Disclaimer: The characters mentioned in this text belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson and those who officially shaped them. I just borrow them.
The title is taken from the song Meet Me in the Red Room, interpreted by Amiel and available on the soundtrack of the movie Moulin Rouge so these words do not belong to me. [The title fitted Bard and Thranduil's behavior in this story and I was looking for something naughtier and much less ridiculous than my working title (which I will never reveal, of course).]
Author's note (absolutely and definitely mortified and condemned to burn in the flames of shame after her passing):
Several more or less important things:
1 - This OS is the result of a fascinating conversation and a memorable giggle with a certain person of my acquaintance who challenged me to make Thranduil wearing a negligee. So here is the result.
2 - I would like to quote Shakespeare who wrote: "Brevity is the soul of wit", or the art of expressing an idea in very few words when you're clever enough. This is clearly not my case. Once again, what started as a simple joke ended up with a text of almost 7,000 words. I try to improve myself but it is obvious that I struggle.
(It's always classy to quote William before a smut OS, though.)
3 - So there is a more than explicit scene, only smut, PWP, some profanity in Sindarin, all the while trying to remain elegant (yes, I tried, really). So don't say that you didn't know. ;)
4 - The very important thing to know is this: I am not a native speaker at all (I am French, so sorry ^^) and in fact, I wrote this story in French first, as usual but then, I wanted to try to translate my own words because I like challenging myself (and I truly need to get a life, I guess). This is my very first attempt at translating a fanfiction and I know there are a lot of mistakes, typos, misuse of prepositions and absolutely awful grammatical constructions all over the story. I am deeply sorry for that. I had some help from a wonderful friend of mine who did correct a few things, though (a big thanks to her 3).
So don't forget it while reading and try to be lenient if you can. XD (Read it with a French accent, might help, he he! :))
Nevertheless, enjoy your reading!
So draw your sword, be my king, let your passions rise and sing
Thranduil feels nervous. It is a curious and unpleasant sensation because he never feels nervous.
He paces his rooms up and down, wondering if he might not dig a hole in the ground by constantly going back to the same place.
He drinks in order to silence the voices inside his head and to try to calm his beating heart. His heart never beats that fast.
He almost jumps when Galion shows up at the entrance to his rooms and informs him that their visitor has crossed the borders of the realm. He never jumps.
Yet, despite his nervousness and beating heart, he hurries towards the high gates of the palace, his empty glass abandoned on a table.
His gaze needs not wander long over the trees that border his home: the Lord of Dale effortlessly eclipses everything around him as soon as Thranduil sets eyes on him.
Bard stands upright on his horse. Thranduil has sometimes wondered how he could be so comfortable on this animal when he once confided in him that he never learned to ride while living on the Long Lake.
It's Bard... he thinks, a hint of a smile on his face. Bard who raises three children alone. Bard who brings down a spitting, roaring dragon with a single arrow. Bard who survives a battle against the most loathsome creatures in all of Arda without ever having wielded a sword in his life. Bard who takes on the role of Lord of a ruined city without even raising an eyebrow.
Thranduil often wonders what attracts him most about Bard. Needless to deny: he knows that he is completely infatuated with the bowman and that there is no going back.
It was largely for this reason that he invited Bard to Greenwood the Great.
Under the pretext of an official visit from one Lord to another, in order to introduce Bard to the people of the Elves and to confirm the bond between their two kingdoms, Thranduil only hoped to see, at least once, this soft, green and brown gaze and… everything that goes with it.
He has not felt that way for centuries. Everything about Bard arouses curiosity, lust and desire. How could it be otherwise?
The Lord of Dale is irresistible and Thranduil is surprised to know that he is still single. Is he frankly the only one to notice it even though he can only see from one eye?
Bard's charm was evident from the very beginning despite the rags he dared to call clothes. It is now majestic.
Thranduil remembers with some fondness Bard's posture when they met, months ago.
The Man stood back, his shoulders hunched at times, as if he did not want to be there — as if he was almost apologizing for being there, actually. He was often on the defensive, his fists clenched at his sides and his eyebrows furrowed.
Today, as he leaps from his horse, straightens up and strides confidently up the palace steps, the reins of his steed in one hand, Thranduil sees a Man who fully assumes his new status. He seems to have grown a few centimeters – which is not true, Thranduil acknowledges, holding back his smile because when Bard arrives in front of the Elvenking, the latter still towers above him as before.
