Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Melethryn ned i Brennil	By : TAFKAB Category: +Third Age > General Views: 4184 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Melethryn ned i Brennil
- 1
Legolas slipped away from the Fellowship and wandered into the trees without attracting notice from any save Aragorn. The ranger gave him a faint nod, but did not try to stop or slow his departure. He felt a pang of guilty relief at absenting himself from the company, but they were all settling in to rest after the manner of mortals, the dwarf already snoring so loudly Aragorn had been forced to thump him so that Sam’s hesitant words of grief for Mithrandir might be heard.

Legolas sighed, tension seeping out of his neck and shoulders as he stopped being “the elf” and became simply himself, content to stand among the trees and breathe deep of clean air. He wandered for a time in peace, listening to the lament of many voices. Song drifted through the starlit boughs, music and light falling about him like rain.

He had bathed and changed his clothing, wearing a light silvery tunic that blended well with the fashions of Caras Galadhon, but part of him still felt soiled and weary, as though nothing might touch the deep despair that had entered his soul when the balrog stepped from the shadows to menace them.

His time with the Fellowship had been a trial. Not the halflings, whose innocence and lightness of heart made him think of the joyful play of elflings, nor yet the ranger, whom he had known long. Gandalf had been a friend and ally for many long years as well, and the man of Gondor did not trouble him.

No, it was the dwarf who weighed heavily upon his mind. It was Gimli, Glóin’s son, whose challenging, argumentative words so often set him apart and made Legolas into a strange and fey entity known as “the elf;” Gimli, whom the wizard had implored him to befriend; Gimli, whose lingering eyes unsettled him, filling his heart with a profound unease, a stew of conflicting emotions he refused to contemplate.

Gimli, who had wandered through his mind when the Lady of Lórien bent her gaze on him—laughing and turning his face up to Legolas until he smiled; Gimli, who had scowled at him then and turned away, but who might be bought for a price so small, a betrayal none would ever discover, if only Legolas would stretch out his hand….

He had rejected it, of course, the offer of the Ring. It had not been difficult. What elf would betray the cause of the light for such a thing? Not the son of Thranduil, honor sworn to protect and aid the Ringbearer. Not for a hundred such offers would he do it. He, the prince of the Greenwood, the son of Thranduil, and a dwarf…!? It was laughable.

Was it not?

Legolas set the question firmly aside. That had not been the sole message Galadriel delivered when they met, and with her words fresh in his mind, Legolas knew where he might seek solace for his unrest and his sadness, if he dared accept. It was only that his guilt and weariness drove him away from the city into the wood, where he might sit and watch the stars of Elbereth wheel through the sky, vanishing and appearing through the tangled limbs of the trees above as he sang to himself in quiet sorrow.

Guilt and weariness... and lack of confidence. Though he was content with his place in his father’s realm, he and Thranduil were the only Sindarin elves who lived there. Yet his father furiously drove away any who might seek Legolas’s affection without an adequately aristocratic bloodline. Silvan elves in particular Thranduil held unworthy of his son. It had left Legolas with few chances to share himself or learn the skills of love.

Until now. He was alone, the master of his own choices, and the lady had made him a most gracious offer. Even his father could not object to her bloodline, though he might well refuse her on the grounds that Legolas was unskilled, an untutored partner, therefore a potential source of embarrassment.

Doubtless Thranduil would have been chosen in his son’s stead, were he present, and would have distinguished himself with a fine performance.

After a time Legolas roused himself and stood. It would not do to be a churlish guest. He had been given the most hospitable and gracious of invitations, and despite his artlessness, he meant to accept. As the prince of the Greenwood, it ill-behooved him to make his hostess wait.

He re-entered the city at an easy trot, climbing the winding stair to the lady’s pavilion. The lamps shone with a pure white light, diffuse enough so as not to dazzle the eye, giving a surreal feeling to everything he saw and touched. He felt eagerness flutter through him despite his unease. Galadriel’s invitation to come to her bed represented an archaic form of hospitality, one that was rarely offered anymore, even between elves of royal blood, even in the most venerable lands; she must have found him desirable. He was glad to receive her consideration. She was kind and wise, and he could not deny she was a most beautiful creature.

He stood to compose himself, hesitating on the threshold of her dwelling, and felt glad he might drown his grief and his confusion for a time in lovemaking and pleasure.

The curtain slid aside, soundless, to admit him.

Legolas went in, perceiving a soft light shining in a chamber across the wide sitting room, as if candles burned there. Perhaps that was his lady’s bedchamber; if she lay there waiting, he would have many apologies to offer for his tardiness.

He hurried across the rug with a light step, his flesh eager, but stopped in the door, surprised.

The lady stood waiting in a sheer gown that hardly hid her milk-white skin, the living gold of her hair a much better shield for her modesty than her clothing, but she was not alone. Legolas blinked at the other guest with shock as the lady’s gaze rose and found him, and her lips curved in a mischievous smile of greeting.

“You have come at last, my prince. Be welcome.” She came to him and ushered him in.

Legolas’s feet moved without the agreement of his will; his mouth thought rather faster. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I did not mean to impose or to intrude—” the fount of words ran dry as he realized what he implied, what the entire tableau before him implied. “Please, I will excuse myself.” He tried to bow, but she steered him to a chair and set him firmly in it.

“Nonsense, Greenleaf. You were invited.” She set an empty glass before him, and poured him rich, strong red wine from a delicate crystal carafe.

Legolas held himself very straight, very dignified. Hers was not a dress in which a queen entertained casual visitors. But perhaps it was not he who intruded at all. No, the intruder must be her other guest, who sat behind his own goblet, glowering up at Legolas with automatic resentment.

“Gimli,” he acknowledged stiffly, frost so thick in his tone it might have set a skim of ice atop his wine, for all its strength. “I thought you rested.”

“And I thought you gone off into the night to stare at trees and sing.” The dwarf lifted his glass and sipped the wine.

Galadriel laughed, soft and pure as silver bells. “Will you argue, or will you toast with me?” She filled her own glass and lifted it, the sweet curve of her breast visible through the sheer fabric as her hair slipped aside. Legolas marked well that the dwarf saw it, his cheeks flushing a red nearly as deep as the wine.

“To friendship between the free peoples of Middle-Earth,” Galadriel said, her face clear of trouble or tension.

Gimli took his glass in both hands and drank.

Raising a wry brow at the toast, Legolas sipped with pointed elegance, knowing the tips of his own ears flushed pink. “To a courteous hostess,” he answered politely.

“To good wine,” the dwarf said, pragmatic as ever, and Legolas stiffened, but the lady only laughed.

“To the most welcome of guests,” she answered them, and drank. “We are well-met this night. I am glad you both heeded my request.”

So much for his assumption that the dwarf had intruded without invitation. Legolas stared into the bell of his glass, swirling the wine and inhaling its tart bouquet. That the dwarf claimed royal blood was not unknown to him. Glóin was a Longbeard of the line of Durin, and through him, Gimli descended from kings. He had the blood right to her invitation—if he were an elf. But he was not. It was not the custom; it was not done! After all, Aragorn was not here, though the blood of kings flowed in his veins!

What was the lady’s purpose in inviting them both to come to her? It could not be the reason he initially assumed. And yet, given the gown she wore… it could be for no other purpose.

“I confess, I had feared one or the other of you might disappoint me.” Her smile deepened, and she looked up at Legolas through lowered lashes, then favored Gimli with the same seductive smile. It went through the dwarf like a hot knife through butter; Legolas watched him swallow hard, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

The lady’s game was a bold one indeed. Legolas considered his glass, running his fingers around the rim. His belly fluttered with worry, though he gave no sign.

“You will forgive me, I trust, for asking you here together,” she murmured, her voice low and resonant, hypnotic. “But I did not like to divide you.”

Legolas was startled by her words, so much so he darted a glance toward the dwarf, who looked at him in kind, then jerked his gaze away. Both of them took refuge in their wine. Legolas began to hope she had much more of it than a single carafe.

The lady only smiled and moved about the room, giving her words time to settle as she drew gauzy curtains across the window and pinched the flame of a candle, dimming the room ever so slightly around them. She pulled aside a hanging veil, and Legolas saw her bed lay beyond it, the coverlet folded aside, many soft velvet pillows waiting at the head. It looked as soft and inviting as Galadriel herself, the slender curves of her bottom displayed through the soft fabric of her robe as she bent and pinched another wick between her slender fingers.

Gimli lifted his chin, flashing a glare at Legolas, and he could see the dwarf’s resolve in the defiant gleam of his eyes—he would not back down from this; he would not turn away.

As if an elf would quail where a dwarf stood strong? Legolas stared the dwarf straight in the eye, aware a muscle in his jaw was jumping, but refusing to flinch.

The pool of light shrank again, dimly warm and golden, wavering. Galadriel stood silhouetted against a candle, its flame turning the gossamer of her gown radiant around her slender form. Her silhouette turned dark and velvet, the hollow of her navel visible as a darker shade above the delicate triangle of golden curls at the join of her thighs.

Gimli arose, setting aside his glass, and went to her; he lifted his hand to take hers, then brought it to his lips and bestowed a trembling kiss upon her fingers. “We are rude indeed, to make you wait while we bristle at one another,” he said. “I am sorry.”

Legolas’s lips thinned with annoyance, and he too rose, taking a final swallow of the potent wine. He set his glass on the table and went to join them, opening his tunic to let it hang from his shoulders, displaying his well-muscled chest and abdomen to their best effect. He set his hand at the small of Galadriel’s back. At least he could reach to kiss her!

“How may I please you best, my lady?” He breathed, and swung the fall of his hair forward, giving her a smoky-eyed smile, aware of his own beauty. “I am at your service.”

“And I!” The dwarf insisted, annoyed.

She raised a brow, her eyes sparkling. “Then I would watch you remove one another’s clothing,” she purred. “For you are both very fair, and I like the sight of you together.”

Legolas froze, discomforted by her words, but he could not in courtesy refuse her command, for he had invited it. The dwarf stared at Legolas for a moment, his expression unreadable, his ears flushed red.

“Aye, my lady,” Gimli murmured, and reached to set his hands on Legolas’s tunic, not quite looking Legolas in the eye.

“Make a joy of it?” She asked, and sat upon the edge of the bed with a rustling whisper, her eyes upon them, a soft flush upon her cheeks. “For me, as well as one another.”

