Chapter Text
It might have been wrong to call it a feast, all things considered, but it was likely more of a feast than was prudent, considering how newly re-claimed the city of Dale was.
The people of Dale could provide little towards the celebration of their own. The wine that flowed was elven, the bread that was broken was elven, and the musical instruments, though plucked unskillfully by rough mortal hands in an attempt to recreate the old songs of Dale, were elven as well.
Bard’s coronation ceremony had been largely elven, pieced together with a smattering of old Dale traditions provided by those who could still remember what they had been.
The people were trying, and for that Bard adored them, even if he was not entirely comfortable with the attention.
Few Dwarves attended, and fewer still stayed afterwards, as for the time being they were largely holed up in mourning in Erebor. The elves and the mortals formerly of Laketown had little enough common ground between them as it was, but, thankfully, laughter and dancing is a great equalizer, especially when most present were well and truly drunk.
Bard, King Bard now, was not drunk. He could not, later, use that excuse.
He sat in one corner of Dale’s great hall, sipping slowly on a glass of elven wine (often transported on his barge but never previously tasted), and tapped his foot in time with the somewhat out-of-time music.
Every so often he would catch a glimpse of one of his children, caught up in the celebration. Little Tilda waved at him joyfully as she ran passed, chasing and being chased by a handful of other children allowed to remain awake far longer than usual, just for the night. He had given his children stern instructions to look out for each other and to get off to bed at a decent time, and after years of them being self-sufficient, that was that.
Bard gratefully accepted a refill of his wine glass when it was offered, and passed out rough smiles and nods to those who approached to offer words of congratulations. He was not aware of Thranduil’s eyes on him. He was not aware of just how closely every move he made was watched by the elf king.
*****
Thranduil’s keen eyes missed nothing. He noted the bead of wine on Bard’s bottom lip, before it was licked away by a thick pink tongue. He watched the shift of the man’s body under the borrowed elven robes they had found for him to wear.
He was glad enough for his own layered robes, for he was visibly aroused beneath them.
He felt his hands clench into fists, nails biting into his palms, each and every time someone approached the new king. That smile, small and humble and kind, was enough to make Thranduil's legs feel weak. What he won't give to see that smile turned his way, just for a moment.
He watched, and he waited, and when those around them began to slip well and truly into drunkenness, he moved to approach King Bard of Dale.
*****
Afterwards, Bard could never be sure at what point in the evening he found himself in close conversation with the elf king. They stood in a corner, in the shadows, with Thranduil between him and the room as though the elf wished to hide Bard from sight lest he be swept away from him by Bard’s admiring people.
The elf king did not touch him, not there in front of everyone, but he did stand so close, nearly pressing Bard back against the wall, that Bard could feel the heat radiating from his body and the stir of his breath against his face.
Bard hardly knew what the elf king was speaking of, though he tried desperately to keep up his end of the conversation in the rare moments when he could clear his head and gather his thoughts. He wished he had drunk less wine. He wished Thranduil would only take a step back away from him to let him think!
Thranduil was imposing and intoxicating, austere and arousing, leaving Bard nervous and confused and wondering if and when the elf king would make his intentions more obvious.
And then he did, and Bard felt a thrill run through him at the words whispered low and hot in his ear. The promises of pleasure Thranduil made him were sinful, leaving Bard feeling as though his skin was very much too small for his body, and his heart was very much too big for his chest.
It was possible that Bard whimpered or gave another outward sign of his need, for in one moment he was standing in the crowded hall, and the next he was being dragged down a narrow stone corridor towards the more private rooms of the royal family of Dale.
“Where is your chamber?” Thranduil hissed in his ear, and Bard directed him as best he could with the elf king gripping his arm tight enough to bruise, as if Bard may still wish to shake himself free and flee.
Bard’s new chambers were sparsely furnished as of yet, but there was, mercifully, a bed.