Thranduil takes the time to detail his guest's outfit.
The clothes are a reflection of his rank, and Bard finally seems to be taking a liking to what he had considered a "minor detail" until then.
"Your Highness," Bard greets him, nodding in his direction.
Thranduil feels a shiver run down his spine uncontrollably. He missed Bard's voice so much.
When Bard lifts his face and looks at him, Thranduil feels like his heart skips a beat inside his chest.
"My Lord, mae govannen," Thranduil replies, one hand over his heart, his face tilted towards his guest.
"Hannon Allen, Aran Nin."
Thranduil's eyes widen in amazement, and Bard looks proud of the effect his words have had.
The Elf's heart threatens to set sail this time when Bard's lips stretch into a wide smile, revealing the dimples Thranduil has dwelt on far too much since his return to Greenwood.
"Have you learned Sindarin?"
"Let's not go that far. I may have learned a few words, in order to blend in a little with the decor of your forest."
It is Thranduil's turn to smile.
"Even mastering the language to perfection, you could never go unnoticed, Bard," he replies, aware that he has put a particular intonation in his voice.
Bard raises an eyebrow, visibly surprised. My turn.
"Please," Thranduil resumes in a much more neutral tone. "Follow me. I have had a suite prepared for you in the wing where my rooms are. I hope it will suit you."
"A suite? Nothing more?" Bard replies and Thranduil feels his skin vibrate as his ears delight in that deep, hoarse voice, tinged with a hint of humor. "Some Dwarves and a Hobbit of my acquaintance nevertheless assured me that the way you welcome people at Greenwood the Great is worth the trip."
Thranduil smirks, though in truth he wants to burst out laughing.
Bard is the only one who speaks to him in this way, as if Thranduil were not the king of an immense territory, as if he were not a legendary and ageless warrior, both feared and respected and in front of whom Elves, Dwarves and Men bend their backs.
This is probably why Thranduil fell for Bard months ago.
Thranduil drinks heavily during the banquet held in Bard's honor.
Not that this surprises Bard because, from memory, he has usually seen the Elvenking with a drink in his hand during his stay in the ruins of Dale. It is common knowledge that Thranduil is a great lover of wine – as a former boatman in charge of barrel transfers between Greenwood the Great and Dorwinion, Bard knows best.
However, Thranduil is drinking a lot tonight and he seems... in a state of complete departure from his usual attitude (aloof, calculated, and a little condescending, if Bard is to be honest).
He smiles. Very often.
He expresses himself in a light and joyful tone, in Westron as in Sindarin.
He is very demonstrative with the Elves who discuss with him.
Bard struggles to recognize the king beside whom he rode that morning towards Erebor.
No doubt Thranduil is less formal and more familiar when he finds himself in known territory, in the heart of his kingdom...
Bard does not know what to make of that. Thranduil immediately intimidated him. Even though the Elvenking made a point of treating him as his equal, telling him repeatedly that he was a king, the heir to Girion, the rightful Lord of Dale, Bard has always felt inferior to him.
Thranduil is a timeless creature of ethereal beauty with a naturally regal aura. Bard regularly felt insipid by his side, as if the Elf had the ability to draw light upon himself alone.
Bard often wonders why he fell that hard for Thranduil.
Those clear eyes, perhaps.
That long, slim body, draped in large, elegant attire, for sure.
Those pale hands and slender fingers adorned with precious jewels, no doubt.
Bard feels a blush rising to his cheeks at the mere thought of those fingers on his body, imagining the wonders Thranduil must be capable of with those sublime hands.
He gives himself a countenance by raising his glass to his lips, avoiding meeting the gaze of the Elf. His head is spinning very slightly but that is not unpleasant: he feels like floating gently. He knows that he has not eaten enough despite the sumptuous meal or else the wine is too strong for him and he does not hold it at all.
An utterly goofy smile creeps to his lips as he watches Thranduil laughing aloud, exchanging what appears to be a joke with his valet Galion in their own language.
His heart leaps in his chest as he realizes that if he fell in love with war chief and comrade-in-arms Thranduil a few weeks earlier, this time he has fallen under the spell of a very different Thranduil, icy blue eyes rendered as sparkly as a sun soaked lake by the Dorwinion wine.
