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Exposing the Sickness

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Exposing the Sickness

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**

The night, starless and dark with the sky veiled by threatening clouds, had long fallen when Gil-galad returned from an outpost of the main encampment. Pouring rain came down on him, clashing into his face, soaking his hair, soaking his clothes until he resembled rather an outcast than a king. Quickly he dismounted with a heavy sigh once he had reached the provisional stables built for the siege that lasted far too long already. He was exhausted and weary, terribly so, and that was perhaps an underestimation as he was sore from riding, too. His usually shining golden armor was dirty, adorned with countless splashes of mud, heavy upon his aching shoulders, and in his mind he already dreamt of throwing the heavy chainmail carelessly onto the floor before he poured himself a glass of wine.

Wine – at the end it always came to it, Gil-galad thought bitterly. It helped him sleep – but it did not help his dreams, though he wasn’t blessed (or cursed) with foresight; he always remembered them when he awoke on a cold morning: suddenly as if startled, heart pounding, afraid. Right now, he wished to fall into his bed and sleep until the poisonous fumes erupting from Orodruin had finally lifted, and the world was free of darkness again. There was nothing that could lift his mood, offering diversion from the land that corrupted his mind. In another time, a time that now seemed a lifetime ago, he had read for pleasure, with Lindon featuring an extensive library with countless tomes about everything the heart desired; now he pored over books on important subjects: warfare and strategy food supply during long sieges, on swordplay and weaponry, on leadership in dark times.

Grimly he made his way back through the rows of tents, their banner flowing high up above him in the wind and camp fires danced almost merrily in the darkness. Under his breath he cursed, as he often did, mostly when he was alone as for his soldiers he did his best to keep confident; it was best for the morale if he, their leader stayed strong and positive – despite the hardship they all had to endure. It had been raining for many days already and their encampment resembled more a filthy swamp, and the muddy soil did nothing to lift his mood. Choking smog gathered itself far away on the horizon, illuminated by the bloody light of boiling magma and molten rocks, which erupted from the marred soil; dooming and foreboding, a living abyss, thought Gil-galad as he tried to force the dreadful imaginary from his mind.

 

*

Every step Gil-galad took hurt, and with a sigh of relief he pushed the heavy tent flap aside, placing his sword into the device that was installed in the small entrance area. Previously, just before entering he had thought that he had heard chatting voices inside, yet now nothing apart from his own breathing could be heard; swiftly he pushed the next flap aside, running a hand casually through his wet hair which sent the water droplets flying. When his gaze fell onto the elf sitting in one of the chairs around the table where all maps and recent correspondence were laid out his mouth dropped open.

“Oh,” it escaped him, and hastily he straightened his position. The presence of his guest was indeed highly unexpected and in his mind he tried to recall how many nights had passed since he had sent the letter; easily a fortnight, perhaps more. No, he had not thought that Oropher would accept the invitation he had sent so many days ago. Gil-galad blinked at him, disbelief still veiling his sight, as he discarded his soaked mantle and riding gloves, throwing them onto the nearest chair.

“My king,” said Elrond who was on his feet the moment he had entered the tent quickly with a courteous bow. “King Oropher has arrived earlier this evening, and as you were absent I informed him about the current progress in the defenses we have made in these hostile lands.”

“Thank you,” said Gil-galad with a small smile, and he meant it. He was glad that Elrond was usually around when he was not, being highly skilled in such delicate matters as he and Oropher were not on best terms (which was an understatement, too).

Gil-galad’s eyes wandered from his herald towards Oropher who had also risen from his seat; even in such dreadful times in the darkest place of all he was an image of ethereal beauty. As always, he was clad in velvet green and silver, the expansive fabrics cascading down his body; Oropher’s pale green eyes, almost grey-silver as his own in the low light, flickered over him and Gil-galad was not entirely certain about all the emotions he saw in them.

For the moment, he decided he did not care; instead he let his eyes linger, perhaps a moment too long as Elrond cleared his throat subtly besides him. “I am glad that you finally accepted my invitation and came. Well met, Oropher; it has been a while.” Actually it had been more than a while when he had seen him last, so many years ago in Lindon.

“Well met,” replied Oropher, and that was all he said. Instead, he sat down again and sipped at his wine, eyes fixed at both Elrond and Gil-galad. A certain unease began to spread within Gil-galad, and where only moments earlier he had been glad that Elrond had kept Oropher company now he wasn’t – all the more when Elrond began to remove the stained armor from his body. Elrond wasn’t his squire, nor was he his servant – he was his herald, his closest and most loyal advisor for many years now, yet he had never told him about the time when Oropher and his people still lived in Lindon. Perhaps Elrond had guessed at one point (most likely he had as his mind was cunning) – if so, he had never spoken about it.