Gimli swallowed hard. “Yes, my lady,” he whispered, and turned his gaze on Legolas, sliding his hand inside the wing of the elf’s tunic and running it along his skin. His palm was coarse, marred with callus and rough with use. Legolas shivered to feel it, and drew himself to his full height, drawing his spine upright, turning his face away. The dwarf’s thumb circled over his nipple, and he drew breath with a hiss, masking the shiver of heat he felt with a display of affront. But Gimli did not stop, twitching away the fabric, making it slide off his shoulder and droop along his arm.

“His is the build of an archer,” the lady murmured softly. “See the muscle on him, Gimli! He is lean and strong. I will give him a bow from this land, and he will find it easy, though no man might draw it.”

Legolas flushed, torn between pride and embarrassment; the dwarf’s heavy paw lingered upon him, thumb brushing back and forth across his nipple, and his flesh prickled as if with chill, rising and pebbling, every hair standing up.

“The other side. Let it drop,” she whispered, and the dwarf obeyed, both hands sliding over Legolas’s smooth chest, teasing back the tunic until it fell.

Obedient, Legolas held his arms so it would drop away, and it puddled about his heels. He raised his eyes to look at the tented ceiling of the lady’s bower.

“He is young by the measure of elves. There is no scar or flaw on him,” she whispered. “Is there? Turn, Legolas, and let him see you.”

Legolas obeyed, his eyes shut tight, his ears flushing red with embarrassment.

“No….” Gimli’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “There is no mark or flaw upon his skin.”

“Perhaps we will mark him before the dawn,” she suggested, her voice darkening, and Legolas shivered, his cock tightening, betraying him as it pushed against the thin fabric of his breeches.

“Legolas,” Galadriel murmured. “Gimli is overdressed. Will you not do as I have asked?”

Legolas flushed. “I—yes. At once, my lady.” He reached to the dwarf’s tabard, uncertain how best to proceed, remembering at the last moment that he was to make a show of it. He unclasped Gimli’s belt and slid it from him, lifting his arm to let it drop.

Then he went to his knees, conscious of the lady’s soft indrawn breath, and tugged the dwarf’s shirt free of his breeches, leaning forward. He was too nervous to feel aroused by what he did, but carefully approximated an attitude of desire. He pulled the borrowed shirt and tabard up over the dwarf’s head and halfway down his arms, leaving him tangled, pinioned tight, as he freed Gimli’s beard and hair. He took his time about it, every motion measured and elegant.

“Turn so she may see,” he directed, and Gimli did, his legs unsteady. Legolas caught the shirts in his fist, drawing them tight about Gimli’s arms, making a prisoner of him, displaying him to the lady.

There was much to display. The dwarf’s burly barrel chest was covered with a thick matt of wiry red hair, both his nipples pierced through with heavy gold rings that winked amidst the thicket, reflecting the soft golden glow of the candlelight. His torso was thick, his shoulders heavy and broad, banded with woven marks, ink worked in the skin. Legolas realized Gimli’s shoulders were broader than his own despite the difference in their sizes, and every visible inch of him was corded with rock-solid, rippling muscle.

Gimli shifted as if to free his arms, but Legolas held fast, and the dwarf half-turned his head to look up and over his shoulder, raising a thick brow in defiance.

His shoulders flexed and the cloth shredded, separating with a startled purring sound, falling away from him in shreds as he twisted his arms effortlessly and freed himself, leaving Legolas holding a handful of tatters.

Gimli straightened, lifting his head high.

“He is beautiful, Legolas, is he not?” Galadriel wet her lips, her cheeks flushed pink. Her knees had parted slightly as she sat, the slit in her gown revealing the length of one pale, creamy inner thigh. “Look at him. If you bound him in iron, he would burst the chains….”

Gimli inclined his head in polite acceptance, and his lips curved in a smile, faintly smug.

Legolas reached for the dwarf’s waist, determined to disconcert him, and untied the laces of his breeches. Gimli stood quite still, unflinching, his eyes fixed on the lady. Legolas had no need to tug at the laces, for the dwarf’s hard flesh strained against them, and they slid through their eyelets with a slow whisper as it pushed its way free.

Galadriel’s white teeth touched her lip, she slid back upon the bed, nestling among the cushions. Legolas glimpsed the shadowed join of her legs, and knew Gimli did too; the lacings gave way in a rush and his cock sprang free, heavy and thick and long, flushed rosy-dark with blood.

Vexed, Legolas pushed the dwarf’s breeches down—if nothing else, he could at least entangle them at Gimli’s ankles. Let him flex so hard he shredded his boots, if he could! But Gimli merely reached down and hooked a finger into one boot, catching the heel with his toe and pulling it free. The other followed, and he stepped out of his breeches, standing proudly naked, his eyes locked with the lady’s.

“Yours to command,” he spoke to her, his voice thick with desire, and he stood there easily, his heels well apart, his cock hanging almost to his knees.

“Finish baring Legolas,” she directed, the sly smile back upon her lips. Her hand slid along her bare thigh, lingering at the top. “Do not use your hands.”

Gimli turned to Legolas, his eyes snapping with a mixture of victory and defiance—and heat. “As my lady wishes.”

Legolas inhaled despite himself, reacting to the heat in those dark eyes—a flush of answering desire spreading through his belly against his will. Was the lady tempting him again, as she had upon his arrival in Caras Galadhon? When would the dwarf turn away and laugh, mocking him?

Gimli considered Legolas for a long moment, eyes roving over him with speculative intent. He went to his knees, which brought him conveniently near Legolas’s waist, then stretched out his neck, seizing one lace between his teeth and drawing back, a quick jerk that loosened the looped knot.

Legolas flushed with embarrassment, aware that he could not duplicate the dwarf’s feat from before; his breeches remained stubbornly closed, though his cock strained against them. He was well-built—or so his few observations of other elves indicated—but he had not the girth of Gimli.

The dwarf leaned in, undaunted, and seized one flap of the waistband between his teeth, dragging fiercely at it. His hands slid behind Legolas’s legs and he braced himself, palms against Legolas’s thighs, worrying the flap until it gave way and the cloth began to slip down along Legolas’s flank. Gimli’s eyes darted aside to check the lady, then up to laugh at Legolas—and he buried his face at the center, nuzzling the laces apart, his tongue darting between them, tugging and plucking them loose.

Legolas shuddered with shock, his legs rebelling, not wanting to support him—but the dwarf’s hands supported his legs, holding him upright. He could not see, and realized too late he had buried his face in his hands, hiding his confusion. Gimli dragged one of the laces free and the breeches fell; his cock lay exposed to the dwarf’s hot tongue. It played along his length and swirled at the crown, making him jerk with desperate need. Legolas moaned into the close, hot darkness behind his hands; he knew his whole body was mottled red with shame and lust, visible to both.

“Do not hide,” the lady chided. “I would see your face.”

“I thought we were to serve you, my lady,” Legolas moaned, desperate to ignore the sensation of his breeches slipping down to bare his arse, trying not to shiver at the heat of the dwarf’s breath on him—at the roughness of Gimli’s palms as they bared his legs, broad fingertips curling around to touch the sensitive skin between his thighs.

“You will. You are.” Her sultry voice drew his gaze, and he dropped his hands, helpless, seeing her hand rested between her legs, her fingers wet and slick, moving lightly between the delicate folds. “Step out of your boots,” she directed, and Legolas obeyed, quivering, still aware of Gimli kneeling close enough to touch, close enough to suck him, if she chose to command it.

He stood fully bare before them, and he shut his eyes as if closing away the sight of their gazes would negate their ability to see him. How had this happened so swiftly? He could not tell.

“Look on one another,” she directed, and they turned to face each other. Gimli’s eyes flared lusty challenge at Legolas; he stood with feet well apart, hard cock bobbing, his shoulders squared and his broad hands curled ready at the ends of burly arms.

Legolas drew himself together and matched the dwarf’s confident pose, venturing one of his own—sultry, chin lifted and turned aside but eyes on the dwarf, shoulders squared, his hands poised as if ready to caress his own breast and cock, one leg delicately turned aside, knee slightly inward, only the toes of that foot touching the floor. He let his eyes linger on the dwarf’s long fall of auburn hair—touched with gold and russet, gleaming in the dancing light as if alive.

“Come to my bed,” Galadriel directed, her voice a ripple of melting honey. “One of you upon each side.” She drew aside the skirt of her nightdress, baring her legs and beckoning them in. “Will you serve my pleasure? Both of you at once. Use your tongues.”

He would do this. He could. Surely he could. Legolas lifted his head and tried to move with confidence, his heart thundering inside him, unsure if he was more nervous of her or of the dwarf at his side.

They approached, a little hesitant as they jockeyed for position, settling into a space too small for them both and pressing her slender legs apart. She threaded her fingers into their hair, gently guiding them toward her. Legolas hesitated, glancing aside, his heart speeding with a touch of panic. He must press his face against the dwarf’s, and their tongues would touch as they dueled to reach her. Could he hide his desire if he did so? He shivered, and felt the dwarf’s hard, hot shoulder push against his own as they vied to reach her.

She was wet and slick, her rich musky scent intoxicating. He managed to flick her with his tongue, but the dwarf’s pushed it away—thick and dark red like his cock, circling over her and making her hips roll. She moaned, and Legolas shoved his way in to dart his own tongue against her, drawing a long slow stroke along one side, and the dwarf settled at the other, the two of them lapping and licking, their tongues battling for her, their faces growing slippery with her juice. She whimpered, parting her thighs wider. The dwarf pushed a thick finger inside her body and she writhed, nearly unseating Legolas, letting Gimli burrow in for several hard strokes of tongue and finger.

Then Legolas battled his way back in and pressed his own finger in alongside the dwarf’s, and her hips bucked as they fingered and licked her together. Legolas could taste both the honey-sweetness of Galadriel and the pipeweed tang of Gimli. He moaned low in his throat, berating himself when his cock leaped and surged, craving more. Wanting—wanting Galadriel, he thought fiercely, insisting on it in his mind, craving knowledge of her slippery depths and the tight clutch of her body.

But it was the dwarf’s tongue that touched his, the dwarf’s lips next to his, moving rhythmically, the dwarf’s thick, luxuriant beard rubbing against the side of his face, and he knew he did not know where his tongue was bound or what it wished—to tangle with Gimli’s or to strum against the swollen bud.

