#thunderandviolin

Gimli was only listed as vocals because he growled more than sang, while Legolas’s voice was too pure-

They only sang together, as one voice, something sweet and something rough, tangled into one, a counterstrike to Tauriel’s soaring vocals.

Gimli blinked rapidly, just twice, because he was a Dwarf and here in his hands was proof that he had a craft, and that craft was something beautiful.  

Proof that this Elf was part of his craft, essential to it, and what could be more Dwarvish than that?

He swallowed and shook his head, just a bit.  He was allowed to be a bit overwhelmed, but he didn’t have to make a show of it.  He left that sort of nonsense to Fíli and Kíli.

And, alas, his Elf.

Legolas, true to his overwrought elvish nature, lifted the album to his lips and pressed a kiss to the cover.

“You’re going to smudge it!” Gimli yelped, pulling it away, but Legolas only laughed, that musical, elven sound that couldn’t be confused for any other race on Arda.  That laugh caught the ear of all who heard it, and usually brought blushes to the cheeks of the Men down in Dale.  

Gimli was sometimes rather possessive of it.  All right, always possessive of it – many a Man had suffered under his glare.  Just as well – he was the best at earning it.

“I’ll get you another,” Legolas told him, tugging him closer by their joined hands, wrapped around the cover.  “I’ll get you a dozen.”

“At least we’ll sell that many then.”  Gimli tried for dark sarcasm but came up with delicate hope.

Another laugh, and then a kiss against his lips, light as raindrops and why did Legolas always make Gimli think of forests and rain?  “We’ll sell more,” Legolas said without pulling away, breathing the words into Gimli’s skin.  “We’ll sell thousands.  Millions.  There’ll be money, and concerts, and more albums to come, and all that will be nothing next to what this little piece of plastic and metal has already given me.”

Gimli frowned and pulled away enough to look into the blue eyes, clear and too bright to be anything mortal.  “What’re you blathering on about, Elf?” he growled, or tried to.  It came out more as a whisper.

Legolas smiled, and the sun rose in his face and he was ancient and he was happy.  “It gave me you,” he said, and maybe now the smile was a bit smug, and teasing, and he was real again.

Gimli snorted and grumbled and pushed his Elf down, chasing that hint of mortal emotion with his mouth, and the CD was lost as hands fumbled at clothes and bodies tangled, ill-fitted and utterly perfect.

Long legs around his hips and that beautiful, pale body arching under his hands and lube slick between them-

 It gave me you.

“Lansele,” Gimli murmured, and Legolas arched and rolled against him, soft skin and hard muscle, a halo of gold around his face as his Elf breathed a translation:

“Love of all loves”

Like the words were music and immortality and life all at once.

----

Ori’s knees were shaking.

He was fairly certain that once he stepped on stage, every microphone would pick up the tap tap of his knobbly knees, and they’d be louder than Kíli’s drums.

“Kíli will kill me if I mess up the rhythms,” he muttered, because he liked being alive and Kíli could be just a bit terrifying when anything threatened his drum solos.

“I doubt Fíli’d let him,” came a deep voice at his elbow.  “He’s a mite protective of you too, though he’d be terribly confused by it all, trying to decide whom to protect.”

Ori, predictably enough, jumped about twelve feet straight up, landing just in time for his knees to start knocking again as he squeaked out, “Dwalin!”

Dwalin looked down at him, his face impassive except for a lift of his eyebrows that Ori had learned, over the last two years, meant he was concerned.  Fíli and Kíli swore their cousin was made of stone, but Ori had found him very kind in his gruff way.  “Apologies, lad,” their cellist said, patting Ori’s shoulder lightly.  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Ori laughed, even if it was a bit on the choked side.  “It’s not your fault,” he explained.  “Right now a ladybug could startle me.”  There was a roar of noise from beyond the curtains, and he swallowed hard.   “I’m in a perpetual state, I’m afraid.”

The thick eyebrows went up higher.  “You’re nervous?” Dwalin sounded surprised, and Ori couldn’t help feeling a little flush of happiness at that.  Most people took one look at him and assumed he was a coward; Dwalin thought he wouldn’t be afraid.  He liked it.  “You’ve been performing since you were, what?  Thirty?”

Ori nodded.  “Thirty-three,” he said, surprised Dwalin knew.  But Fíli had told him Dwalin knew his work – his old work, playing other people’s music on albums bought by schools and fans of classical music, performed live in front of audiences with an average age of 250.  “But that was different.  It wasn’t…” he motioned to the curtains.

On the other side were over six thousand people.

Not calm, sedate, overwhelmingly elderly people, clapping politely for the young prodigy; nor was it one of their small, tight pub crowds, singing along and sloshing beer as Heirs moved up in the world.

