“Aragorn.” Éomer’s voice was hushed, carrying no farther than the Ranger’s ears. “A word?” The heir of Rohan held the door flap of his pavilion aside as Aragorn ducked his head to enter. Éomer followed, letting the heavy canvas fall behind them.
The two men, both heirs to thrones of Middle-earth, gazed at one another for a brief moment before they embraced, their lips meeting in a searing kiss. As one they sank down onto the hide-covered floor of the tent, barely able to stretch their full length in the confined space.
Breathless they drew back, eyes locked with one another’s. Moving in tandem, they unfastened each other’s clothes, quickly stripping the garments from arms and torsos, then pulling off boots and leggings so they were both revealed.
They were of a size, Éomer and Aragorn. The Lord of the Riddermark was broader through the chest and more heavily muscled than the heir of Isildur, but the Ranger was every bit as strong — or stronger, thanks to his generations-distant Elvish blood — as the Horse Lord.
“You have not changed,” Aragorn whispered, lightly running his fingers over the fine golden hair that covered Éomer’s chest.
Éomer mirrored the caress, bringing a sigh to Aragorn’s lips. “I count a few new scars, my love,” he answered.
“Three years in the wilds,” Aragorn reminded him. “Fighting orcs is not a safe endeavor — especially when I lack the added distance from them your saddle grants you.”
Éomer laughed heartily. “Yet here we are,” he teased, kissing Aragorn once again. “Both of us unhorsed.”
Aragorn silenced the younger man with a passionate kiss, thrusting his tongue past Éomer’s lips to taste and explore the welcoming mouth. As they kissed their hands continued to stroke and caress the other’s body, until finally they pulled themselves tightly together, trapping their erections between them.
Éomer moaned against Aragorn’s mouth, his hips bucking against the pillar of hardened flesh aside his own.
“Has it been only three years?” Éomer asked when they separated again, his voice husky with passion, his breath coming in great gasps. “It seems like a lifetime since you rode with my company.”
“Aye,” Aragorn answered, taking little time to speak as he moved his kisses over Éomer’s face to his ears and along the taut tendons of his neck. “Too long,” he muttered. He slid along the golden-haired body of the Horse Lord and sat back on his heels, then bent forward to take the straining erection deeply in his mouth and throat.
Éomer shoved his fist into his mouth lest he cry out, calloused fingers of his free hand threading through Aragorn’s dark hair. His hips thrust upwards of their own accord, and with a sudden tightening of every muscle in the body he poured his seed into Aragorn’s mouth.
Aragorn swallowed around the thick, throbbing shaft, and the salty-sweet fluid slid down his open throat. He hummed an old melody as he carefully licked away all residue of Éomer’s passion.
“Ai,” the Horse lord gasped. “No other has ever brought me such pleasure.” He lay back on the hides, his chest heaving with each breath.
Aragorn’s head was still bent over Éomer’s groin, his dark hair brushing against the Horse lord’s shrinking member. He pushed Éomer’s strong thighs up to his chest, his fingers lightly stroking the sensitive, even ticklish flesh along the hamstrings. He lapped at the twin orbs, at the downy golden hair that covered the soft skin. His continued humming sent a shudder throughout Éomer’s entire body and a long, low moan escaped his lips.
“Yes, Aragorn,” Éomer sighed, then gasped again as the Ranger’s tongue swept across the puckered entrance.
Aragorn smiled to himself, pleased he’d remembered that Éomer was particularly fond of that caress. Again he tongued the opening, then threw himself forward, landing with his hands on either side of Éomer’s head. He held his body a finger’s breadth above the Horse lord’s, and felt the heat rising from the younger man’s form. He lowered himself, trapping his throbbing sex between them, capturing Éomer’s hungry lips with his own.
Éomer embraced him around the shoulders with his arms, prolonging the deep kiss, and around the hips with his legs, moving against the hard pillar of flesh so deliciously Aragorn feared he would spend himself then and there. Reluctantly the Dúnedain Ranger rolled to the side, easing the pressure against his manhood. “Oil,” he grunted, his mouth still pressed Éomer’s. He pulled back to draw a ragged breath and spoke more clearly. “You must have some oil at hand.”
Had his gaze not been locked with Éomer’s, Aragorn may not have seen the sparkle of a smile in the brown eyes.
“I have,” Éomer said between heaving breaths, “something.” He reached under the narrow cot and drew out a long-necked flask of plain crockery. He pressed it into Aragorn’s hands as the Ranger pushed himself up and sat back on his heels again.
With his teeth Aragorn pulled the cork from the neck of the flask and spat it aside. As he inhaled a look of surprise crossed his face. This was not the oil he expected — used to keep swords from rusting or saddles from cracking. This must be one of the Lady Éowyn’s potions, he thought, as the scent of almonds and peaches made his head swim.
He knew Éomer watched as he oiled his member, then he watched the play of passion on the Horse lord’s face as his slickened fingers stretched and prepared the way. Éomer’s body bucked when Aragorn brushed against the sensitive inner gland, and the younger man was panting with need by the time the Ranger pushed slowly inside. Little by little he eased his manhood into the sleeve of heated flesh.
Again Éomer’s legs grasped at Aragorn’s hips, pulling so tightly Aragorn nearly lost what modicum of control he had, risking injury to the younger man. Feeling Éomer clench around him, Aragorn slowly pulled back, only to thrust deeply again and again. They found a rhythm together and it was all Aragorn knew. The world apart from the two of them faded away — no war, no quest, no evil could touch them as they were joined so intimately.
Éomer’s organ stiffened again and Aragorn shifted the angle of his thrusts, moving against the needful flesh with his body. The Horse lord’s breath came in great heaving gasps, his moans of pleasure growing in intensity.
With one last thrust Aragorn poured his essence deep inside Éomer’s body, his head thrown back in his own ecstasy. Strong arms pulled him into a desperate embrace, lips sought one another as their bodies ground together in the spasms of their passion.
As they lay quietly in each other’s arms, the bustling sounds of the camp filtered into the tent. Aragorn stirred. “I should go,” he said quietly, and kissed Éomer once again. “Before your men suspect our motives.”
“I would worry more about your companions, Aragorn. My men are bonded warriors. The Rohirrim are not unused to trysts such as ours.” He pulled Aragorn closer, brushing tender kisses across his eyelids. “Half the tents in the encampment are engaged just as this one.”
“Only half?” Aragorn joked before rolling away from Éomer’s embrace and rising to his feet. “You are right about my friends,” he said, gathering his clothes. “Gimli and Legolas will expect me to join them tonight. They know not what we face in the morning.”
“None of us knows that, Aragorn.” Éomer reminded him. He rose from the floor as well and dressed himself.
The last button was fastened, the last strap buckled and the two men who would be kings gazed into each other’s eyes for what they both knew could be the last time.
“We follow different roads tomorrow,” Éomer began.
“To a common end,” Aragorn finished. “Fear not, Rider of Rohan,” he went on, spreading his arms invitingly. They embraced once more, sharing a slow, lingering kiss.
“This is not good-bye.”