Although Gil-galad avoided to look Oropher directly into the eyes, he felt his burning gaze on him; questioning, judging, mocking, and at one point he couldn’t resist the temptation to let his eyes sweep over his handsome face and simultaneously Oropher’s lips curled into a mocking sneer. With the slightest shift of Gil-galad’s body, chainmail and plates of golden steel rattled against each other, drowning out the sound of his pounding heart.

Once Elrond was finished he had to bite back the sigh of relief, wishing him gone already. “Leave us,” demanded Gil-galad and with a gesture of his hand he dismissed his herald, adding: “Good night, Elrond.”

Elrond did as he was told and left with a bow.

“Your loyal herald,” sneered Oropher with disdain the moment the tent flap fell shut behind Elrond, “has quite the experience in undressing you.”

‘Shut up,’ were the first words that sprang to this mind – and much worse as his temper flared.

“Does jealousy speak here, wood elf?” asked Gil-galad with a mocking edge to his voice, when indeed he wished that Oropher was.

He would never admit it aloud, not even in private, but the forsaken stubborn Sinda king was everything he craved, of what he had dreamt of in so many lonely – and not so lonely – nights. Of promises broken, of said promises that had inspired rage – and worse, and now amidst the dread of war, he found himself enchanted by Oropher’s mere appearance. It was strange that even the dreariness of these hostile lands could not diminish his eerie beauty of emerald eyes and silver hair.

“You would wish for exactly such, now wouldn’t you?” said Oropher with indifference, ignoring the insult, smiling amiably.

They both knew the answer.

“Why have you come?” asked Gil-galad, arms crossed before his chest. “Certainly not because you missed me so much, I daresay.”

“Indeed not. I have rather come to tell you that I won’t accept your self-proclaimed generosity.”

Gil-galad sighed again and walked silently towards the maps that were laid out on the table, depicting the lands around him, Mordor and beyond, the lands that drowned in pouring rain that persistently tapped against the fabric of the tent.

He was thoroughly concerned – for all their survival. “So–” he began, looking at Oropher who sat stoically in his chair with an aura of ice wafting around him. Despite the warmth of the burning torches, Gil-galad froze when their gaze met across the distance. “We have to reposition our forces, we have to align our forces to defeat our all enemy. Oropher: your archers are ill-equipped, an easy target for the orcs who have greatly improved their fighting techniques over the years,” he explained, trying to keep all emotions out of his words.

Instead of replying as it would be appropriate, Oropher played idly with lacings of his sleeves, green velvet with silver claps at their ends, pretending to be not interested at all.

“Have you been even listening to me?” asked Gil-galad with a frown.

At that Oropher stopped fidgeting with his fingers and nodded with an indulgent smile, his eyes sparkling in the low light of the torches, but gleaming with doubt. “Oh yes, yes. I understand what you are saying, but I do not agree with you.” As a king, he needed to do what was best for his people – not for his pride. That was at least what Gil-galad had assumed – apparently he was mistaken. Again.

Frustration led his words. “As always,” muttered Gil-galad.

“Is that so?” asked Oropher nonchalantly. “I cannot remember.”

A heavy sigh fell from the high king’s lips. “Oropher,” he began. “This is not about you and me, nor is this about strives we had in the past; this is about the darkness which sweeps over the lands like a never-ending wave burying everything under it. Would you truly sacrifice your people because of your incurable pride?”

“I am king of my people as much as you are of yours,” said Oropher, sipping at his wine. “Am I telling you how to reposition your forces?”

It was Oropher’s indifference that unnerved him.

“In contrast to your soldiers mine wear proper armor – including helmets,” Gil-galad snapped.

Oropher inclined his head graciously and then he laughed. “Of course. Your way is the only one which is right. How could I ever forget? We have defended our lands for many years now, successfully so I may add.”

“With the difference that you have never dealt with Sauron and his novel breed of orcs before,” explained Gil-galad, hoping to talk reason into him. Well, he would much prefer to simply slap the insane arrogance off his face. He must see the wrongness in his words and deeds, now mustn’t he?

“Gil-galad, the Wise.” Mockery dripped from Oropher’s thin lips.

With that said, he finally rose from his seat and stepped around the table, striding towards Gil-galad until they were nearly chest to chest. In response, Gil-galad glared at him. He was so ready to crush him, pin him to the nearest wall (if there would have been any) – anything to make him submit and wipe that self-satisfied, smug grin off his face. Oropher’s words provoked anger, yet all too soon entirely different emotions and desires began to mingle as Oropher stood so close that Gil-galad could feel the warmth of his body, smell the scent of violets that escaped his hair. Despite himself he reveled in the Sinda’s ethereal beauty, the flawless skin he had so often marred in the past with nails and teeth alike.