This was an arena of Dwarves and Men, packed in together, shouting for the concert to begin, chanting their names-

Chanting his name, if not as often as Fíli, Kíli, or Tauriel’s.

Dwalin leaned forward and looked out.  “Ah,” he said.  “A bit wilder than we’re used to.”

Ori nodded as butterflies took flight in his belly.  He wasn’t used to this, hadn’t expected it-

For it all to be a little overwhelming.

“I was scared, the first time I had a solo in the orchestra,” Dwalin said, his voice the low murmur he used when they were in the coffee shop, just the two of them away from the madness of the studio for a bit.  “There was a crowd this size, though better behaved, and we were just starting out.  It felt like if I made a single mistake, I could make all of Thorin’s hard work crash down on me.”  

Ori nodded eagerly, that was exactly it.  “Yes-”

“And I did, you know.  I missed a note.  I never miss notes.”  Dwalin smiled, just a little, and looked down to meet Ori’s eyes.  He was tall and so very broad in his modified gray shirt and leather vest.  Ori felt especially small next to him in charcoal trousers and coordinated sweater-vest.  

Which wasn’t a bad thing.

Ori…rather liked it.

He’d always liked-ah-tall, broad-

“Well, almost never,” Dwalin finished, “I suppose I should say.”

Ori mentally shook himself back to reality.  His mind liked to wander when he was nervous.  “What happened?”

Dwalin shrugged.  “Nothing.  It was fine.  There was clapping, we got great reviews, and we picked up some badly needed sponsors.  It turned out mistakes aren’t the end of the world.”

Ori bit his lip and nudged forward, peeking out.  He felt himself go pale.  “This isn’t – this isn’t about other people’s music,” he said, quietly.

“No,” Dwalin agreed.  “It’s about yours.”

He reached out, big hands touching Ori’s shoulders and turning him.   They had become friends over these long two years, unexpectedly, over coffee and notes and rolling their eyes at Kíli.  But Dwalin had never touched him before.  The surprise of it made Ori’s poor knocking knees suddenly freeze in shock.

“Ori,” Dwalin said, and his eyes were very blue, very like Fíli’s, “those people are here because of what you created.  What you helped create.  They’re not going to leave disappointed.  They’re going to leave knowing this is a night to remember, that they were here in the beginning.”  He smiled, somehow gentle among fierce gray hair and tattoos and scars.  “It’s going to be perfect, even if you make a few mistakes.”

Ori breathed.

He took in a slow breath, let it out.

“We created,” he argued, but something in him curled up and calmed as he did so.  “All of us.”

Dwalin opened his mouth, to argue no doubt, but Ori gave him a glare that worked wonders on Dori, and was pleased to see Dwalin  stop and nod.

“All of us,” he agreed.  “Including those two idiots we have to keep from ripping their clothes off onstage.  Just think about that horror if you start getting nervous.

They sighed once, together.

And Ori smiled.  

“Let’s go,” he said, and turned.

Then he stopped as another roar went up, and spun, and threw his too-thin arms around Dwalin’s thick waist.  “Thank you,” he said, and he knew he was blushing but, well.

He wasn’t shaking anymore.

Dwalin’s rough little, “You’re welcome” was so shocked that Ori laughed.

It was happening.

Heirs of Durin was beginning a true world tour.

All of them, together.

He wasn’t afraid anymore.

----

Kíli was shaking.

His hands, his shoulders, a low tremble that ran into his neck as he lowered his head and hid behind wild tangles of dark hair.   At center stage, Tauriel’s voice soared, to her left Gimli and Legolas’s hands traced over steel strings, behind him Ori’s fingers danced over one of his keyboards, in front of him Fíli – Fíli played, curved his body around his violin and made it sing, but Kíli didn’t move.  He didn’t dart back to his drums, wild smiles and sharp laughter.  He stood at stage right and trembled.

On Fíli’s wrists – near-stationary on the left, constantly moving on the right – were a pair of cuffs: deep red leather and flashes of stage lights off the silver rings.  He’d walked out with them on in place of his normal leather bracelets, tossed a look over his shoulder when he heard the catch in Kíli’s breath.

And then he’d started to play.

Kíli couldn’t think.  He couldn’t breathe – his chest heaving (bare, bare, when had he lost his shirt, he couldn’t remember, could only remember heat and lights, too hot in his skin), sweat in his eyes and sliding down his shoulders.

He looked down.

And squeezed his eyes shut.

Thousands. Thousands of people watching him.  

Usually he felt in control on stage, felt high from the noise, from the adoration, from their music and Fíli’s body, but this time, this time he felt raw and exposed-

He shivered.

“Kíli?”  

Oh.  Mahal.