The hours pass nicely and Bard notes that Thranduil is even happier than before. Curiously, his gestures are more theatrical and his way of speaking is different: he expresses himself quickly, as if the words wanted to come out before his brain validated the sentences supposed to cross his lips.
It is far too late in the night when Bard ends up apologizing, overtaken by the fatigue of the trip.
He does not miss Thranduil's look as the Elvenking lifts his head, his piercing gaze fixed on him. A smile that Bard deems mischievous forms on Thranduil's lips.
The Elf rises from his seat and Bard is surprised to see him move closer to him, slipping an arm around his elbow.
"Allow me to escort you to your room, My Lord."
His voice is low and deep and his perfect face far too close.
"I would not take you away from this pleasant evening, Your Highness."
Thranduil waves his hand, brushing his pale fingertips over Bard's words. It is a funny gesture coming from the Elf as it is so common, almost familiar.
"There is nothing pleasant when you are not here anymore, my dear Bard…" the Elvenking whispers against his throat and Bard wonders if he imagined Thranduil's lips on his skin.
A delicious shiver runs through him.
Thranduil drags Bard away but not without telling something in Sindarin to Galion who nods. The valet's gaze meets Bard's and a very discreet smile wanders on the Elf's closed lips for a second.
In a way, Bard is relieved to have Thranduil come with him: he would not have been able to find his way alone in this huge palace, all stairs and endless walkways overlooking a vertiginous void. He wonders if it is a whim of the Elves and Dwarves, those aesthetic but impractical constructions – even more so when one has drunk too much wine. Esgaroth might have been a dull city but you could at least cross the bridges there without fearing for your life.
Bard is led into an immense room, carved into the wall of the magnificent underground caverns and decorated with pools of crystal clear water. Thranduil crosses this space without lingering and goes through a door that leads to a more personal room: there is a large and elegant bed, tastefully carved furniture, large carpets and two other closed doors.
"This is not my room," Bard says, one eyebrow raised.
He appreciates this room not being his as this place seems a little too… refined for him.
He notices Thranduil's smile and does not know how to interpret it.
"No. This is mine."
"But didn't you have to…?"
Thranduil lets go of Bard's arm and walks away with sweeping gestures towards a table on which are glasses and wine. Obviously. He returns to Bard with two glasses.
"I did, but I thought a drink with you, away from prying ears, might be a good idea."
Thranduil pauses as Bard accepts the glass handed to him, his hand hanging in the air and his eyes looking up at the ceiling.
"Is it a good idea?" he suddenly exclaims and Bard smiles behind his glass.
King Thranduil is clearly drunk. He did not think he would live to see this one day.
"You are tired and you wanted to rest. Oh and maybe you did not even want to put up with my company let alone one-on-one," Thranduil continues apologetically, his eyes widening far too wide.
Bard bites his lip, both amused and fascinated by the elated air of the Elvenking.
No one will believe him if he tells this when he gets back.
Thranduil, his glass still in his hand, begins to take off his boots and this time, Bard cannot help laughing: the gesture is not elegant at all and Thranduil takes a few minutes to succeed in taking off his shoes. However, a moment later, Bard's laughter catches in his throat when he sees the Elf shrug off the long indoor cloak that had been dressing him until then, dropping it to the floor as if it was worthless. Thranduil has such a perfect body, even with that amount of clothes hiding it. Bard cannot deny that he has often felt a strange twinge in his stomach when he thought of Thranduil's extra inches over him. He has rarely faced creatures taller than himself and he loves such a detail.
With a delicate movement, Thranduil runs a hand through his long blond hair, his slender fingers like an improvised comb as he wanders barefoot on the carpets, his endless legs leading him to an armchair in which he drops with an insolent grace. He sits cross-legged and leans nonchalantly against the backrest, his scorching gaze on Bard.
"Come closer, Bard," he whispers and Bard suddenly feels like he has woken from a dream.
Thranduil is a being who only exists in fantasies.
Even under the influence of alcohol, sometimes clumsy, speaking far too quickly and without thinking (apparently), he remains sumptuous.
Bard therefore obeys and joins Thranduil, taking a seat in an armchair at his side.