Then the dwarf’s hand caught his neck and turned his head and there it was; the slick, hot tongue driving into his mouth. Legolas moaned in spite of himself and suckled it, whimpering, then tore his mouth away, gasping, and dove away to return to the familiar female refuge of Galadriel as though he might drown without tasting her, trying not to think, trying not to think of the lingering musk of Gimli, filling all his senses again with her.

Gimli dragged him back almost at once, licking the delicate taste of her from him, then returned to her himself for a long, lingering stroke and offered her to Legolas on his tongue. Half-frantic with want, Legolas accepted, helpless, then stiffened with awareness and bit the dwarf, squeezing that clever bottom lip between his teeth until Gimli gasped and his fingers tightened. He forced Legolas away, hand fisted in his hair, eyes blazing.

“Kiss him again,” she whispered, her voice taut, and Gimli did, surging forward, his lips bruising Legolas’s with a passionate, punishing kiss, his hand still locked in Legolas’s hair. Legolas opened, helpless to resist, their tongues darting together, frantic, eager pressure, teeth savage. He took what he could and let the dwarf ravish him in turn, devoured and let himself be plundered, control of the kiss passing back and forth until he gasped for breath and trembled so hard Gimli let him go.

Overwhelmed, Legolas sagged against the lady in defeat, hoping she would have mercy and allow him to finish what they had started, not force him toward the dwarf once more. “Please,” he implored her, nuzzling his face against her flesh, not knowing whether he asked for more or begged to be spared.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, very gentle, stroking his scalp. “Do not be afraid of what is happening,” she whispered. “You may finish me, if that is what you wish.” She petted him, her fingers stroking along the rim of his ear, so tender he almost missed her words: “Gimli, touch him.”

Legolas pressed his face against the lady, praying for luck to supplement his poor skill as he plied his tongue against her eager flesh, trying to disregard the tentative pressure of blunt fingers against his skin. Callused fingers swept along his rips, roamed over his flank and shaped the curve of his arse, then slid along his cock and cradled the tender sac of his balls. He shivered, helpless spasms of trembling, unable to ignore the sensations Gimli’s touch stirred in him—feelings he had struggled to deny.

He pressed deeper against the lady, opening his mouth wide, suckling at her, lifting her hips to bring her fully open for him. He darted his tongue deep inside her as if he might crawl inside and escape the sensations that burned him as Gimli replaced hands and fingers with his mouth, roving over the same territory again, tasting Legolas everywhere with his tongue.

A broken cry caught in his throat, and he shuddered, trapped between them. Galadriel answered, her fingers taut in his hair, holding him on her, and he licked at her, frantic, needing her to shatter so he could escape.

“Enough,” she said gently, and urged him up, kissing his lips tenderly. Legolas went, relieved but ashamed—he had not finished her, but he could bear no more of Gimli’s hands and mouth on him, his body trembling, his heart torn between desire and dismay.

“Lie easy,” she told him, pressing him to the pillows at her side. “Av’osto. Tiro ammen.”

Legolas settled reluctantly, blinking at her as she smiled on him, stroking his temple lightly with her fingertips. At once he felt calmer, and he subsided among the pillows to obey.

“Gimli,” she murmured, and extended her slim white arms to the dwarf, inviting him to embrace her.

He rose, moving to nestle in her arms without looking aside toward Legolas.

The lady held him easily, smiling into his eyes, her hands pale on his dark-furred body. She ran her palms over his broad shoulders, caressing the bulky muscle there. He gazed into her eyes for a long moment, reaching to touch her face, then lifted his mouth and kissed her.

Galadriel sighed with pleasure, opening for him, and by the way she greeted Gimli’s kiss, Legolas knew she wanted him to witness their joining. She had wished it all along, or she would not have asked him here. The lady of Lórien did nothing idly, and there was meant to be a lesson in this for him—if not for them both.

Gimli lay upon Galadriel’s breast, pressing her deep into the pillows. He kissed her, his hands twining tenderly into her hair as he explored her mouth. He did not despoil, but explored her slowly, reverently, pausing to nuzzle against her lips and trace her features with his fingertips as the kiss sank deep with leisurely heat.

She made small sounds of enjoyment, her hands caressing Gimli’s hair in turn. Truly, the dwarf had beautiful hair; Legolas had seen it unbound only in Rivendell, and had not noticed it since. He wore it braided so tightly under his helm Legolas was not often aware of it, but now it was long and thick and curling, and it held every shade of auburn, brown, and gold that he could imagine, making Legolas’s hands yearn to bury themselves in it.

Gimli’s mouth moved, kissing its way down to the soft line of Galadriel’s jaw and along it to her ear, where he nuzzled and lapped, his eyes closed, his lashes long upon his cheeks. Legolas held his breath as Galadriel turned her face, offering her ear with a low moan, and Gimli’s tongue traced its curve, darting out to lap at the tender point.

He breathed on her, making her shiver, and bit lightly at the lobe, which made her cry out softly and lift herself against him.

Legolas shifted, not sure if he moved in arousal or protest. Gimli’s eyes darted to him once, then dismissed him, returning to the lady.

The dwarf’s hand stirred, leaving Galadriel’s hair, and slipped down to stroke her throat and collarbone before moving to caress her breast, where it curled to settle beneath the curve, one callused thumb flicking lightly at her nipple. Legolas made a sound deep in his throat to see her handled thus—but his body stirred, and he knew not whether he protested or appreciated the vision before him. Surely it must be a violation, such intimate possession of beauty by harshness—but she welcomed it, her nipple stiffening, the tender pink flesh crinkling and lifting to Gimli’s touch.

The dwarf shifted, bringing his mouth to bear, and sealed it over the pink bud of her nipple. Galadriel gave a soft cry and arched into his mouth. It would be churlish to think she responded so only because Legolas had left her needy, yet respond she did, with ardent eagerness. Cradled between her long thighs, every part of him as different from her as night from day, Gimli seemed quite capable in his own right, suckling her in such a way that she whimpered and spread her thighs wider, inviting possession.

Legolas bit his lip. The dwarf took his time, pulling off her nipple and moving to the other, rousing it with tender care; Legolas thought he alternated suckling with small bites, for she uttered low, helpless moans. Gimli moved both hands to lift her breast so he could tug and worry at it. A faint mist of dew began to form on Galadriel’s smooth skin; she lay with her fists tight and her wrists bared to the sky beside the pillow, his willing lover.

Legols shifted, dismayed by the sight of the dwarf so earnest and intent, still faintly alarming to Legolas in his greed to have her—but greed was not the word, for he had not rushed or forced her, but rather tended her pleasure with skill and patience. It was his very dwarvishness that troubled Legolas—his focus on her, as though she were a treasure to be mined, the intensity of his stare at her skin when he withdrew his mouth to view her, the hairiness of his body, the sight of his fiery red beard and moustache encroaching all around his mouth—part covering his mouth; how did he manage to eat?!-- and trailing with covetous lust over the purity of Galadriel.

Gimli glanced at him again, as if sensing Legolas’s thought, and his eyes narrowed. Galadriel stirred, moving to cradle his cheek, fingers brushing lightly through the fiery beard, palm cradling his cheek, returning Gimli’s attention gently to herself.

“Please,” she whispered, and lifted her hips against him.

Legolas swallowed hard. Gimli turned his gaze up to meet her eyes, and his half-formed illusion of the dwarf as something like unto a greedy and grasping, scrabbling orc was shattered. Gimli’s eyes were soft with love; a tender smile blossomed on his face, almost… almost shy.

Galadriel slid her hands over Gimli’s back—leisurely, taking the time to savor the ridged map of him, hard muscle and thick bone—until she reached his buttocks. They were round and lean, powerful as the rest of him. She curved her hands about him there, pulling him against her, and his lids fluttered shut, his mouth opening in a soft gasp.

“My lady,” he whispered, husky with wonder. “Surely I am not worthy of this!”

“Why should you be found unworthy?” She whispered. “What crime is it to be a mortal?” She canted her hips and Gimli froze, drawing a shuddering breath; Legolas guessed he rested at the cusp of breaching her.

He thought himself forgotten now as their eyes locked, heat simmering between them—and Gimli stirred, pushing forward slowly.

Galadriel gasped, her lips curving in a smile, but it was soon lost—her chin tilted back and her eyes closed, her body quivering like a plucked bowstring as Gimli slowly sank inside. Legolas had seen him, and knew he had the length of an elf—and a much thicker girth. Legolas swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. She should be slick and ready, but Gimli was large enough to hurt.

He seemed to know it, moving with utmost care—withdrawing a bit, then pressing again, gauging every quiver of her, his broad palm and thick fingers gentle on her flank. He paused to sharpen her passion, licking and suckling again at her nipples; his hand slipped between them and he stroked her to inflame her desire once more, making her moan, her head turning restlessly on the pillow.

“May I spend in you when I finish, my lady?” he asked, and she nodded assent, her lips curving in a soft, pleased smile.

The dwarf finally stilled, except for the flexing of tendons in his arm as his fingers worked and the bob of Galadriel’s throat as she swallowed, their eyes meeting again. Legolas shifted, wishing he could see more, raising himself on one elbow.

Gimli moved, withdrawing with care, then thrust back inside her slowly. Galadriel moaned, long and needful, drawing her nails along his spine. Her lips curved and she lifted her mouth for Gimli’s kiss; he gave it, and his tongue slid between her lips, mirroring the slow, careful motion of his hips.

Legolas felt his face burn to witness this; surely he should not be here. Either that, or he should join them—he would be welcomed. He could move to press his mouth to Galadriel’s supple white breast, taking her nipple between his lips. He could stroke her ear and kiss it. He could put his hand on Gimli’s sturdy back and feel the solid, brute power of his flexing, pumping muscles. He might even mount the dwarf and sink his cock in hot, tight flesh, if he dared.

Legolas lay very still, feeling a little dizzy at the thought. Half-unwilling, he could picture his hand traveling the length of Gimli, from thick, corded shoulder to smooth round buttock, across its taut, rippling swell to his short, sturdy thigh… then to the inside of his knee. Perhaps he would be soft there, if anywhere. He could picture his fingers disappearing inside Gimli’s body, readying him. He could imagine the dwarf’s rumbling groan.

He moaned without thinking—but so did Galadriel as she softened under Gimli, growing used to him. Abashed, uncertain and afraid, Legolas lay still.

Gimli’s arms slid under Galadriel, his palms open; then his fingers curled around her shoulders. His next thrust made her cry out, soft and surprised, as he unleashed a measure of his strength for the first time. Legolas swallowed hard, biting his lip.

