Legolas grabbed it first.
“Before we empty this, I have some use for it.”
“Oh?”
Legolas nodded and reached for one of the clean linen cloths that the kitchen had packed with the meal. He held it in the palm of his hand and, before Eomer could protest, upended the wine bottle and soaked the cloth with wine, staining it burgundy.
“What are you doing?”
“Wine is cleaner than water,” Legolas said, shifting closer to the man. “Healers clean wounds with wine if they can’t boil water to purify it.”
“I don’t require…”
Legolas had a strong hand around the man’s wrist and was pulling his arm until it was extended across the elf’s chest. With his other hand, he applied the wine-soaked cloth to the gash on Eomer’s upper arm. Eomer, uncomfortably aware of his arm pressed against the elf and the silk-blond hair falling over the face that was intently focused on his wound, scowled and made a half-hearted attempt to take his arm back.
“Stop that.”
“Even a minor wound can fester if it’s not cleaned,” Legolas said sensibly. “Do you leave injuries to your horses untended, even if they’re not severe?”
“No,” Eomer said, frowning. “But this is a waste of perfectly good wine.”
The blue eyes flashed upward from the man’s arm to his face, and this time Eomer was quite certain that the smile that crossed the elf’s face was offering him something, if he managed to reach for it.
“It would be a shame to waste wine,” Legolas said evenly.
He leaned over and, those bright blue eyes still fixed on the man’s face, extended that pink tongue that had recently licked across the sharpened knife blade, caught a drop of wine running down Eomer’s arm to his elbow, and with one smooth motion traced it upwards. Eomer gasped at the feeling of the soft, hot tongue licking up the bare skin of his arm. When Legolas reached his shoulder, he smiled again and raised his eyebrows.
Eomer didn’t need to be told twice; anyone who was going to lick wine off him with a suggestive smirk on his face could hardly complain if he misunderstood their intentions. He jerked his arm free and pressed Legolas backwards, taking them both down into the cool grass together. The elf yielded without complaint, allowing Eomer to roll them until he was stretched out over him, their bodies pressed together.
“What are you up to, elf?” he growled.
Legolas raised an eyebrow and pressed his hips up against Eomer, letting the man feel the hard length beneath the thin fabric of his breeches.
“What does it feel like I’m up to?”
Eomer realized that the contact with the elf’s body had him almost instantly hard, and he pressed back against Legolas, his breath coming faster.
“And what would make you think I would want such a thing?”
Legolas smirked. “Arod tells me stories.”
“Since when can elves talk to horses?”
“Who told you they couldn’t?” the elf retorted. “Besides, I didn’t say I could talk to him. I said he could talk to me.”
Eomer felt his face turning red; Arod and the other horses belonging to the soldiers of Rohan witnessed many of their riders’ late-night encounters, driven by long periods away from home and wives and by a sense of brotherhood dictating that there was no shame in a man quietly providing some comfort or ease to a fellow soldier. Eomer knew that while some men refused such contact, most of the soldiers had at least occasionally given in to the desire for the touch of hands other than their own. It was to be taken out of the camp and managed discreetly, without public discussion, but of course the men of Rohan were never far from their horses, and Eomer found himself wondering exactly what sort of tales Arod might have been telling. After all, he and Arod’s former owner had shared some interesting encounters together with only their horses to see it…
“I told you I’d heard tales about the riders of Rohan,” Legolas said, looking up at him. “I wanted to test them for myself. Unless, of course, you’re not interested.”
Eomer ground his hips against the elf to make sure he knew that Eomer was as interested as it was possible to be. “Even a man who had never sought pleasure from his fellow man would find you desirable.”
“Hmm,” Legolas said. “Some find me intimidating. Elves are, after all, an immortal and mysterious people.”
Eomer slid his hand between their bodies and cupped his rough palm over the elf’s hard cock trapped between them. “It seems men and elves have this, at least, in common.”
Legolas inhaled sharply and thrust up against Eomer’s hand. “And I believe you’ll find that the same things give us both pleasure.”
Eomer sat up abruptly, having had enough of talking, and set about undressing the lean figure stretched out on the grass beneath him. Legolas, meanwhile, had set his long fingers to work on the laces of the man’s breeches. The elf’s tunic was tossed aside, followed by boots and breeches and undergarments, until Eomer was looking down at Legolas, long and smooth and pale, with wiry muscles shifting beneath velvet, unblemished skin. Eomer glanced down at his own naked form, noticing the scars and marks and lines.
“Elves don’t bear scars,” Legolas said, reaching up to trace across a silvery raised line that ran across the man’s side. “I find them intriguing. Like maps of a man’s history.”
“They are that,” Eomer said, “but I have little patience for cartography at the moment.”
Legolas grinned. “Well, then.”
Eomer jumped as the elf’s smooth hand wrapped itself around his cock. Legolas stroked him firmly, until the man’s hips were jerking forward, seeking more friction. The elf stopped abruptly, settling for running his fingers over the head of Eomer’s cock and slicking it with the wetness they found there, drawing a ragged moan from the man.
“What do you want, King of Rohan?” Legolas asked.
“I want to please you,” he growled, grasping the elf’s wrist to still his hand.
Legolas smiled. “Excellent. Do you have some oil or salve in that saddlebag of yours?”