The Elf seems to be considering him, his chin resting on the palm of his free hand, his gray-blue eyes shining with a light that intimidates Bard.
"To be very honest with you, I was hoping to see you again."
"Oh?" is the only clever response that comes to Bard's mind.
He knows he is much more eloquent when he is sober and a better speaker when he is not faced with such a vision.
"I drank way too much, Bard."
Bard raises an eyebrow. Thranduil is at least lucid about it.
"In that case, I should probably let you rest and we could continue this conver- "
"You make me feel extremely nervous."
Bard blinks repeatedly. He is not sure he heard correctly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It is an unfamiliar feeling to me," Thranduil continues after taking a long, far too long sip of wine.
He is leaning on one arm of the chair, tilted as far as possible towards Bard, his clear gaze oddly shining.
A most audible sigh lifts his chest.
"I can pride myself on not being impressed by anyone in these Lands. No creature stands before me at risk of incurring my wrath, not even the great dragons of the North..."
Bard stares at Thranduil, unable to look away. Where does this story of dragons come from? He had never heard of...
"But you, Bard, have shattered all my beliefs about it. You are an enigma."
Thranduil puts his glass down on the ground – he tries at least because he has obviously lost the notion of height and he inadvertently drops the container a few centimeters from the ground, which has the effect of making it roll, spilling the rest of wine on the carpet. This in no way seems to upset the Elvenking who continues to stare feverishly at Bard.
"A riddle I cannot solve," he says in that rich, suave voice that makes Bard feel like there is a swarm of butterflies in his stomach.
Thranduil unfolds his long legs, extricates himself with agility from his seat and leans on the armrests of Bard's armchair to lean over the body of his guest who, for his part, has the impression of shrinking into himself, so disconcerting is this sudden proximity.
"A riddle that I do not really want to solve..."
Bard is unable to answer. He knows that if he opens his mouth, only unrelated syllables are likely to come out.
Didn't this visit to Greenwood the Great have an official purpose, from memory?
Thranduil seems about to say something Bard has not been prepared for.
The Elf's lips are so close to his that he can inhale the aroma of the rich Dorwinion wine wafting from them.
"It is... awfully hot," Thranduil suddenly blurts out and he leaps to his feet, breaking the spell under which Bard was falling.
The gaze of the Elf sternly judges the flames rising in the tall chimney of the room as if he could extinguish them thus.
With a mocking smile, Bard wonders if the Elves really need to make fire or if it is only aesthetic. One winter day when he was surprised to see Tauriel so little covered, the red-haired Elf explained that the Elves, Sindar like Silvans, do not suffer from the cold. Therefore, he deduces (perhaps incorrectly) that Elves are indifferent to heat as well. Besides, who needs such a monumental fireplace? He could stand there with his children, Percy, Hilda and the Dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield's company.
"It is too hot," Thranduil repeats in a weak voice.
"It is probably the wine," Bard tries to reassure him. "Do the Elves…"
The words choke in his throat as Thranduil, without bothering to turn away or undo the laces that tie the fabric, simply pulls his tunic off by the collar and rolls it into a ball before throwing it to the floor.
Bard's eyes fall on the Elf's bare skin and he sees that his assumptions are correct. Thranduil has a perfect body, with or without clothes.
When Thranduil returns his attention to him, Bard ponders the order he must follow in order to breathe without risking choking.
"I will be back," Thranduil says.
He turns in a gesture far too graceful for someone who has swallowed such a quantity of wine in the space of a few hours, his long blond hair accompanying the movement and he walks away towards one of the two closed doors, disappearing behind it without any explanation.
Bard heaves a deep sigh and feels the tension that has been building up in his body over the last few minutes suddenly drop.
He replays in memory the scene that has just played out between Thranduil and him, unable to believe it, even less to understand what the words and the behavior of the Elvenking imply.
Sigrid kept telling him that King Thranduil had a fondness for him and that what Bard saw as marks of respect for him when the Elf resided in Dale months ago were in reality the obvious evidence for all to see that Thranduil was courting him assiduously.
Sigrid ended up giving up because of a father being as stubborn as he was blind. Although she specified that having the sovereign of Greenwood the Great as a father-in-law was an idea that pleased her infinitely and that made Bard roll his eyes.