Gimli found a rhythm: slow but powerful, each thrust carefully measured. He raised his head to watch the lady’s face, judging her response with that same intensity he had shown before.

Galadriel lifted her head, seeking his kiss, and Gimli gave it, hips moving in that same slow pace. Legolas watched their tongues play, watched Gimli expand upon the simple kiss, biting at her lips and tugging them gently with his teeth. His mouth left gleaming smears of wetness on her face as he tasted her. Legolas found his eyes lingering upon it as Gimli strayed away, bending to nuzzle along her collarbones.

Galadriel’s breathing quickened, harshening, beginning to come in steep, panting gasps. Legolas thought at first she was in pain, but then realized it was pleasure; her hands clutched and released on Gimli’s shoulders, pressing on his back. She moaned, her hips shifting restlessly; he kept moving, that steady relentless pace, his eyes dilated, so dark they were almost black, his gaze resting on her face.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, tongue flashing out to wet her narrow lips. “Like that… like that…” her voice strained, and Gimli laughed very softly, rich and dark, still moving as she began to writhe under him, lifting herself to meet his thrusts, unable to rock or raise him, unable to urge him to greater speed.

Legolas watched her shiver herself apart on Gimli’s cock, her gasps melting into whimpers, the clutch and grasp of her hands growing frantic, tremors gusting through her in waves. He thought her near begging, broken syllables of want tumbling from her lips, her thighs spread wide around the dwarf’s slow-moving body. She dug her fists into the sheets at last with a cry, nails scratching at the soft cotton, bucking up under Gimli, who merely gave that dark, rich laugh again and stilled as she shook and whimpered beneath him, subsiding in slow stages until she lay still, her breast rising and falling.

At last. Legolas was so hard he hurt, but he was glad it was over; maybe now he would be let to mount her and find his own release.

But Gimli did not think so. He moved, withdrawing himself—his cock rosy-dark, thick and gleaming, slick with her, making a soft liquid sound as it withdrew from her body.

“Again, lass,” he murmured, mouthing softly at her breast, and lifted her thigh, cradling it over his elbow as he pushed in once more, this time without preamble or warning.

Her eyes went wide, her mouth soft; she inhaled sharply, but not in protest. Gimli reached with his free hand, his weight resting on her breast, and turned her face aside; he pressed two fingers between her lips and put them on her tongue, then leaned in to nip at her ear, fucking her mouth very gently with his fingers as he began to move his hips again.

Galadriel made a low, surprised sound, but closed her mouth on his fingers, suckling, her lashes closing to lie along her cheeks. She moaned softly in her throat as Gimli nipped her ear.

Legolas had never seen such a thing, never thought to see the queen of the elves in Middle Earth brought to such a pass; it made his balls ache with frantic, startled need. He laid the inside of his wrist against his cock, pressing it against his belly and hoping to quell it, but it leaped against him, pulsing with angry wanting.

“That’s it, lass. That’s good,” Gimli rumbled softly to Galadriel. His fingers were in her mouth to the last knuckle; she struggled a bit to accommodate them, but did not protest. He kept that same firm pace, showing no discomfort at the weight of her leg over his arm, but then he moved to shift her, folding her slightly so that her thigh lay along her body, her knee very nearly pressed against her shoulder.

“A little more now, that’s it,” he mumbled against her skin.

She whimpered, but the angle clearly gave him depth; the rocking motion of his hips lengthened. She began to make soft, throttled sounds at the deep of each thrust, pleading low in her throat. He took his fingers from her mouth and brought the slick, gleaming digits between them to stroke her, patient and slow.

“Gimli,” Galadriel moaned, ducking her face against his neck. “Valar, yes…! Ah!” She shuddered once, then again—Legolas realized sweat had begun to gleam on her throat, gathering in a soft dew between her breasts. She shivered, then bucked against Gimli’s fingers a third time, and a fourth—small orgasms rocking her again and again, coaxed forth by his deft touch.

“Good, is it?” Tenderness in the gruff voice. “I think there is a great deal more in you yet, banmûna.” He kissed her lips, then let her subside, withdrawing from her. He kissed his way down her belly and parted her legs so he might look at her. She opened, willing; Legolas drew a quivering breath to see her—slick and wet and spread wide open from the dwarf’s cock, the bud at her center swollen, the delicate flower of her body the same deep pink of a summer rose.

Gimli dragged the tips of his fingers against her, stroking along either side of her folds, then bent to press a kiss against her, flickering his tongue against her and making her cry out. He nuzzled in, leading with his tongue, and kissed her there as deeply as he had kissed her mouth, uttering a low growl of pleasure in his throat. But before long he lifted himself and moved back to her face.

“You taste of honey,” he told her, husky and gentle, and offered his kiss.

Galadriel accepted, lapping softly at his lips—at his moustache, his beard. She cleaned his face delicately, her small pink tongue darting and flickering.

When she had finished, Gimli purred approval and mounted her again, this time driving in with force.

Galadriel wailed, and her nails dug at his shoulders, but he ignored them. He held himself upright, his shoulders flexing, his biceps rock-hard, suspending him over her as his hips pumped. He thrust much faster, much harder than before, but his smile was tender, fond, his eyes soft.

Galadriel keened, writhing under him. This time Legolas could see where they were joined-- see the dwarf’s thick, slick cock stretching her open, pumping in and out of her, the friction between them making a wet, sucking sound. Her eyes opened wide, glazed, almost sightless, and she gasped, her hands flailing, then settling to brace her against the carved headboard of the bed. She pushed back against him, fierce, and this time when he laughed, she laughed with him, her voice soaring with joy and his with triumph.

“I think you can take more yet,” Gimli murmured. “You are not as dainty as you look, are you?” He chuckled against her skin, licking up the salt of her sweat. Their bodies slapped together, an urgent, frantic sound. “I’ll give you a proper loving, never you fear, my lady.” He bit lightly at her breast, rolling her nipple between his teeth. “You may have had the best elves can offer,” his eyes darted to Legolas briefly, “But now you are in the hands of a dwarf.”

Legolas flushed crimson with shame, biting his lip.

Galadriel moaned, joyful and sweet, and clasped Gimli’s head to her, struggling for breath. Legolas felt that he might go up in flames; he refused to set his palm against his cock, but it burned against the inside of his wrist, pulsing and aching with frustration.

“Have me properly, Gonhir melui,” she urged him, her voice thick and dark. “I will gladly take what you can give!”

Gimli drew back then and thrust with a mighty heave of his hips, making her small breasts leap upon her chest. Galadriel tossed her head back, the cry so wild and desperate Legolas feared guards might come bursting in to save her.

“Ai, mell nîn!” Galadriel went mad beneath him, bucking as he gave her another—swift and deep, his broad hands sinking at her waist and lifting her from the bed as he rolled his hips into her.

“You are very tall,” he grumbled and withdrew. “I would kiss you as I take you, bunmel. Here, for me,” he coaxed, and pulled out so he might draw up her slim thighs, folding her so her legs rested over his shoulders. His hands slid on her skin, wet and gleaming with sweat; she moaned as he laid his weight against her.

“Try this a while, my lady. You will like it,” he kissed the words against her lips, and Galadriel sighed her consent, wrapping her slim arms around his neck and licking her way into his mouth.

Gimli positioned himself with care, resting one palm behind her head to cradle it and support her neck, then pushed in.

She arched, but he held her fast, kissing her; his hips pistoned hard as he took her—savage, deep thrusts, quick and sure. Legolas could hear her breath catch and strain in her throat as she struggled for air; his weight held her fast, crushing her deep into the soft bedding. Her cries were all but constant now, wordless; she begged and moaned and whimpered into his mouth as he had her, his own skin gleaming with sweat.

Legolas closed his eyes—he thought it was that or die; he had bitten his lip so hard he tasted blood. Gimli held Galadriel, fucking her hard and fierce: she, the queen of the Galadhrim held in bonds of muscle strong as steel, arranged for a dwarf’s pleasure! Open and helpless and owned, used…! …And Legolas was not! His nails dug into his palms, anguish and shame mingling in him, but he could not avert his eyes for long, driven half-mad with lust.

Galadriel struggled to contain the sensations that convulsed her, but she could only cry out her pleasure, begging now against his lips. “Please, mell nîn, please…” as his hands braced her legs, pushing them tighter against her shoulders, and his body pinioned hers. Legolas flung himself to his back and dug his nails into his thighs, squeezing his eyes tight shut—but the sounds were even worse: the slippery, wet press and slide of skin on skin, the suck and slither of Gimli’s cock moving in her wetness, the slick of lip and the wet glide of tongue, Galadriel’s breath thick and heavy and rattling in her throat, Gimli’s rasping gasps.

Her cries shrilled, growing more frantic; Gimli did not relent, moving swiftly and hard, his skin gleaming wet, droplets rolling over his ribs and his shoulders. Legolas knew his eyes had opened again, but he could not govern himself. He must watch in aching torment as she thrashed, her head snapping back and forth, as her long thighs quivered and her toes curled. Her face was wet, and he could not tell if it was from sweat or tears or the hard, fierce kisses of Gimli, which he pressed against her rose-blushed cheeks and her pleading lips.

She convulsed, battering herself against the dwarf, her body clenching about him, spasming around his cock; he purred but kept moving, giving her no mercy. Legolas thought she would go mad before her peak receded and she began to rise again, sobbing against Gimli’s mouth, raking him with her nails. He ignored the small wounds, rumbling a low growl, then caught her arms and caged them, pressing harder against her until all she could do was utter small stifled cries—a whining gasp with every thrust, her eyes wild, her mouth trembling: desperate and undone.

“Almost, lovely one,” Gimli told her, kissing her mouth, then relented, unfolding her to lie ragged and panting against the bed—every part of her blushing with a ruddy hue, blotches of color on cheeks and breast and thighs, yet none of them bruises—he had held hear as easily as he might hold a petal.

“Once more, on your knees—you have another in you, I think, before I finish.” He positioned her, his hands steady, helping her when she trembled, moving legs that shook unsteadily, ungainly and awkward, like a newborn foal. He arranged her until she pleased him: kneeling, her hair spilling over the pillow and coverlet, her thighs spread wide so she would accommodate his height.

“Hold fast,” he instructed, moving her hands to the headboard, and she did—her fingers locking tightly about the carved branches, trembling.