“Are you truly that blind?” he growled, partly in frustration.

“Blind?” asked Oropher, looking at him under long, thick lashes. “Once, many many years ago I was indeed blind – blinded – but gladly you opened my eyes just in time.”

Gil-galad sighed again, heavily so. He knew exactly to what incidence Oropher was referring, and he wasn’t proud of what had happened that day, just shortly before the he and his people had left his halls.

“What?” said Oropher, feigning innocence as he tilting his head a little to the side. “I doubt that you have forgotten what I am speaking of; for such you have certainly enjoyed yourself too much.”

The truth in Oropher’s words was undeniable, and with the words memories came back.

Gil-galad’s frown thinned, subsided by something else entirely. He raised his eyebrows at his impertinent words. “You speak much too freely for my liking; if you keep annoying me,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “I shall teach you that there are several ways to make you shut up - I doubt you have forgotten that.”

Oropher merely chuckled. “Are you threatening me?” he asked, perfectly calm.

“Threatening you? With words and idle deeds? Oh no, we are well past this I think, and additionally the comprehension of ordinary words isn’t counted among your biggest strengths; you just gave me the proof for that. In fact, I think there are only two languages which you truly understand: the language of fighting, and the language of fucking. Sadly, neither of it makes you understand that you put your people in grave danger.”

“My people are my own concern, so do not worry your pretty head about them.”

Gil-galad whirled the wine Elrond had handed him earlier around in his goblet. “I thought we were well past this,” he muttered with a sigh. “Alas! Apparently we aren’t, otherwise you wouldn’t act as you are doing and refuse to heed my advice.”

When had he begun to think that this meeting would go smoothly, without quarrels, wondered Gil-galad in silence. Over the years he had become an acquaintance to many – elves, men, even dwarves and other strange folk, many of whom it was said they were not the easiest to deal with, his father’s best friend among them. Yet never had he met anyone as arrogant, stubborn and unyielding as Oropher.

Far quicker than he had thought it possible, or than was wise, Gil-galad closed the distance between himself and Oropher, and grabbed him by the collar, hard and desperate, fueled by the anger, which began to coil itself in Gil-galad’s innards. “If there was a wall in this godforsaken tent you would find yourself pinned to it already,” he hissed.

“What for?” laughed Oropher, sweetly so, holding his gaze steadfast. “Wasting your energy on yet another attempt to tame me as so many years ago?” The sweet tone of Oropher’s voice was unnerving. “Wouldn’t you agree, my lord, that it is unwise to waste precious energy in times like these on such idle matters?”

“King,” Gil-galad interrupted.

“Oh pardon me, my king,” said Oropher with a mocking bow, before he dropped to his knees. With wide eyes Gil-galad watched him. “I seem to have forgotten just how much this gets you off.” Without hesitation he took Gil-galad’s hand into his own and brought the back of it to his lips. With gentleness he allowed his lips and teeth graze along his skin, until he reached the ring Gil-galad always wore. There he hesitated momentarily before he kissed it, eyes directed obediently upwards. When he withdrew his lips the blue stone sparkled with his saliva, and Gil-galad’s knees grew weak. At what game Oropher was playing at he did not know, yet he felt that familiar spring of lust.

Silver hair, kept together in fascinatingly woven braids, cascaded down Oropher’s shoulders like a waterfall of moonshine, the circlet he wore resembling interwoven wines adorned with countless emeralds sitting high on his brow; Greenwood’s king was truly a sight to behold, especially when he was on his knees – before him. For moments, Gil-galad simply stared down at him in an avid mixture of surprise, longing and repulsion upon his own weakness, and momentarily, his resolve almost wavered – until Oropher broke the silence.

“You do not expect me to lick your boots in fealty, now do you?” Oropher’s mouth slid softly along his ring finger, blunt tips with neatly trimmed nails, his teeth just barely scraping his skin; for Gil-galad it was enough to shudder, and to answer Oropher’s question in his mind: why not, after all his boots were dirty indeed. He swallowed hard, trying to still his racing heart as memory threatened to overwhelm him. There were too many things at once he wished for, perhaps had wished for so often in the darkest hours of the countless nights, too many things that still hindered his words from falling.

“Well,” Gil-galad began. “It would be a nice diversion for once; however, exactly such would still allow you to mutter your thoughts.”