A loud thump snaps Bard out of his thoughts and he looks up at the door behind which Thranduil has vanished. It looks like someone bumped into it. Another noise, similar to the first, followed by an exclamation in a foreign tongue Bard recognizes as Sindarin.
What is Thranduil doing on the other side of this door?
A few more minutes pass during which he wonders if he should go check that the Elvenking has not knocked himself out and is not lying on the ground unconscious.
"Thranduil?" he calls out, suddenly realizing that this is the first time he has used the Elf's name this way.
Until then, he always called him "Your Highness" or "King Thranduil", well aware of their difference in status even when Thranduil argued otherwise as both are kings and heirs of noble lineage. Thranduil never seemed embarrassed to call him by his first name and Bard cannot deny that he often liked to hear his name thus pronounced between the lips of the Elf, not taking offense, in fact, of Thranduil's familiarity with him.
"Thranduil?" he repeats, a little worried when no answer comes to him.
Hands on the armrests of the chair, he is about to get up when the door opens at the same time.
Nothing, absolutely nothing in all of Arda could have prepared him for the image he discovers on the threshold of this door.
Thranduil has traded the rest of the clothes he has been wearing for... Bard squints, taking in the Elf's outfit, fingers clutching his glass of wine and his throat suddenly very dry.
An indoor robe? A negligee?
Sigrid would certainly have been able to name the stuff without the slightest mistake. Except that he especially does not want Sigrid to be able to see the Elvenking in this outfit. (Because it is inappropriate or because you would rather keep the Elvenking in that outfit for your own pleasure? a voice whispers to him in the back of his mind.)
A curious sensation runs through Bard as he stares at Thranduil and Thranduil stands motionless in the doorway, obviously delighted.
The garment was made from a light, airy fabric and seems to glide like water over the Elf's body. Its intense black color creates a striking and sublime contrast with the alabaster skin of Thranduil. Silver arabesques, with floral and ethereal patterns, snake over the fabric and Bard is suddenly aware of the slightly transparent nature of the latter when Thranduil decides to move.
The Elf approaches him with a slow, feline step, the vaporous stuff floating around his body like an ebony mist.
Bard is puzzled. And strangely charmed.
Thranduil is undoubtedly the only being capable of wearing such an unsuitable outfit with that undeniable elegance.
He sometimes wonders if the Elf cast a spell upon him. Everything he does, everything he says and everything he wears fascinates Bard and he has no rational explanation for it. Is he the only one to swoon at the sight of the thousand-year-old sovereign?
Even when Thranduil comes up to him, his long fingers playing with the thin waistband of the garment, Bard finds nothing to complain about. The gesture is ridiculous, however – it would be with anyone, frankly. With a flick of his wrist, Thranduil twirls the end of the belt in the air and Bard follows him with his gaze, absently thinking that the ornaments at the end of the belt are reminiscent of the tassels from the curtains of the fortress back in Dale.
Without asking permission, Thranduil straddles Bard's lap, hugging his thighs with his endless legs that reveal the open sides of the negligee. It is at this precise moment that Bard becomes aware of two very important things.
Thranduil wears nothing at all under this garment and Thranduil's body is visibly delighted with this new contact with Bard's.
Thranduil wraps his graceful fingers around the back of Bard's neck and brings his face close to his.
"Better?"
Bard refrains from rolling his eyes or slapping himself. His legendary repartee has melted like snow in the sun now that a practically naked Elf is sitting on him.
"It is only getting worse, Bard..." Thranduil whispers, his clear, shining eyes undressing the bowman (Is eye-fucking a real thing? Bard ponders).
Thranduil rests his forefinger and middle finger on Bard's lower lip and Bard feels his own body responding to all the closeness and indecent fervor that envelops them.
Is this really happening?
Is it because of the crazy amounts of wine they ingested or is it just the opposite and was the wine there to give them the courage to get down to business?
Is it supposed to be a one-night thing?
Bard raises an eyebrow, bewitched by the caress of the Elf's fingers over his mouth. Never mind.
With a gesture a little more abrupt than expected, he grabs Thranduil's face between his hands and presses their lips together, kissing him without the slightest delicacy.