Gimli knelt behind her, surveying her, running his broad hands over her back, her shoulders, and the rounds of her bottom. Trailing his fingertips through her folds, he lifted them to his lips to lick and taste. His cock quivered, dark red, the foreskin drawn taut around the head, slick and wet—a bead of clear fluid welling there as Legolas watched, growing until it dripped once onto the coverlet.

Legolas could see tremors of restraint wracking him, his hands shaking. His muscles were drawn taut, the cords of his neck visible when he swiped his hair aside to cool his hot skin. Powerful sinews stood out in his arms, and the veins in his cock stood proud of the thin skin there as he reached to steady it, drawing it across Galadriel’s tender flesh, teasing the bud at the center of her and making her gasp and press back against him.

Without warning he thrust in to the hilt, forcing her forward and making her cry out, frantic, a throttled scream. Her breasts swung, and her palms wrung on the carved wood, but she withstood him. Then he was moving, fucking her like an animal, wringing sharp, shrieking cries from her throat with each snap of his hips. He sank his fingers in her waist—and this time Legolas knew she would bruise; the pads sank deep in her skin.

He fucked her without restraint, his head thrown back, deep groans of pleasure growling in his chest. Legolas stared at the shining rod of his shaft as it sank and appeared, so swiftly he wondered the two of them did not catch fire from it.

Galadriel cried out desperately, pushing back against Gimli’s cock, their skin slapping together sleekly. His breath hissed between his teeth and his smooth, measured motions turned ragged as he neared his pleasure. Yet he clung to control, biting his lip, slipping a hand around to flick fingers against Galadriel once, twice, again, until she screamed and went mad under him, and he drove in hard for a final thrust, his hips jerking in savage spasms as he spent his seed deep inside her body, a rumbling roar torn from his lips.

They arched, lost in climax, as their bodies went rigid—then they collapsed together, Gimli lying across her back, his eyes closed, his lips mouthing softly at her shoulder. His cock slipped free, starting to soften, gleaming wet, and his seed came with it, trickling wet over her gleaming buttocks and seeping between her thighs.

Legolas uttered a choked, broken sound—he thought his cock might burst, but he had not touched it, had not come—not to the sight of Gimli fucking the queen of Lothlórien while he lay untouched. Never. No.

He fell to his side, turning away, trembling.

“Have I pleased you well? Would you wear my mark in token of it?” Gimli murmured, his voice hoarse and gentle.

Galadriel moaned assent, and Legolas heard his lips fasten on her, and knew he sucked the blood to the surface of her throat, where all might see—a privilege well-earned.

“Son of Durin,” she whispered at length, and her voice was throaty and sweet with pleasure. “You are mighty!”

Gimli chuckled, pleased, and Legolas heard them turn over, then nestle together, sighing with sleepy contentment.

He should go. He lay still, burning with shame; he had failed the lady—shamed his father!—and made a mockery of her courteous invitation by shying from Gimli’s touch. Shame ate at his heart—the only thing that might have deflated his cock, which went slack with reluctance, his balls throbbing angrily, his body sullen at being denied climax.

Reverie did not serve to drown awareness, and he heard them many times in the night—Gimli slipping between Galadriel’s thighs to give her pleasure again with his lips and tongue, Gimli groaning and the soft rustle of sheets and the slap of flesh on flesh as he filled her once more, Gimli’s whispering moan and the soft stroke of her tongue over the crown of his cock before she took him in her mouth and suckled him. His broken oaths in Khuzdul as she swallowed all of him she could. Her strangled gasp when he came. He might not close his eyes to feign sleep, so Legolas even saw the trickle of pearl at her lips when she could not swallow all the dwarf gave her, and the tenderness of Gimli’s thumb as he wiped the trickle away, then kissed her.

Legolas lay wretched and vowed he would not return to her bed again.

When he woke again Gimli had left the bed and Galadriel lay on her elbow, looking down on him, a gentle expression on her face. Her hand slid along his belly to his cock, which was all too eager to rouse for her, and she mounted him with assurance. She was slippery and open, and she took him easily, seating herself with a sigh; she rocked on him lightly, smiling and stroking her palms along his belly and his chest.

“I would not have you leave this morning without taking your pleasure of my bed,” she murmured, leaning in to kiss him. He could taste the tang of the dwarf on her mouth, and he swallowed hard.

She was warm, her body clasping him sweetly, and his cock needed her; he slid his hands along her flanks, finding the mark of Gimli’s fingers, as he had foreseen. He could feel the residue of sweat and come on her, scent the presence of Gimli all over her skin, and he knew she could see it bothered him.

“I did not realize you would be so shy of us—of him,” she murmured, leaning in, her tongue tormenting his ear until he could hardly think. “You should let him have you.” Her voice seemed to resonate all through Legolas, dark and rich and happy. “He is magnificent.” She drew back and he could see the truth of it written in her: her dark pupils, the fragility of the skin under her eyes, bruised from lack of sleep, her kiss-swollen lips and reddened skin—the prints of dwarf fingers, the mark on her throat the darkest red from the heart of a crimson rose.

Gimli had not had her by halves. He had done nothing by halves.

“I am sorry, my lady.” Legolas could not still his hips, which pressed up against her, eager for release. He reached to stroke a tangle from her hair, feeling helpless and petty. “I have shamed myself and my line. I will not return to disappoint you further.”

She leaned in and nipped him, making him gasp. “Make no such vow. I was at fault, and I pressed you too hard for your comfort, then neglected you when Gimli turned his focus to me. I have been a poor hostess, Thranduilion. Let me make it up to you. Tonight we will play a different game.” She rode him for a time, tightening her body around him so sweetly he couldn’t think how to protest. “I will make a better game, and you need not feel guilty for your part in it.” She smiled, secret and sure. “Gimli will be disappointed if you do not come back.”

Legolas could not restrain himself; the unexpected heat conjured by her words broke him, and he surged into her with a gasp, spending—then flushed, ashamed of his lack of control.

“Legolas,” she murmured, and kissed his brow. “Pen neth an-dolen inn nîn! Let me help you conquer your fear before it can break you.” She laid her cheek against his, tender and sweet. “Come back tonight,” she whispered in his ear. “It will be different.”

“But my lady, you seem well content with one another….”

“Seeming is not being, as I should remember.” She arose from him then, her body lithe and sweet, and drew him after her. “Let us go bathe and greet the day. Your companions will wonder at your absence.”

Gimli was waiting in the anteroom, his glance sober, but he smiled at the lady. Fresh clothing had been provided for them—robes of soft gray, so they might go to bathe without putting on their soiled traveling garb.

“Your clothing has been taken for cleaning. I hope these Elvish robes will suffice, master dwarf,” Galadriel teased him gently.

“They are draftier than I am accustomed to.” He lifted his arms, looking down at the unfamiliar fabric. “But they are large enough, I suppose, and they cover me.”

They went down together, descending the spiraling stair to the bathing house, a low stone structure by the side of a rippling stream. The water had been channeled into carved stone bathing pools, many of which were unoccupied, the fresh water rippling softly in the morning light.

“Lady Galadriel,” Aragorn arose from a bench where he had sat pulling on his boots. “It is my pleasure to greet you this morning.”

“Estel,” she spoke, and took his hands, leaning forward to touch her cheek to his one after the other, following the manner of men. “We have come to bathe after a long night of difficult labor.” Her eyes danced with mischief, and Aragorn blushed a little, but smiled back at her, turning his glance aside to Legolas. As Galadriel moved to make her pleasantries to Boromir, Aragorn spied the mark on her throat. Raised by elves, he knew well the customs of Elvish royalty visiting other lands, and gave Legolas a sly wink.

Legolas shook his head ever so slightly, a short agonized motion that made Aragorn frown, then slanted his eyes aside and down. Aragorn’s gaze followed Legolas’s lead. His eyes flew wide as he saw Gimli standing there with them wearing Elvish garb, uttering a blustering harrumph and looking more than a little defensive.

Aragorn snatched his glance back to Legolas, disbelieving, but Legolas met it steadily, his expression wry.

“Well met by morning, master dwarf,” Aragorn managed to stammer, and Gimli frowned at him. “We wondered where you had gone. ….I trust your night was pleasant.”

“Quite.” Gimli scowled, darting Legolas a suspicious look; Legolas managed not to be waiting for it, gazing elsewhere entirely.

“It is well we did not bring the halflings,” Boromir muttered, seeing the lady throw off her robe and enter the bath house. “Little Samwise would blush fit to burn the skin from his face.” He was not far behind it himself, Legolas thought.

“Enjoy your baths.” Aragorn commented, and watched, amazed, as Gimli threw off his robe and strode after the lady, perfectly self-confident and unashamed. He shook his head in wonder.

“I, too, am summoned,” Legolas said quietly, and left his robe upon a peg to follow them in—the man’s questions would have to wait for later.

“Easy, laddie, there’s a step here,” Gimli murmured, and put out his hand to steady Legolas when he might have faltered in his haste.

Gimli’s touch branded him, gentle but firm, and a current of desire shot through Legolas at his touch, blazing liquid fire through his cock. Legolas shied from the dwarf’s warm hand, gasping, and Gimli let it drop. He gazed on Legolas with dark, sober eyes, then turned away and went to sit on the far side of the lady, easing himself down into the cool water.

His heart racing, Legolas decided not to follow them at once into the pool, but went to the far corner of the bath, where an arm of the stream funneled in through a millrace, making a fall of water where he could rinse himself. Other elves gathered there, talking quietly among themselves. He bathed, glad to feel clean, needing to reclaim his composure. But his relaxation was short-lived; as he turned to bring his hair under the water, he glimpsed Gimli and the lady sitting close in their pool. The dwarf looked stricken. He spoke earnestly to her, and she shook her head in answer, clasping his hand. Gimli gazed down at his lap, his head bowed, and Legolas felt a deep pang of shame—his reluctance to be touched had hurt his companion’s feelings deeply.

He finished rinsing his hair and went to them, steeling himself to go into the pool and sit by Gimli’s side. “Would you,” he swallowed. “Would you like help tending your hair?”

“No, thank you.” Gimli maintained perfect courtesy, but he rose nonetheless and climbed out of the bath. Legolas noted curious elves watching the dwarf, their faces serene. Legolas himself was the only one who seemed troubled—except for Gimli, perhaps.

Gimli went to rinse his hair in the same falling stream Legolas had used, leaving him alone with the lady.

“Gimli has offered to absent himself so you and I might be alone, saying you would be displeased by his presence.” Galadriel fixed Legolas with a level look. “I asked him to return, just as I asked you.”

Legolas nodded, chastened.