That voice.  That voice and something surged in his chest, something like fury and something like lust and something like love, and he almost said it out loud, that he wanted to rip his brother’s clothes off and tie him down and take him in front of five thousand screaming fans.  

He didn’t.

He managed:

“Don’t touch me.”

His voice like glass.

If Fíli touched him, if he said the wrong thing, if he so much as tapped his bow against Kíli’s neck (Awake there, brother?), Kíli would lose it.  He’d come on stage in front of thousands without being touched.  He’d growl and grab Fíli, break his violin and tie those wrists together with the strings and-

Fuck.

Fíli did this.

Fíli, whom he trusted.

Fíli, who always knew Kíli’s limits, even when Kili didn’t.

Fíli did this.

“Look at me.”

Kíli did, made himself, opened his eyes and didn’t look up but that was worse, because all he could see was Fíli’s wrist and his loose hold on the violin.

That cuff.

He licked his lips.  

“Oh,” his brother’s voice, and there was something tender in it, and regretful.  “Okay, all right.”  And then Fíli’s hand closed around one of his (shaking, shaking), tightened around his thumb.  “Not yet, baby.”

Kíli’s breath caught, and he watched as Fíli motioned to the band with his free hand (flash of lights on the metal rings and the flickering image of the length of chain between them in their bed, in their home, of Fíli pressing them in his hands because I need this), and then pulled, with infinite gentleness, on Kíli’s arm.   The others must have reacted, but he didn’t see, unable to look away from red leather and fair skin and strong hands.

Mine, he thought fiercely, felt it more than heard the word in his mind, consuming and possessive.  

Fíli led him off stage, the stage crew scattering with a soft word.   Kíli made a point to know every one of them, but now they were nameless faces, because Fíli had worn the cuffs on stage and it had made him-

Possessive.

Wild.

And so hard it hurt to move; even Fíli’s gentle nudges into a tiny alcove hidden in the curtains made him ache.

Kíli lifted his face and wondered what Fíli saw there.  Everything, probably, everything, because Fíli knew him better than he knew himself (usually, usually, so why had he pushed so hard, why had he-).  He felt wrung out and exhausted, shivering and tight, furious and so deeply in love that it made his heart beat a steady rhythm of Fíli, Fíli, Fíli.

Fíli saw it all.

His eyes were an apology.  “Almost baby,” he murmured, “I’ll tell you when you can let go.”

Kíli shuddered as his brother reached up, slipped a hand behind Kíli’s head.  He pulled him down, pressed Kíli’s forehead to Fíli’s neck (sweat and a spice of lingering cologne) and Kíli’s hand rose, grabbed at him – one at Fíli’s waist, bare skin under the vest, and the other on his arm.  

“Almost,” a whisper against his ear, the hand on his neck massaging, the other palming his fly open, clever and practiced, too dry as it wrapped around him but hot, hot, and just the right pressure, the splay of fingertips along the vein.

“I love you,” breath in his hair and Kíli keened low in his throat, the sound raw and desperate.  Guitars growled on stage, vibrated up the wall and through his back.  The curtains shivered.  Fíli’s hand moved, a simple one-two stroke.  “You can let go now.  I’ve got you.”

And Kíli came, barely a touch to his cock, shuddering and shivering and harsh little breaths in rhythm to the pulses over Fíli’s hand.  He watched, eyes clouded with lust, as come soaked the fingers that drove their fans to a frenzy, splashed over the cuff (white on red and he groaned again, burrowed his eyes against Fíli’s skin so he couldn’t see anymore, the rhythm of his brother’s heightened heartbeat pulsing against his eyelids).  

Gentle touches, calloused fingers tucking him away, zipping him up, and a soft kiss pressed against Kíli’s temple.  

“We have to go back out,” Fíli said softly, voice warm with concern, and rough in his throat.  “We have to finish the concert.”

Kíli shook his head minutely, pressed his eyes harder against Fíli’s neck.  But even as he shook his head no, he said, “Yeah.”  A rough little laugh.  “The show must go on.”

Tauriel was talking to the crowd, her voice booming over the audience like grand bells.

Kíli lifted his head, a bit dazed, terribly tired, and met Fíli’s eyes.  “I’m ready.”

Fíli smiled, not a smirk but a gentle tilt of the lips, a narrowing of the eyes.  “You’re sure?”

He wasn’t, they both knew he wasn’t, but Fíli was letting him choose and, “Yeah.”

A kiss, nibbling teeth and a swipe of tongue.  “As soon as we’re done here,” Fíli said without pulling his mouth away and every word vibrated along Kíli’s lips in something not quite rhythm, but still music, “I’ll take you back to the hotel and take care of your properly.”