Thranduil bore him down onto that bed with impatient swiftness, tearing him free of his clothing. Thranduil’s lips were firm and velvet soft and tasted of wine. They moved over Bard’s own, hardly giving him pause for breath.
Bard begged, and was rewarded. In no time he had the elf free from the miles of fabric he favoured. There was the inevitable moment of astonishment and exploration as they looked down the lengths of their bodies at one another. Thranduil seemed amused by the quantity of hair on the man’s chest and legs, and fascinated by the hair around the base of his cock. Bard, on the other hand, was somewhat troubled to find the elf’s cock quite bare. And yet, there was something very tempting about the long, uninterrupted lines of the elf’s body, the soft smoothness of his skin.
“I have never seen a man’s body, unclothed.” Thranduil breathed, sounding very much as though he was in awe as he scratched light fingernails through the dark hair on Bard’s chest, “In truth, you are the first man I have wanted to see. Valar, but you smell like strong spiced wine. I could find myself quite drunk on it.”
“And I have never seen an elf unclothed.” Bard countered by way of agreement, with no small amusement, though his cheeks felt overly warm, “and I have never seen such beauty.”
“You would not say so if you knew the truth,” Thranduil murmured, his hand straying absently to the side of his own face, and Bard wondered at it.
But then the elf king was upon him, and all Bard could do was appreciate the hot slide of his skin against his own, the shift of dense, corded muscles beneath his hands, and the ardent kiss of lips against his throat.
He wanted to warn the eager elf that he might not be able to respond in quite the way he hoped, even as he felt Thranduil pressing hard against his thigh. He was not a young man anymore, and he had been celibate since the death of his wife, pushing aside his body’s desires.
But Bard need not have worried. His passion for the elf king overrode his sluggish body, and, with a few deft tricks plied upon him by the other, he soon found himself rising into the other’s hand.
Bard moaned, pulled himself closer against the elf’s body. He could feel Thranduil's length pressing hot and firm against his hip, and his own resting low against the elf’s belly. He wriggled experimentally and was rewarded by a punched-out breath from the elf beside him.
“Peace.” Thranduil groaned in his ear, “or for me this will end far too soon.”
The elf king rose from the bed suddenly, and Bard desperately clutched after him to try and bring him back, but Thranduil simply motioned for patience before turning to scan the room.
“What are you searching for?”
“Salve. Have you any?”
“Yes, on the mantelpiece.” Bard replied, the words hardly out of his mouth before Thranduil was striding across the room toward it.
Bard’s inexperience came to light when Thranduil brandished the salve triumphantly, only for the man to question its possible use. Thranduil, who had previously been keen on the bargeman, bowman, king of Dale having him, instead adjusted his plans.
The first intimate touch Thranduil made with slick fingers had Bard, who knew of the possibility between two males though had not an inkling of how it might be achieved, recoiling from him in alarm. Thranduil spent long, torturous moments showing Bard just how pleasure could be brought about in such a way, and Bard soon took to it eagerly.
Thranduil freely took him apart, bit by bit, and Bard was overwhelmed. It had been too long since he had felt another’s hands on his bare skin, and the elf king touched him like he was clutching onto a fading happy dream, frantic to keep it with him for as long as possible.
*****
Thranduil had not considered that Bard would be so wonderfully tender and responsive in his arms. It was disconcerting. If his need for the man had not been so great, he would have pulled back, brought him off with his hand, thanked him for the lovely evening, and then left in search of a large quantity of good wine.
But Bard had – well, Bard had arched and writhed into his every touch, warm and sweet and impatient. Bard had returned every caress, hands running over Thranduil’s body as though the elf were ephemeral and fragile. Bard had kissed him in that soft, caring way that mortals had, as though they were the ones who had centuries in which to learn another’s lips. When Thranduil realized it was probably the same way Bard had kissed his wife, he turned it rough, nipping at the man’s mouth.
Thranduil took him then, and Bard surrendered willingly to the elf. Yet even as he felt Bard’s body grip him, hot and tight, he knew he had made a terrible mistake.