“Why does his touch trouble you so?” Galadriel’s stare seemed to pierce right through him, seeing deep into his soul.

Pride stung Legolas, and he answered her with half a truth. “Because I desire it more than I would have him know,” he whispered his confession and arose, slipping away swiftly.

*****

Night came all too swiftly, and with its gathering, Legolas found himself wandering once more through the pathways of Caras Galadhon, drawn as though against his will toward the tall mallorn where Galadriel lodged.

He felt like a thief as he mounted the stair, stepping silently. He met no others, yet he clung to such shadows as he could find, hesitating whenever he heard voices. He had spent the day in turmoil, but his mind was resolved on one thing: he would make amends for his behavior.

He could hear Gimli’s voice, a soft rumble from just above, and he slowed his feet, his heart racing. He thought of the lady’s plan, and he lifted his chin, feeling heat flush through him. She was wise; he would entrust himself to her.

He climbed to the talan and let himself through the curtain, finding Galadriel sitting with Gimli over glasses of wine. The dwarf lifted his gaze to Legolas, then dropped it. He glanced away and lifted his glass.

Legolas drew a long, slow breath, then went to kneel before Gimli. “I have come to make right my rudeness,” he said, breathless.

“Sit with us and drink,” Galadriel commanded. “The wine is good, though perhaps not equal to your father’s preferred Dorwinion vintage. See, Gimli, Legolas is come, as he promised.”

“Aye.” Gimli swallowed wine, looking into the depths of his glass. “Here he is.”

Legolas found the glass that awaited him and took a gulp, savoring the wine’s richness on his tongue. He felt hot and flushed, too aware of the lady’s thoughtful eyes on him—and of Gimli’s, which stayed away. He knew he was to blame for the awkwardness, and for Gimli’s discomfort.

He drained his glass and set it aside, rising to remove his tunic and his breeches, standing with his back to them both—his shoulders were heavy with muscle from shooting his bow, and he knew he was beautiful. Perhaps he would tempt them thus.

“He goes like a lamb led to the slaughter,” Gimli said gruffly. “There is no gladness in him.”

“Gimli, go lie down,” Galadriel spoke softly. “We will join you.”

The dwarf departed and Galadriel came to Legolas, setting her hand on him. “Would you have him believe you are repelled by him?”

Legolas shook his head, flushing to confess it.

“Then do as I say,” she said, caressing his cheek. “Trust in me—and in Gimli.”

She led him in, smiling on the dwarf, and slid onto the bed at Gimli’s side, leaving her robe crumpled on the floor. “Last night you both gave me pleasure; tonight it is Gimli’s turn to receive our favor.” She put her hand on the dwarf’s chest and kissed him, smiling. “Legolas, kneel.”

He knelt easily on the floor, unsure what to do with his hands. He settled for letting them sag to the floor, wrists outward, submissive to the lady’s will.

“Gimli,” she said gently. “Tell me what you see.”

“I see my comrade in arms. He does not wish to be here, where he will be forced to endure the touch of a dwarf.” Gimli’s voice was harsh, gruff in his throat.

“Legolas, what see you?” She was very calm.

“I see a friend I have hurt and a hostess I have shamed with my rudeness.” He stared at the floor.

“Then that is where we will begin.” She sounded pleased. “Gimli, did you know Legolas would name you friend?”

“I did not,” he said, slow and hushed. Legolas flushed, only now realizing he had spoken thus, but he would not withdraw it.

“Would you name Legolas your friend in turn?”

“I would.” He answered without hesitation, though he was still gruff, still guarded.

“Come to us, Legolas,” she murmured, and he came forward on his knees until he could lift his hands and set them upon the bed. “What see you when you look upon your friend?”

Legolas hesitated, his tongue flickering out to wet his lips as he struggled to choose between his thoughts.

“He is strong and fell, a deadly foe to orcs,” he said. “A valiant warrior in battle, yet kind to those who are weak. He is gallant, well-spoken and….” He bit his lip. “He was tender with you, my lady, and though I questioned your choice at first, I know now you chose well to invite him to your bed.”

“Gimli?”

“Legolas is deadly with his bow.” Gimli shifted, uncomfortable. “He is strange to me; I cannot guess his mind. But I trust him at my back. He drew me from the Chamber of Mazarbul when I was so lost in grief I would have stayed and perished there. That was—” He stopped for a moment. “That was when I first cared for him.”

“Do you find Legolas fair?”

“Aye.” Gimli answered, his voice very quiet. “He is very fair.”

“Legolas. Do you find Gimli fair?”

“I once thought I did not. Yet now I do!” Legolas blurted, aware of Gimli stiffening, his blunt hands closing to fists, his knuckles white.

“Do not make him lie,” Gimli whispered, his voice choked.

“I do not lie.” Legolas sagged, his forehead bending forward to touch the bedding. “He is beautiful.”

“Where in him do you find this beauty?” Her voice was stern, giving Legolas no quarter. “Touch him and tell your thought.”

Legolas set his hand upon Gimli’s knee, smoothing it down across his calf, curving his palm behind the solid mass of its curve. “His body. I have never seen such muscle on another. There is no weakness in him.” He flushed. “He could be carved from the stone; yet if so, he is a statue made by a master sculptor, one who conceived of power such as the eldar cannot dream.” His hand moved; slowly he shaped the dip and ridge of Gimli’s thigh. His throat felt thick and tight, and his hand trembled.

“Continue,” Galadriel commanded.

“His hair.” Legolas squeezed his eyes shut tight, and he knew his cheeks were red. “It is a torrent of fire.” He found a lock of it and curled it around his fingers. “Fierce and bright, it shines as if it were a living flame. When it is free, I wonder how any can pass him without desiring to touch it.”

“Another.”

Legolas reached forth, his fingers unsteady, and set them over Gimli’s hand, then curled them around beneath the palm, unfolding his fingers from their loosely clenched fist. “His hands are most beautiful of all. They are all of him in one part: they are short but strong. Despite their power, they are gentle and skillful. I saw them upon my lady, and I….” He swallowed hard, flushing. “I envied her.” He stroked his trembling thumb over Gimli’s scarred knuckles.

Gimli reclaimed his hand, jerking it away from Legolas with a frown. “You have had them on you, but you wished it not.”

“I was afraid.” Legolas whispered, burning with shame.

“Of what?” Galadriel whispered, and Legolas made a low sound of torment.

“Of how much they made me feel.” He could barely speak the words.

“Enough,” Gimli rumbled, very gruff. “I am appeased.” The lady nodded.

“It is enough for now,” she agreed. “Join us, Legolas.” She set her hand on the bed at her side, and he obeyed, climbing up to lie beside her.

Her lips curved, and again, he could see the mischief in her, anticipation and humor and just the faintest hint of wickedness. “Legolas, tonight is for Gimli, but you are shy. I think it best you take charge of the evening. Tell me what you would have me do.”

Legolas stared at her, trying to understand; she laughed and tried again.

“Tell me how you would touch Gimli. I will be your hands.” She held them up, slim and pale. “Your mouth. Your body,” she laughed at his stunned expression, her tone rich and sweet. “I am prepared to do whatever you wish.” She smiled, sly, and moved her hand, touching a cabinet set by the head of the bed. The door opened slightly and Legolas glimpsed the contents within, his eyes going wide.

“So I see, my lady,” he breathed. Just the thought made him tremble.

She knelt before behind Gimli, putting the dwarf between them, her eyes smoky with eagerness, and Legolas dithered, unsure where to begin.

“His back,” he mumbled, his mouth dry. “Move your palm along his back. Shoulder to waist.” He watched as she approached Gimli, her palm hesitating over him, then settling on the solid mass of his shoulder, caressing there, feeling the ripple and bulge of muscle as she slowly swept her hand down until it rested at his waist.

Gimli shivered once, closing his eyes. His cock stirred, swelling against the sheets.

He was keenly aware that the dwarf knew it was Legolas who spoke, putting the hands of Galadriel on him, and he flushed at the thought, glad Gimli was not looking at his face, to see his disquiet, his uncertainty, his indecision at what to tell her next.

“His chest.” It was a ploy to keep from seeming indifferent or fearful, but it worked; Galadriel ran her palm slowly to the dwarf’s belly and up the fierce mat of curling red hair to his chest, sliding from nipple to nipple: covetous, her fingers splayed, every bit of them pressed against him, drinking the sensations so plainly Legolas could all but feel them himself.

You will before morning, her voice murmured in his mind, and a whisper of sensation ghosted against his hand, a moment’s duration-- hot skin and crisp hair tickling him.

Legolas gasped, clutching at his hand, and it faded.

“Go on, my prince,” Galadriel prompted him, gentle.

“His nipples,” Legolas blushed crimson to hear the word in his own mouth. “Stroke them.”

She did, fingertips circling—tracing the whorls of hair, then flicking lightly over the buds, tugging at the golden rings that pierced them. That made Gimli draw a shuddering breath, his lips parted, his cock stiffening rapidly.

Legolas covered his mouth with his hand, feeling as if his face would burn off him with lust and embarrassment as he spoke. “Pinch lightly. Harder. Use your nails.”

Gimli moaned aloud, a low desperate groan, deep and throaty. His hips shifted, involuntary, as if to thrust.

Legolas gulped for air, feeling as if the room did not contain enough for the three of them, as if he might gasp and choke and fill his lungs, yet never be satisfied. “Twist,” he whispered, and Gimli threw his head back as Galadriel obeyed, turning the golden rings between her fingers. His breath hissed between his lips, all the lines of him straining, his cock curving stiffly up to touch his belly.

“Kiss his throat,” Legolas husked, and Galadriel did, nestling up behind Gimli, her fingertips still cruel on his nipples. Gimli made a soft, mewling noise, turning toward her, mouthing blindly for her skin.

“Release your fingers now,” Legolas whispered. “Soothe him there. Kiss him, lick him.”

Galadriel pressed Gimli onto his back and sealed her mouth over one reddened nipple, suckling, then drawing back to let Legolas see her tongue: circling, pressing at the stiff hairs around the aureole, lapping at the taut bud to soothe it, working the golden rings with her tongue. Gimli’s trembling hand rose to caress her hair; he kept his eyes shut, and Legolas wondered why. Did he wish to deny that Legolas was there at all?

He is imagining it is you. Her voice resonated in his mind again, mild and amused.

“Kiss him harder,” Legolas’s voice shook. “Bite.”