When he finally releases Thranduil, gasping for air, he cannot hide the smile that slips over his own lips at the sight of the mouth reddened by his kiss and the bites he could not hold back. The Elf's cheeks have taken on a shimmering rosy hue and his icy gaze does not hide the intense emotion that Bard inspires in him.
"If you knew how long I have been waiting for this," Thranduil sighs as Bard's hands are on his body, palms and fingers against his warm skin.
"Give me an idea," Bard whispers, his lips on the Elf's neck. Thranduil throws his head back, abandoned to this new caress. A long moan escapes him and he shivers against Bard, a dreamy smile the bowman cannot see painted on his face.
"We'll talk later," he articulates with difficulty, submissive to Bard's embrace and drunk with the latter's hands and lips on his skin. "Puitho nin, Bard."
Bard pulls his face back and looks at Thranduil questioningly, an amused smile on his face. At the tone of the Elf's voice, hoarse and imperious, he has the idea that what Thranduil has just said does not suit chaste ears and he finds himself thinking that he wants to hear other equally indecent things coming out of that charming mouth.
To say that Thranduil is hot is an understatement in Bard's eyes and every reaction from the Elf indicates that indeed he must have been very patient and waited far too long for this moment.
Thranduil sighs, groans and murmurs words in Sindarin Bard does not understand even if the intonations guide him. Thranduil is a loud, communicative and tender lover, his body reacting to the slightest touch, delighting without restraint in the caresses Bard offers him. Oddly enough, this was not at all how Bard had privately imagined it to be, and the fact that he was wrong about it pleases him very much.
When Thranduil finally rises from his knees, gasping for air, lips battered by their feverish exchanges, and strides gracefully toward the bed, giving the bowman a sweeping view of a hitherto unseen part of his anatomy, Bard gets up without waiting for his rest and thinks he has never undressed so quickly in his entire life. He joins Thranduil who turns around.
The Elf casts an appreciative gaze over Bard's naked body and a conquered smile plays on his lips.
"You are perfect," and Thranduil's voice is so deep at these words that Bard feels himself blushing against his will, no more comfortable than a fifteen-year-old with this creature who is true perfection in his eyes.
"I wouldn't go that far but…" he begins humorously, though lucid as to the importance of Thranduil's statement.
Thranduil grabs his chin between his fingers and quickly brings his face to his, preventing him from finishing his sentence.
"No dhinen. Mibo nin."
Thranduil's sudden authoritative tone only increases Bard's desire and the Elf's lips take possession of his in a fiery kiss that pushes him to his limits.
As his fingers twitch impatiently over Thranduil's robe, sliding over the wispy fabric, beautiful but utterly excruciating to undo, the Elf gently removes his fingers and breaks the kiss.
"Wait…" he murmurs and he undresses himself, revealing in turn his complete nudity to his lover. He lays the negligee on the edge of the bed and a shadow passes for a second in his cerulean gaze. "I do not want to ruin it."
"Sorry?" Bard stammers absently as he has lost interest in the garment, captivated by Thranduil's body, aware that he is already fucking him with his eyes.
"This garment belonged to my wife."
It takes seconds for the information to reach Bard's brain.
To whom?
Bard searches Thranduil's gaze, looking for a hint of humor or sarcasm. After all, Thranduil is quite a peculiar being in his own way so that kind of joke would not even surprise him. He finds nothing in the gray-blue eyes and understands that for the time being, he does not care about Thranduil's wife despite all the respect he may have for the one who knew how to attract the attention of a creature as regal as this Elf.
Currently, he has Thranduil naked in front of him, far too much alcohol in his blood and an erection he can no longer ignore.
"Okay," he replies simply with a shrug and he flips Thranduil onto the bed, wasting no time in coming and laying on top of him.
His lips find the Elf's, snatching a kiss along with new moans and it is with an eagerness he can hardly conceal that his hands stray to Thranduil's long legs, spreading them without ceremony to settle between them.
The more his lover sighs against him and arches his back under his caresses, the more Bard grows bolder.
"Oil," he growls in the Elf's ear, licking it slowly.
Thranduil's fingers grope on the bedside table, open a drawer and pull out a flask. Bard grabs it, leaves a long, painful kiss on his lover's lips and quickly migrates to the lower part of the Elf's body.
