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His tunic falls where it should, rumpled and wrinkled but a fairer sight than his sweat-slicked skin underneath—and at least it isn’t stained or bruised, though the twine that should crisscross over his chest has come undone. Chin to his clavicle, Aragorn tugs it loose and pulls both ends, straightening them to equal length. As he ties them back up properly, he asks, “Should we reorganize the guard for the season, do you think, now that Elladan and Elrohir have returned?” The bow he fastens looks wrong, his chipped, dirt-caked nails unaccustomed to the intricacies of fashion. If he runs into Lindir in the halls, Lindir will surely give him a pitying look and fussily set it right again. “They will want a place at the northwest gate, I imagine.”

A muffled noise is his sole response—one he’s not even sure is meant for him. He waits a moment longer, finger-combing his matted hair that’s been tugged into too-tight curls. Glorfindel doesn’t elaborate. When Aragorn looks over, he can’t help a fond smile. Glorfindel doesn’t look like he has any interest in the question at all—he’s much too busy with better things. Erestor sighs and twists a few gold strands around his trim fingers, jerking them hard enough for Glorfindel to startle.

“Estel was speaking to you,” Erestor scolds, cool in a way that Aragorn could never be, certainly not in such a compromised position. Erestor’s sprawled across the grand bed, upper back propped up in pillows and dark hair draped over the headboard. A sheer negligee clings to his delicate body, falling low down his slender shoulders and fanning out around his hips, exposing the long, pale lines of his legs. Glorfindel’s head is buried between them, and he only lifts a fraction when Erestor tries to pull him up.

At first, Glorfindel’s heated gaze is only for Erestor—he bores a hole into his lover, smoldering with an intensity that almost reinvigorates Aragorn’s exhausted body. He can only wish he had such stamina, such ferocity. He matched Glorfindel well in the first act, but it’s well past nightfall, and his mortal bones cry for sleep.

In the faint light of the stars and moon, creeping in over the balcony, Erestor looks every bit as beautiful as the handsome Balrog slayer at his feet. He presses, “I will not have you ignore your duties.” He doesn’t add not even for this, but the implication’s clear. He doesn’t like being a distraction. The smooth running of Lord Elrond’s home comes first for Erestor—self-satisfaction a very distant second, if it’s on the list at all.

With an indulgent sigh, Glorfindel glances over the hump of Erestor’s knee and tells Aragorn, “I apologize. I was... heavily preoccupied.” He can’t seem to help himself—his hand trails pointedly down Erestor’s leg as he speaks. Aragorn entirely understands.

He tries to focus on getting dressed, on getting out, because he really must catch some sleep if he wants to be any use to anyone in the morning. But the other two are captivating, and it’s hard not to stare at Glorfindel’s pink tongue when it pokes out to trace his lips. He turns into Erestor’s stomach, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss there before he makes his way lower. Open-mouthed, he leaves a wet line in his wake, glimmering in the dim light. Then his mouth is back where it was—the round curve of Erestor’s thigh, and he’s parting his lips wide to press his teeth into Erestor’s tender flesh.

A breathless moan flitters out of Erestor. He arches off the bed, chest rising as his head falls back, lashes down against his painted cheeks. Aragorn steps into his boots without looking at them, because his eyes are glued to the bed.

Glorfindel is clearly biting deep grooves into Erestor’s thigh. He’s already left angry red circles on the other one—marks that will last some time, that Aragorn will finger another night and Erestor will groan over. Erestor allows the abuse of his delicate body, though he still fights against the ecstasy of it.

He murmurs with impressive clarity, “He will discuss the reorganization of the guard with you tomorrow, as soon as you wish it.” Erestor stops to breathe as Glorfindel finally relinquishes his feral grip, retracting his teeth to lick over the wound instead. Erestor finishes confidently, almost forcefully, “He will not neglect his duties, I am sure.”

Glorfindel grins around his mouthful. He’ll follow through, Aragorn knows, because neglecting one’s duties would mean leaving Erestor’s bed, and none of them want that. Pulling his boot up, Aragorn straightens, dressed again, presentable enough to at least walk through the corridors. First, he walks back to the bed.

He lingers there longer than he means to, wistfully watching Glorfindel at play. Erestor is languishing as though he’s spent, but Aragorn knows he’s simply basking in his lover’s bold attention. The minute Glorfindel pushes for more, Erestor will rise to the occasion. Aragorn laments, “Would that I had your eternal strength, and that I could stay throughout the night.”

“It is fine,” Erestor counters, flicking his wrist. On some night’s, he’s jested that Aragorn’s lucky for an excuse to escape, but they both know it isn’t true. Once or twice, Aragorn has even pitied the mortal Men without Dúnedain blood; they wouldn’t even make it so far as him. “We are pleased to have you for as long as we may.”

Glorfindel mutters between little love-bites scattered right around Erestor’s entrance, “I always enjoying sparring with you in this arena, my friend. ...But I will do my best to satisfy our lover on my own while you rest.” He follows up a particular vicious bite with a lashing from his tongue. Erestor quivers and gasps, writhing in the pillows.

Lashes half-lidded and dark eyes far away, Erestor murmurs, “You must return to rescue me tomorrow night, Estel—unsupervised, this beast would devour me.”

Glorfindel chuckles, “Happily.”

Aragorn knows it. He also knows that Erestor lives for the unabashed affection. Aragorn’s still smiling as he leans down—he captures Erestor’s chin in his hand and turns Erestor’s gorgeous face aside, meeting his lips for a sweet kiss. Aragorn promises right after, “I will.”

Glorfindel pauses his assault to lift up on his elbows—Aragorn comes down to meet him, bestowing another parting kiss. Before he can pull away, Glorfindel grabs him by the hair and purrs, “I will be happy to devour you as well, dear king.”

Aragorn shudders. He tries not to look forward to it too much. He knows he’ll already have trouble sleeping with how stimulating his night’s been. Tiring, but arousing. He has to force himself to pull away.

He offers a bow, then makes his retreat, while his lovers continue endlessly behind him.