She did, and Gimli cried out, shuddering; his breath came in deep gasps. His hand pressed her mouth against him, thick blunt fingers splayed against her pale hair.

“Put him on his knees.” Legolas whispered, seized by a madness of desire. “Kiss your way along his spine—every ridge of it. Slowly.” Would she do what he intended? He thought she would. “Your hands on him, yes. Both of them.” He watched her kiss her way slowly to Gimli’s waist, her palms curling over the rounds of his arse, savoring its shape, its power.

“Open him and continue,” Legolas breathed, a husk of air.

She did, her thumbs pressing apart, her delicate tongue drawing a wild cry from Gimli, who pressed his face into the pillow, his fingers sinking in its softness, his knuckles white.

Legolas leaned in to watch her, wanting to see her lips seal over that part of Gimli, who jerked forward with a throttled shout, his cock gleaming wet at the tip. Her tongue circled and darted, leaving him slick, wet, shining.

“Pull him back against you. Do it again.” Legolas squirmed, his cock aching at the sight. “Push inside him,” he groaned, and she obeyed, her pointed tongue pressing forward, her eyes closing.

“Fuck him with it.” Legolas touched her, unable to help himself. He set his hand between the blades of her shoulders, urging her forward and back, rocking her into Gimli. He watched her curled and pointed tongue push in, heard the slick and slide of it, heard her labored breathing and the dwarf’s hoarse, desperate cries. Her thumbs kneaded at the flat expanse between her tongue and Gimli’s balls, making him shudder even more.

Legolas reached to the cabinet, suddenly desperate, and began to untangle the delicate leather straps he found there, buckling them on her. She spread her thighs to help, the scent of her wet body heady with musk. He found his way with fumbling hands.

“Use your fingers,” he commanded her, and she put one in her mouth to wet her fingers, then sank one deep inside Gimli. “Open him, ready him.”

Gimli’s knees trembled, threatening to collapse; she slid an arm about his waist and held him firm. Two fingers sank inside, turning and twisting. Gimli’s moans were constant now, deep and desperate.

“Find the place inside that gives him pleasure,” Legolas could hardly think, he wanted so badly to watch her mount Gimli. The straps settled, he chose a carved wooden cock with a wide flat base and set it in its place, buckling it into its slot so she might act in his stead. “Make him cry out.”

Her fingers curled inside Gimli, and he shouted into the pillow. He lay clinging now to his pillow with both arms as if he might be dragged away, his whole body bucking with every new touch. His cock, neglected, had gone dusky red and clear fluid dripped from its tip.

“Oil?” Legolas whispered.

“In the drawer,” she said, and he found it, slicking the length of the wooden shaft with shaking hands, so eager he spilled much of it on the bed. She took the rest and slicked her fingers, pushing a third inside Gimli, working in the oil as Legolas moved behind her, his cock quivering with need.

“Position yourself to take him, but do not have him yet,” he commanded her, nestling up behind her, moving her hair so it streamed down her side, then steadying his cock, finding her wet and slick and hot, ready for him.

Legolas paused, fingers finding their way into Galadriel’s slick folds, moving along the swollen bud until she quivered and gasped, her head falling forward, her hair trailing over Gimli’s back, clinging to the sweat that dripped from his flanks and pooled on the hollows on either side of his hips.

“Fuck him,” Legolas heard him say, a hoarse, harsh voice hardly his own, and he shoved deep in her with a powerful stroke, driving her into Gimli all the way to the hilt.

Gimli surged, forcing himself up, blood flowing into his muscles as they flexed. He roared his lust to the ceiling, pushing back onto Galadriel, who rocked back on Legolas, nearly driving him back onto his heels. Legolas shoved back by reflex, trapping her between them, pushing Gimli forward again.

Galadriel keened, whimpering. Legolas could feel her body clutching about his cock, spasming against his fingers. Then she was rocking between them—back onto Legolas as Gimli pushed against her, forward into Gimli as Legolas thrust himself deep. They cried out, staggered yelps and moans; Legolas almost thought Gimli meant to push himself back so far Legolas would slide within him, and he knew his own yearning was to fuck her so deeply he would reach the dwarf.

Galadriel tossed her head, moaning; her hips snapped forward, making Gimli growl. Legolas seized her hips, moving her to suit his pace, driving her forward and dragging her back. She clung to Gimli’s waist, moaning. Impatient, Legolas wrapped his arms around her and moved her with the core of his own body, rocking her into Gimli wih hard, desperate thrusts of his hips.

He caught her throat with his mouth—atop the mark Gimli had made, and sank his teeth. She cried out shrilly, but her head tipped back with pure abandon. He could see the pink tips of her nipples, swollen tight, the long flat expanse of her belly, the delicate golden curls caught behind the shaft she wore, which they now drove deep inside Gimli’s body. He could watch the stretch of the dwarf as he took the fucking, the quiver of his legs and arms. Maddening, all of it, the most compelling bliss he had ever known—and by far the least satisfactory, for it was not him inside Gimli, it was not his cock stretching him open, his cock making Gimli bark desperate cries into the crook of his arm, his straining fists knotted in Gimli’s tangled firefall hair.

Harsh animal noises fell from his lips, and his hips drove forward in a stuttered rhythm; his fingers worked tirelessly at Galadriel and made her whimper, convulsing to his touch as she came—and he realized he could feel Gimli’s heat against his wrist, the dwarf’s inner thigh slippery with sweat and oil.

Legolas gasped and came so hard his vision went gray, forcing Galadriel forward and collapsing over her, atop Gimli, who braced his elbows and held firm as they fell from him, Galadriel toppling to the side and Legolas behind her, their bodies separating at once with a slick reluctant sound.

Legolas swam back to self-awareness with sluggish lassitude, then blinked to find Gimli studying him through one slitted eye, his hair a wild mass on his shoulders, his skin gleaming with sweat. He raised himself and sat up, his cock jutting between his legs, still thick and hard, the foreskin slippery wet.

“Was that all?” Gimli demanded in tones of indignant outrage. “I was just starting to enjoy it!”

Legolas blinked at him with dismay, and heard Galadriel begin to laugh—a soft giggle that rose and soared like music. She lay where she had fallen and laughed until tears came, until Legolas sat up and glared down at her with indignation, until even Gimli huffed a bit, wrapping his hand around his cock and giving it a quelling squeeze.

“Mell nîn, let me help you, though I will thank you if your endurance is not so great I must suckle you until my jaw aches!” She reached for him, her eyes shining with fondness, and bent over Gimli to take him in her mouth, lapping around the head to savor the shining moisture there.

“If you are weary, I can take him instead,” he reached to cradle her face, brushing his fingertips along her ear. “That would be no hardship.” Though he spoke to her, he looked on Legolas, his eyes alight with desire.

Legolas shivered, and he felt his breath leave him, his face coloring.

“Legolas will help me. Will you not?” She raised her gaze to him, soft and kind with invitation, and he marked how Gimli’s breath stuttered in his chest at the thought, one hand falling from her face to lie amidst the bedding, flexing slowly with unconscious wanting, as if it would reach for him if he did not knot it into the sheets.

Legolas nodded, wetting his lips with nervous strokes of his tongue, and leaned forward, trembling, bending next to her. Gimli’s flesh smelled of musk and of the lady; heat radiated from him as though off a fire. Legolas carefully extended his tongue and touched it to the shaft—thin velvety skin moving easily over a core of stone, salt on his tongue, the lady murmuring a purr of approval and setting her hand on his back, stroking him with soothing grace.

He ran his tongue along the length of Gimli, a slow stroke dragging over thick veins, finding the bitter wetness near the head, the flat of his tongue sliding easily there, curling around the tip. Galadriel withdrew, letting him seal his mouth over the crown and flick his tongue into the slit.

“That’s it, melui nîn,” she whispered, and Gimli choked out a soft sound that might have been Legolas’s name. Her palm stroked along Gimli’s shaft, but she let Legolas kiss him alone for long moments, until he drew away to breathe, then she replaced his mouth with her own.

Watch him, she commanded in Legolas’s mind, so he obeyed, seeing Gimli subside, lying back to rest upon the pillow. One hand rose and trailed over his belly; he made a low rumbling purr and threaded his fingers into her hair.

Now you, she coaxed Legolas, who leaned in again, coming more easily, to kiss Gimli’s cock: offering small, hesitant kisses, then deeper ones, flickering his tongue against it, letting his teeth trail against the flesh in tiny teasing, nibbled bites.

The sound Gimli made started in the core of him and was wrenched from his throat in an agony of longing; again Legolas glimpsed his hand flexing in the bedding, clenching in the sheets so tightly Legolas believed they his knuckles would crack—from the strain of not touching him, of not putting a hand behind his head to hold his mouth in place.

Legolas rose with a soft gasp, and the lady replaced him once more; he watched the strain fade from Gimli’s body, only to return when he set his hand upon the sac that cradled the dwarf’s heavy, round balls. Gimli’s hips jerked, a half-suppressed thrust, and his head twisted and turned restlessly upon the pillow.

He takes pleasure in me, but for you he catches fire, Galadriel smiled gently on Legolas, pulling away to let him return.

As Legolas did for him—but Gimli had known it, and had been brave from the beginning. Legolas closed his eyes, bowing his head for a moment, letting himself own his regret and shame.

With new resolve, Legolas slowly curled both hands about Gimli’s cock and slid them along its length, kissing the tip. He felt Galadriel reach across, taking Gimli’s wrists in her hands, pulling his arms up over his head. She leaned in to kiss Gimli, leaving Legolas to tend his pleasure.

He took a deep breath and settled in carefully, sliding as much of Gimli as he could into his mouth, then tipping his head until he found he could take the dwarf deep inside his throat.

Gimli bellowed at the sky, an echoing cry that made roosting birds shriek and take flight, their wings beating against the leaves; his whole body shuddered and he spent in Legolas’s mouth, long pulses. Legolas swallowed and sputtered, a little overwhelmed, drawing back to take the last of it on his tongue.

He raised his head, shy but pleased, and found Gimli looking down at him, eyes dazed, arms still outstretched above his head.

Legolas wiped his lips with his wrist, then looked on the traces there and licked them away, swallowing deliberately and licking his lips.

“Is that all?” he asked, his mouth curling with shy triumph, and was pleased when Gimli and Galadriel both laughed with him.

“Come here, elf,” Gimli commanded at last, and this time Legolas did not hear the words as a taunt—but an endearment. He wondered how long he had misheard them.

