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Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Bitch of Rohan
Author: Juxian Tang
E-mail: juxiantang@hotmail.com
Site: http://juxian.slashcity.net/
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Boromir/Eomer/Theodred
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Written for Contrelamontre challenge, 4 yellow objects, 3 animals, 2 mind-altering substances and 1 pair of high heels, in about 1 hour.
More notes: I warn you, it's odd. Not canon in any way.
Summary: On the way to Rivendell Boromir stops by in Edoras.


Thin black laces twine about Theodred's narrow ankles and up his shins, holding crude wooden high-heel shoes on his feet. His legs are long, and the heels make them look even longer - thrown apart as he leans back in the chair. And Boromir kneels between his thighs, head bobbing up and down over his groin.

Theodred's legs are smooth, skin soft like the purest silk, and the column of his throat is smooth as well as he tosses his head back, laughing. Eomer tilts the goblet to his lips, pouring wine into his mouth. Wine is dark-red, like trickles of venous blood leaking over Theodred's beardless face. Theodred smiles, and Eomer bends closer, licking the dribbles of wine - blood - from his face. It tastes sweet; it tastes salty with Theodred's skin under it.

Fluid from the tip of Theodred's shaft in his mouth tastes like wine, Boromir thinks. He is drunk on it, like he always gets drunk on the feeling of Theodred's body under him, so pliant, so submissive, so responsive to anything he has fancy to do to it. Theodred, so eager, so inventive - as if there is nothing more important in the world than the pleasure he derives from their cocks slamming into him, the pleasure he shares with them so gladly.

"You don't know what awaits for you tomorrow, brothers."

Tomorrow might be empty halls and empty eyes of the King, turned into a senseless shell by old age or by sorcery. Tomorrow might be a curved sword of an orc slicing into your guts, spilling your insides and ending your life. Tomorrow might be the road that will take Boromir away from here, in search of what a vague dream told him.

But he won't leave just yet. Just one, two - a few more days of thrusting into the yielding body, of Theodred's mouth hungrily opening to his kisses and tasting with Eomer's come.

The little ring in Theodred's nipple is yellow, catching the flickers of candlelight as his chest arches, fingers turned into claws gripping Boromir's hair. Theodred's legs lock around him, sharp heels digging into the small of his back. The taste shooting into his mouth is bitter and intoxicating and Boromir can't get enough of it.

The wind behind the window howls in the darkness, like a living creature - and it seems there are no other living creatures out there in the plains of Rohan. No living creatures in the palace either. Just the King whose mind is sleeping - and the thin fair girl with the saddest eyes Boromir has ever seen - a little bird, a goldfinch in a cage of her misery.

And three of them.

It is the end of September. Soon he'll have to leave. But not yet.

Theodred's fingers seem translucent as he reaches them to the candle - scarlet flame glowing right through them. He has the hands of such beauty and frailness that sometimes Boromir thinks he can mistake them for a girl's hands - and then he wants to kiss them. But the palms are hard like wood and calloused, accustomed to a sword, reins and a bowstring. Boromir shivers thinking how these hands run over his body, raising every single hair on it, rub over his nipples making him moan and mewl with unbearable joy of this touch.

Theodred runs his fingers through the candle flame, as if not even feeling it, dips his fingertips into the melted yellow wax pooling around the wick. Yellow drops fall from his fingers onto the table - like a thick, heavy rain.

Two nights ago, after they slaughtered a crowd of orcs, over two hundred of them, the rain seemed to fall with orc blood, heavy and dark and pungent, and the shadows became thicker, reminding of what no one forgets anyway. Nothing is right, and darkness is coming.

But when Theodred kisses the deep slash on Boromir's upper arm, left by an orc blade, and the kisses hurt and make blood come through the bandage - it feels good, and Boromir doesn't want it to stop. And Eomer kisses his mouth, his long hair brushing over Boromir's face, his mouth tasting more bitter than Theodred's, his lips harder, but it is also good, it is another part of what Boromir needs.

Eomer yanks his cousin up, the high heel slipping, and Theodred reels, laughter caught in his throat, a purr of a big cat. Boromir catches him, slender body pressed to him for a moment, darkest blue eyes meeting his as Theodred's palms cup his face.

"Turn," Eomer says, his voice low and hoarse with impatience, and there is just a moment of deliberate slowness in Theodred's obedience. His hands clench the back of the chair, white on yellow wood, as he bends over, his legs apart. The line of his vertebrae is a thin snake along his back, rippling slightly as he moves. Boromir has kissed every one of them, knows them by taste and touch.

"Ride me," Theodred says, a smile on his lips through the hanging strands of hair.

"Remember it's you who asked, when you mount the horse tomorrow," Eomer says, his hands gripping onto Theodred's white thighs, leaving red imprints on them. Red will become dark by tomorrow will become blue... just like Boromir's touches map Theodred's body all over, and this is how they like it.

"You know I never complain," Theodred says.

And he doesn't, as next day he saddles up on his proud horse. Brego's legs are thin, skin smooth and his eyes are dark and wild looking askance as a soft neighing is caught in his throat. Dull light reflects in the polished metal of Theodred's armor, and the only sun out there is the yellow disc on the green background of the Rohan standard.

"There are too many orcs in the world," Theodred says. And Eomer smiles, and Boromir thinks that he will stay for one more day, for one more day he will push the impending destiny away from him.

Six months later, two of them are dead. Theodred, February twenty-five. Boromir, February twenty-six. And Brego finds a new master.

And Eomer misses them.


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