His lips land on Thranduil's lustfully erect cock, his tongue discovering the taste of his skin as he prepares his fingers, gently coating them in a fragrant, velvety oil. As his mouth takes care of the Elf's erection, moving back and forth with deliberate slowness, accompanying the caress with one hand, Bard pushes his way inside Thranduil, penetrating him with a finger first, then a second quicker than he had expected, encouraged by Thranduil's sighs.
The Elf's body is only shivers of pleasure under his lips, tongue and fingers. Bard inwardly welcomes this, both flattered and delighted to feel Thranduil losing ground against him.
"Rito! No lagor!" Thranduil articulates painfully, gasping.
Seduced by the sound of this unknown language on his lover's lips but taken aback by the meaning of these words, Bard raises his head, still stroking Thranduil's swollen cock with a firm hand.
He takes the time to engrave in his mind the image he has before his eyes.
From the long blond hair scattered like a golden crown around this perfect face to the teeth feverishly biting his lower lip.
From the clenched fists on the sheets to his sublime body, undulating under the waves of pleasure that seem to overwhelm him.
Thranduil truly is a sight to die for.
"Which means?"
Thranduil plunges his gaze as clear as a summer sky into his and sketches a vague smile, both with him and a thousand leagues away.
"Harder and faster, meleth nín."
Bard presses a kiss to Thranduil's navel and does his best to obey his orders, working harder and faster.
When Thranduil asks for a third finger inside him in more or less courteous terms, Bard stifles a laugh, stoked by the Elf's ability to utter such obscenities in such a sultry voice. He nevertheless complies and feels himself severely tested by the reactions of his lover. He is as insatiable as he is expressive, as enduring as he is fiery, and Bard finds himself imagining what it can be like when Thranduil has not had a drink at all. Concretely, if they plan to do it again and Thranduil is tireless without a drop of wine in his body, Bard is not sure to keep up or even survive their next fuck.
Thranduil groans emphatically when Bard, accustoming him to his presence with his burning caresses, touches an area that seems to bring him unparalleled pleasure. So Bard repeats the gesture repeatedly, dazzled to feel Thranduil arching against him and around him. The Elf's hands on his body surprises him and even more when Thranduil intimates with a gesture the order to withdraw. Bard has no time to question his lover's motives: Thranduil reverses their position on the bed with a swift movement and Bard is suddenly aware of the Elf's exceptional strength, his long legs enclosing his waist, his fingers grabbing his wrists to tie them together above his head with the silky black belt he retrieved from the end of the bed.
"Thrand–"
But the Elf's lips are on his, and his teeth and tongue give him absolutely no respite, leaving him almost dazed when the kiss ends.
Then, without warning, still straddling him, Thranduil slides a nimble hand down Bard's erection, aching from his unfulfilled desire and guides it to his own body, impaling himself on top of his lover with a fascinating, completely unbearable slowness, taking it all inside of him with a deep sigh of satisfaction.
Bard closes his eyes for a second, heart pounding and gasping, conquered by the image of Thranduil in this position.
He gets used to this new sensation, to their bodies thus linked and concentrates on his breathing.
Then Thranduil begins to move on him, slowly at first and when Bard opens his eyes, he realizes that trying to control his heartbeat is useless at all. Supported by his endless legs, his knees firmly planted on the bed, his muscles tensing with the effort, Thranduil is a unique sight as he rides his lover, his almost white hair framing his face and shoulders perfectly. Bard bites his lip in frustration, at the same time filled with the excitement that engulfs him like a searing wave at the view of the Elf coming and going on him but extraordinarily frustrated at having his hands tied and not being able to explore his lover's body.
As Thranduil's movements quicken, the Elf presses his long, slender hands to Bard's chest, stroking the bared skin and dark hair that runs to his navel.
To be thus prisoner is a real torture for Bard who ends up swearing, his teeth clenched and his reaction draws a smirk from Thranduil who then accentuates the rhythm of his comings and goings on the bowman's erect cock, one of his hands on his own.
Bard cannot help but close his eyes just as he reaches the climax of his pleasure, his body shaking in a powerful spasm as he comes inside his lover, every muscle tensing uncontrollably. He can feel his own cock pulsing inside Thranduil's body, his heart beating much too fast, his breath catching and his skin clammy. He opens his eyes, feeling Thranduil coming against him in turn, releasing himself in a deep moan of pleasure and what sounds like a very colorful curse in Sindarin. Bard gazes at him, mesmerized by the beaming expression that lights up Thranduil's features, currently unable to realize what has just happened to them.