Gimli opened his arms, and Legolas settled into them, his heart thumping hard in his chest, wondering what would happen next. Gimli’s hands slid around him tenderly, caressing his arms, stroking over his back.

“You have been shy since we began, even of the lady. You have come twice swiftly, without seeming to wish it. You know nothing of rhythm or finesse…. tell me true,” he said softly, voice husky and gentle. “You are new to this.”

Legolas felt his ears flush scarlet; he nodded, unable to meet Gimli’s eyes. “My father has not approved of any… prospective mates for me.”

“And you are how old? That is a cruel fate!” Gimli gasped, but did not push him away, his hands warm and reassuring. Instead he laughed, long and dark and husky, a sound of pure delight. “I’ll wager he will not approve of me, either.” His hand slid down to Legolas’s arse, gripping it, his grasp startling and familiar.

“I will have words with Thranduil if he has aught to say,” Galadriel murmured, and her smooth hands fell on Legolas also. “Gimli, we have erred.”

Legolas’s heart sank; would he be sent home now, unfulfilled after even this?

“We have used him ill,” the dwarf agreed. “Which is to say, not nearly enough.”

Gimli reached up and slid his hand behind Legolas’s head, pulling him down firmly into a kiss. It began softly, warm melting lips and tenderness, but swiftly deepened—teeth tugging at his lips, tongue slipping inside to coax at his. Then Gimli rolled him over and covered him, kissing him as he had never dreamed—hot slow strokes of lip and tongue, sweet stinging bites and every bit of it pure heat, melting sweetness, deepening fire. Legolas whimpered and did the best he could to match it, lifting and squirming against Gimli in a haze of delight.

“That is it, amrâlimê,” he murmured against Legolas’s mouth. “I have you.”

Galadriel smiled, leaning in. She took him from Gimli briefly, kissing him as well, her mouth like miruvor compared to the dwarf’s stout ale.

“But tonight was supposed to be for you,” Legolas looked up at Gimli when she loosed him.

Gimli laughed again, almost a growl, the sound vibrating through Legolas in slow, hot waves. “You are for me, make no mistake.”

Legolas could feel himself sinking into the dwarf’s eyes; something inside him was dissolving like a pearl in wine. “Yes,” he breathed.

Gimli’s eyes flared; he dove in to claim Legolas’s mouth, long firm strokes of his tongue, his hands possessive. Legolas could feel him swelling, recovering swiftly. Gimli’s skin felt hot, warming Legolas everywhere it touched him. His hands spread swirling sparks of pleasure everywhere they roamed. They pressed his thighs apart, and Gimli slid downward, kissing him—sprinkling bites and licks along his skin, bypassing the parts of Legolas that craved him most. He settled between Legolas’s legs, lifting his thigh and kissing it—biting along the soft skin to the crease, suckling a mark there.

Legolas could not stay still; he writhed, palms wandering, restless, stroking over his own belly and chest until Galadriel caught them in hers. “You are in good hands,” she whispered, and lowered her golden head, sealing her mouth over his nipple.

Caught between Gimli’s mouth and hers, Legolas thought he might go mad. The dwarf nipped and sucked, surges of mingled pain and warmth that shot straight to Legolas’s cock, while Galadriel flicked his nipple with her tongue and made him squirm, gasping at each new jolt of sensation.

“He will come again swiftly,” she murmured, licking her way to the other nipple. “I will forestall him, if you think it good.”

“Aye,” Gimli paused to nuzzle at Legolas’s balls, his wicked mouth opening to draw one inside, then let it go. “We’ve waited too late; we’ll not get a ring on him, not now. Do you have a strap?”

Legolas groaned, missing the silky, wet heat—but Galadriel was busy, and when she returned, she held a buckled leather strap.

Gimli released him, and she gathered him up in her hand while the dwarf wrapped the strap around him, gathering up his balls and cock, then fastening the leather around them firmly. He drew the strap through the buckle and tightened, adjusting Legolas’s skin with care so it did not trap or pinch before tightening again. Legolas gasped, plaintive, at the unfamiliar sensation of restriction around him.

Galadriel kissed him to silence him, occupying him with her tongue, her soft breasts cushioned against his chest. He gathered her close, half-forgetting the pressure on his cock—until Gimli kissed the tip, and he would have surged up, but for the dwarf’s hard hands on him, holding him down.

“I will enjoy watching him take you,” she whispered, smiling on him, touching the tip of her nose to his. “I have looked forward to it, I confess.”

*****

Galadriel withdrew, seeing their time together had come full circle. Legolas and Gimli lay together much as they had at first when she sat back to watch the two of them together. Only this time, both were ready; this time, they needed her not.

Gimli knelt in a hush of breathless reverence, poised over Legolas’s cock, regarding him with anticipation. His eyes burned dark and intense, his tongue flickering out to lick his lips. His hair tumbled over his shoulders, ruddy and wild; his lashes sank shut as he took Legolas into his mouth.

Legolas moaned, hands wringing to fists; his chest rose and fell with desperate gulping breaths.

Gimli sank down, sucking him with tender care, tongue and lips coaxing him, plying him with the relentless perfection of a craftsman. He rolled Legolas’s balls in his hands, withdrawing to lick and kiss along the shaft, not neglecting to dip his tongue into Legolas’s foreskin, teasing there, to taste the salt of him.

Legolas resonated to Gimli’s touch, moving in perfect complement to his patient care. He arched, his slim body a perfect bow, pressing up for more of the dwarf’s mouth. Gimli caught him and supported him, lifting his hips, suckling fiercely.

Starlight and daylight, the two of them: mingled now in one sky. She sighed, her fingers sliding down to tease at her own flesh. Gimli sucked Legolas with relentless craft until his whimpers and cries rose to frenzy, then set him down and mounted him, taking Legolas’s cock inside his body.

Legolas cried out, eyes wild; his hands sought Gimli and curled around him, as if he could absorb the dwarf through his palms. Gimli soothed him with words and touches, even as the squeeze and pull of his body drove Legolas to madness—unable to come, Legolas suffered beautifully in his need, bucking up, quivering, his head thrashing on the pillow, his golden hair a wild tousle about his shoulders.

He had lost his Westron, babbling broken syllables of Sindarin, but the dwarf only chuckled, fond and trusting. Gimli threw back his head and rode hard, powerful thighs flexing: short strokes and long, keeping Legolas poised at the verge.

Galadriel moaned low in her throat to see them locked together; their bodies were beautiful, slick with sweat and taut with desire, moving with helpless passion, but their hearts were even more so, love waxing slowly within them, twining them together with its delicate, shining bonds.

At length Gimli withdrew and turned Legolas, raising him to hands and knees. She hummed with pleasure, arching against her fingers to see Gimli bend to him, kissing him open. Legolas’s helpless, wondering cries filled the room like the most beautiful of songs, and he quivered like the branches of a flowering tree trembling in the warmth of a spring wind.

Slow, tender preparation followed, though Legolas pressed back, begging, wanting, desperate—but Gimli would not rush, pressing tender, reassuring kisses to the small of his back, the motion of his oil-slick fingers continuing with relentless care.

The dwarf had the patience of Eru, she knew it well and admired him for it. How could one resist Legolas, sweat slick and pleading, his body stiff and needful…?

She smiled to see even Gimli could not do so forever; at last, with reverent care, he freed Legolas from his bonds, then set his cock in place and pressed himself inside by gentle stages, until the two were joined.

Legolas groaned and Gimli echoed him; together, they began to move. Surging waves of passion and pleasure ebbed and flowed through them, crashing and receding only to roll through them again and again: eternal, insatiable, the rhythm of life throughout the long ages, always fading, ever renewed. She let it roll into her and wash over her, and she moaned as they moaned, riding the tide of it until the flood broke and all were drowned in sweetness.

Rightness resonated through the room, the moment sealing a future through their inevitable, impossible perfection; the world vibrated in harmony with this moment. Galadriel could see dwarf and elf hands reaching at last across the void that had divided them for an age—hands that clasped, firmed, and held fast.

She smiled as the two of them curled together and their lashes sank shut in sleep. Rising softly, she crept out to let them rest. Loose-limbed and well-content, she sat to sing and combed through her hair, taking her time about it, her legs curled comfortably beneath her.

They would need food when they woke; they had loved long and with great intensity, discovering one another on a level that ran far deeper than mere bodies.

She smiled, fond, and gazed into her looking-glass, unsurprised when the curtain swept away behind her and revealed her lord, leading servants bearing trays. They set them upon the table and departed, and Celeborn came to her, setting his hands upon her shoulders.

“When shall I be allowed to return to our bed?” He chuckled, nuzzling at her ear. “Or will you keep the dwarf and the Prince of the Greenwood with you for ever?”

She laughed along with him, tilting her head back. “Do not try to play the martyr, meleth nîn. I know you have not been idle these few nights.” She shivered as his tongue traced along her ear, finding the tip and fluttering there, making her moan. She caught his hands and drew them to her breast. “The sacrifice is mine, did you not know that?”

“Without doubt.” He touched her throat, where she was bruised from loving, and his eyes danced at hers in the glass. “A noble sacrifice indeed, for a noble purpose.”

A soft cry from within the bedchamber silenced them, and Celeborn stroked her cheek. “They awaken.”

“That is Legolas. His father means well, but he is too protective.” She sighed. “Thranduil has much to answer for. When next we visit, we should take this up with him.” She considered the darkening of his eyes. “Perhaps at great length.”

“Duty is such a challenge,” he drawled. “Do not forget to summon me when you are at liberty once more.” He slipped his hand down and pinched her bottom, then darted away, laughing, when she swiped at him with her hairbrush.

Galadriel shook her head but smiled, giving her hair one last, lingering stroke, then arose to join Legolas and Gimli once more.

Breakfast would be cold by the time they finished their love-play, but she doubted they would mind.
NOTES:
Sindarin
Melethryn ned i Brennil: Lovers of the Lady
Av’osto: Don't be afraid
Tiro ammen: Look toward us (watch us)
Gonhir melui: Sweet master of stone
Ai, mell nîn: Oh, my dear
Pen neth an-dolen inn nîn!: My young one with the hidden heart!
Melui nîn: My sweet
Meleth nîn: My love

Khuzdul
banmûna: Beautiful lady
bunmel: Treasure of treasures
amrâlimê: Beloved of me

THANKS FOREVER go out to Pippychick and Irrealia for beta reading, support, advice, and being generally awesome as I composed this story!
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Melethryn ned i Brennil