Eomer scrambled for his pack and found a small jar of salve; men carried it to put over minor cuts and scrapes on themselves and their horses to protect the wounds from dirt and debris, but it was greasy and slippery between his fingers. He turned around, expecting to find Legolas still lying in the grass watching him.
Instead he was pushed abruptly backwards until his back hit the ground, finding himself staring up at the elf as he straddled his hips and leaned down to kiss him. Eomer returned the kiss hungrily, with such determination and demand that after a moment Legolas pulled back, breathless and grinning.
“Your desire is strong, it seems. Do you still wish to please me?”
“Yes.”
Legolas kissed him again, a battle of mouths and tongues and breath that fought its way to a draw when both of them ran out of air and pulled back. Eomer had not thought it was possible for his cock to be so hard, and to make sure the elf was aware of the intensity of his need he shifted his weight to rub the hard length against the elf’s buttocks.
“I know, I know,” Legolas said, reaching for the salve and slicking his fingers with it before leaning down to kiss the man again.
Eomer had expected to feel slippery fingers at his own opening, and was surprised when instead Legolas reached back and slid his fingers into his own body. Eomer’s cock pounded with desperate eagerness at the sight of Legolas preparing himself, arched over the man’s body, supporting himself with one hand on his chest while the other worked. The blue eyes had drifted closed, and Eomer could feel the elf’s cock jerking against his belly as Legolas gave a soft murmur of pleasure before withdrawing his fingers and reaching for Eomer’s cock. The man reached up and grasped the elf’s hips as he rose, guiding him as he moved to poise himself above the man’s cock before lowering himself down onto it.
Eomer groaned and thrust up into the tight heat, but Legolas held himself back, taking in only the head of the man’s cock and gripping it tightly. Eomer cursed and gripped the elf’s slender hips, but Legolas refused to be hurried. He took the man in inch by inch with aching slowness, making sure Eomer could feel the grip of his strong muscles around his cock. Eomer was gasping for breath, tortured and trying to control his desperate desire to thrust up into the body above him. Legolas stopped, the man’s cock still only half inside him, and grinned breathlessly.
“How do you fare, Eomer?”
“I am going mad, Legolas. Please.”
The elf smiled. “Very well.”
Without warning, he thrust himself down onto the man’s cock, plunging it as far inside him as it could go. Both of them cried out at the sudden impalement, and Legolas threw his head back, breathing hard as his body adjusted. Eomer, still fighting to maintain some control, stroked the muscular thighs that clenched his hips, and after a moment Legolas began to rock slowly on the man’s cock, arching his back as he sought the angle he was looking for.
Both of them knew when he had found it; Eomer felt the elf’s body tighten around him and Legolas moaned and pressed down harder, rocking the head of Eomer’s cock into exactly the place he felt it the most, riding him hard now. Eomer gasped and clutched at the elf’s body as it moved above him, feeling the tight grip on his cock and the blissful friction as the elf forced the man deeper, arching back to keep the head of it hitting that spot inside him. Eomer closed his eyes and felt his fingers digging into the elf’s sides, heard himself moaning, loud and ragged and not caring who heard him; he had never been ridden so hard or had someone ride themselves to ecstasy on him this way, and it was almost more than he could bear. Legolas was crying out in Sindarin, hands gripping the man’s chest as he forced himself down again and again, driving Eomer’s cock into him until he could stand it no longer and reached to grasp his own length. Eomer watched in fascination as with only a few strokes the elf’s hand was covered with his release, and at the same time the heat and tightness surrounding his own cock clenched down on him and he shouted, his body jerking up into the elf’s as his release seemed to shake him endlessly, pulsing through him to fill the slender body above him over and over again.
Legolas slumped forward, and Eomer reached up for him, drawing him down to rest against the man’s chest as he gasped for breath. It seemed like a long time that they lay there together, the man’s cock softening inside the elf’s body, Eomer’s fingers tracing the lines of the elf’s spine. Eventually, Legolas turned his head and buried his face in the man’s shoulder.
“You didn’t hurt yourself, Legolas?” Eomer asked, frowning.
“Not at all,” Legolas murmured.
Eomer shifted, moving to draw himself from the elf’s body, but Legolas pressed his hips back against him. “Stay. I like feeling you there.”
Eomer could hardly complain about letting his spent cock enjoy the elf’s velvety heat for a while longer. “Legolas…”
“Did that please you, Eomer?”
“Good gods… I thought it was going to kill me!”
Legolas laughed and turned his head so his blue eyes could find the man’s face. “Perhaps next time you would care to demonstrate your riding skills.”
“I fear if I ride you with the same enthusiasm, I might harm us both.”
“Elves are quite resilient,” Legolas said, kissing him lazily.
By the edge of the creek, the two horses had raised their heads from grazing as the moans and cries echoed through the clearing, but now that the noise seemed to have settled, they went back to eating, reassured that their masters were alive and well and in no imminent danger. When, a while later and after some contented snoring from Eomer, the gasps and moans began again, Eomer’s horse raised his head with some concern, but Arod only snorted and moved farther down the creek, leaving the two riders and their shouts of “Fuck!” and “Harder!” behind him and hoping the two would at least occupy each other for a while longer and give the horses a chance to doze.