Kíli knew what he meant.  He meant sex, of course, proper sex, bare bodies and smiles, a bed, thrusting and pulling and give and take.  But he meant, too, asking what had happened, apologizing with his hands and his lips and his body.  But Kíli didn’t think he’d ever be able to put it into words, seeing the cuffs on stage.  They were famous for using the stage for foreplay, but that had been -

Their private lives laid bare.  Fíli’s cuffs, always pressed in Kíli’s hands, always asked for, absolute trust and need and it had been -

It had been possessiveness, a moment where Kíli was strangely and abruptly sick of sharing Fíli with thousands, with dozens, even with their small family.  It had been lust, shocking and powerful, shivering along his spine and through his arms to his drums, tearing through the air.  It had been memories, Fíli hot around him, low grunts with each thrust, the glimmer of chain and the slide of lined leather.  It had been love, because Fíli was his and he was Fíli’s, and the tattoos said that, yes, but they were there forever, immovable, while the cuffs were a choice, a choice every time, a message: I’m yours, you’re mine, I trust you, I need you, from this centered, powerful dwarf who looked as if he never needed anything, but he always, always needed Kíli.  

Kíli was never able to explain it.

But Fíli knew anyway.

------

Gimli fingers tapped agitated rhythms against the box in his hands as he waited outside his cousins' door.

It was Gimli, poor Gimli (You know them best!  They’re your cousins! As if that was somehow his fault), who was dispatched the morning after Kíli’s…problem… with doughnuts and a scowl to the brothers’ door.

“They can’t just wander off like that,” Dwalin had insisted with his most fearsome snarl, and “Bad for business!” Gimli’s father had growled, “We’re lucky no one wanted a refund with the way he played when he came back out!” and, “Thank goodness Tauriel can run her mouth so well, who knew?” from a greatly amused Bofur, but, “It was really quite awkward for everyone,” from Bilbo, so they all bullied and calmly convinced and forcefully coerced until Gimli somehow agreed to go against his will and have a “talk” with Fíli and Kíli.  

He knocked.

Fíli opened the door.  His hair was a loose mess and he was shirtless, which forced his poor younger cousin to stare at the various mouth-shaped bruises all over his shoulders.  Which no cousin wants to see.  

Ugh.

 Cousins.

“I’ve been sent to tell you never to wear those,” handcuffs! His mind yelled, only smoothly and in Legolas’s amused elvish voice, the ass, “bracelets.  Again.”  

It had been Legolas who identified the . . . bracelets . . . as the issue after Fíli had tugged Kíli off stage for several very inconvenient minutes, only to come back with a Kíli who looked like he could fall asleep standing up.

“You’ve been thinking about it entirely too much,” Gimli had growled at his elf, and his elf had laughed right in his face, all bells and sunshine.  

 Elves!

Fíli leaned in the doorway.  “I wear bracelets every day,” he said, but he was definitely smirking now, and he knew exactly what Gimli meant.

Cousins were the only thing worse than elves.

Gimli didn’t bother pointing out that he wasn’t playing that game.

He just glared.

“If ye don’t agree, I’m to take them,” he snarled, and he could growl with the best of them, much better than these two, elders or no.  “And I will.”

Fíli laughed, uncrossed his arms, and said, “I’d invite you in to snatch them, but Kíli’s still asleep and,” he glanced down at himself with a little grin, “in worse shape than me.  So I’ll take pity on you and agree.”  He lifted his hands, held them together (dear Mahal, there were . . . there were very faint signs of bruising and a hint of teeth marks on the right one), “I promise, no more cuffs on stage.”

He said “cuffs” in a voice more appropriate to pornography than doorway conversations with mistreated members of the family.

“I’m not asleep,” came a low voice and then Kíli was there and he couldn’t even be bothered to-

“You could have gotten dressed!” Gimli snapped, fighting the urge to redirect his eyes upward.  He was too stubborn to be embarrassed. He’d be pissed instead.

Kíli glanced down at his too-trim hips, where there were clearly faint scratch marks which Gimli Would not Think About, and said, “You’ve seen it before.  I don’t see the problem.”  Then he wrapped his arms around Fíli from behind and rested his cheek against his brother’s hair.  His thumbs hooked in the front of the sweats Fíli (being a kinder dwarf) had pulled on.  This caused them to tug down a bit at the waist and revealed more golden-brown curls than Gimli ever wanted to see.

Kíli smiled at him.

Sunnily.

And nipped the top of Fíli’s ear.

(His ear what was this softcore porn?!)

Gimli glared at him, shoved the pastry box at Fíli’s belly (was that – no, he wasn’t going to think about it, Fíli just needed to take a shower right now), and slammed the door with a satisfying crack.

He stomped off down the hall to his own room.