Thranduil ends up undoing himself from Bard's body in an elegant gesture and, with a movement of his hand, easily unties the link that holds his lover's wrists. The Elf settles down next to the bowman and curls up against him, clinging to his shoulder, one leg jealously wrapped around him. Bard feels Thranduil breathing calmly against him and before he slips into a welcome sleep, he places a single kiss on the Elf's blond hair, wrapping a strong arm around his body.
Thranduil wonders if he is dead and realizes that no, he cannot be dead due to the terrible headache he is experiencing. If he were dead, he would not be suffering and that would be wonderful.
I will never drink so much again. Or at least not right away. Not until tonight, without a doubt.
Half asleep, he keeps his eyes closed and grunts, hands over his head.
The light is far too blinding through his lowered eyelids for it to be still night.
He is aware of a violent nausea in his stomach and other more or less painful parts of his body.
He is also aware of a body hugging his own, of a warm skin against his and he frowns. Only a few seconds are enough for him to remember snippets of the night before. He opens his eyes suddenly and closes them immediately, letting out a less melodious curse, blinded by the rays of the sun pouring into his room.
Closing the curtains would have been a clever idea. As much for last night as for this morning.
"Good morning?"
The voice is hoarse, deep and the only one Thranduil wants to hear for years to come. However, he grumbles all the same, for each word echoes with a monumental force in his head, reverberating on each wall of his skull.
"Whisper, please," he manages to articulate, a hand on his forehead.
"I am whispering, Your Highness," the voice replies with a chuckle.
Thranduil feels lips brush his cheek with a kiss and smiles. He sighs contentedly when Bard leans against him, his head in the crook of his shoulder.
Without thinking, he runs a hand through his hair and is surprised to discover it... braided?
"I drank way too much… When did it all escalate into a hairdressing session?" he grumbles, unable to find the images in his mind.
Bard laughs once more and Thranduil feels the bowman's fingers tapping the skin on his belly.
"I braided your hair while you were sleeping and I think I did pretty well."
"I will let my mirror judge it..." Thranduil says. "Is it a naughty little mania of you, braiding your sexual partners' hair while they are sleeping?"
"Well, is it a naughty little habit of you, luring newly crowned kings into your bed and whispering smut to them in Sindarin?"
Thranduil is mortified and he realizes it shows on his face as Bard starts laughing again.
Bard's fingertips float over his nose, his lips, his chin and this simple gesture seems to ease Thranduil's headache ever so slightly or so he tries to convince himself of it.
"Truth be told, even if I did not understand much, I found it very stimulating. However… "
"Hmm?"
"It would be a good idea if you gave me the translation because I cannot agree to some of your requests if I do not understand them."
"Would you really like to?" Thranduil replies playfully, praying that his headache will soon be a bad memory.
"As soon as possible," Bard whispers in his ear and a shiver runs through Thranduil.
A peaceful silence settles in the room and Thranduil still has not opened his eyes, enjoying the moment. It is when he feels himself sinking into sleep again that a caress tickles his cheek, then his throat and chest, up to his navel. It is not Bard's fingers.
"Do we plan to talk about the negligee that belonged to your wife and that you seem to take great pleasure in wearing when you are drunk?"
Opening one eye, Thranduil recognizes the long, silky black sash and the silver tassel that traces shapes on his skin.
By the stars and the oceans…
So he was that drunk.
"Rhaich," he curses through gritted teeth.
"I cannot wait to learn swear words in your tongue," Bard replies and Thranduil hears the smile in his voice without even looking at him.
Despite the throbbing pain, the Elf laughs and hugs the bowman, holding him against his body with a certain possessiveness.
"I think you already know how to do a lot more interesting things with your tongue, meleth nín. Leave the swear words to me."
Mae govannen : Welcome
Hannon allen : Thank you
Aran Nín : My Lord
Puitho nin : Fuck me
No dhínen : Silence
Mibo nin : Kiss me
Ritho : Harder
No lagor : Faster
Meleth nín : My love
Rhaich : Curse