“A pity. Surely,” said Oropher, voice indifferent and cold now as if he did not care at the slightest although Gil-galad knew he did. It unnerved him, more than Oropher’s arrogance and his pretty looks could ever do; his finger twitched in Oropher’s mouth when he hollowed his cheeks and sucked frantically, something that never failed to arouse him; he was rock hard already.

Suddenly, Gil-galad pulled his finger out of Oropher’s mouth, a thin line of saliva stretching between the tip and Oropher’s lips. Without bothering to wipe them, his wet fingers went towards the lacings of his breeches, undoing them quickly until his erection was freed. Gil-galad’s cock matched his fingers; dark and thick and long. All too eagerly he was to shove it down Oropher’s throat.

Oropher’s nostrils flared, and for the first time perhaps a sliver desperation was visible in his eyes, at least for the blink of the moment. He remained kneeling silently, looking upwards through his long lashes. “So hasty?”

“Shut up.” The rest of his thoughts got stuck in his mouth.

“Surely you will make me,” said Oropher, and Gil-galad wasn’t sure if it was meant as a statement or a question. Well, if he was honest, at the end it did not truly matter as all too vivid images already floated through his head.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded, impatience ringing in the words.

Oropher cocked his head. “And what if I won’t?” he retorted, making that familiar spark fly between them.

“Makes it only better.”

Gil-galad’s breath froze in his lungs; had he truly thought this, said it aloud? Shame and embarrassment tainted his cheeks scarlet, momentarily rendered speechless. However, soon shame was subsided by yet another spark of anger when he realized Oropher had tricked him into exactly such an answer, had provoked his outburst.

‘You will pay for your insolence – more than once, you sassy bastard,’ thought Gil-galad before took hold of Oropher’s chin, tightening his grip until Oropher’s lips pursed in discomfort and parted therefore parted slightly. Oropher looked divine – intoxicating and irresistible, and in Gil-galad’s mind anticipation reigned. With a sharp intake of breath he took himself in hand and guided his cock towards Oropher’s mouth, who, naturally, tried to flinch away from him, but the grip was unrelenting. It was hard to tell if he only played – or did it in earnest; the consequence was the same. Gil-Galad smeared the head of his cock across Oropher’s lips, impatiently demanding entrance. At last, Oropher’s lips parted for him and Gil-galad thrust forward with a filthy moan. Valar forbid, his breath caught at the unbelievable heat and slick wetness and soon he found himself thrusting into his mouth in a hard and steady rhythm without mercy.

Soon, Oropher’s tongue twitched and his throat constricted, his whines choked off sharply. It was all about how far he could push the proud king of Greenwood the Great, about control and power; Gil-galad reveled in the knowledge that he was able to make him do many things he had never dared to imagine in his wildest dreams, fucking his face among them. The muscles of Oropher’s throat spasmed around his cock, yet he did not pull back. He never had.

Oropher knelt uncomfortably on the floor, occasionally shifting to escape Gil-galad’s relentless assault, futilely so and every now and then he coughed around his cock, something which sparked his excitement all the more. Soon, the neatly braided silver hair was in complete disarray, the emerald-adorned clasps in shape of leaves falling onto the floor one after the other. Neither he nor Oropher cared, although he couldn’t be entirely certain as Oropher stared down onto the floor.

He pulled at the fistful of silver hair he had tightly wound around his hand, dragging Oropher’s mouth back up the entire length of his cock, each inch rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, a gag around his cock that sent endless shivers up his spine. Oh, in all the years he had nearly forgotten how wonderful Oropher’s mouth felt around his cock. Without warning he yanked Oropher’s head backwards to make him look at him, all the while still buried deep inside the wet warmth.

“Look at me whilst I fuck your mouth.” It was an authoritative growl of command, one that would make bristle everybody, except Oropher.

Much to his surprise, Oropher obeyed and looked – no stared – right into his face under his long lashes, and so it persisted. From time to time he blinked, tears of agony catching themselves in his lashes, green eyes nearly drowning whilst his lips were tightly wrapped around his cock with saliva gathering itself on the corners of his mouth. The sight alone was nearly enough to send Gil-galad over the edge. By all the gods, from all the lovers he had taken throughout the ages no other was so skilled with his mouth and had such a flexible throat. By now he wished he had taken the opportunity to devour him more often in such a way. There was nothing better than this, Gil-galad mused as he placed one of his feet on the low table that stood right behind Oropher. If he had thought it couldn’t be any better, he was certainly mistaken as the shift of angle allowed for even deeper penetration. He gave Oropher only seconds to catch his breath before he slammed back into his mouth. Again and again. It didn’t take long until he was cursing and moaning and gasping alike above the Sinda, reigned by insane passion.

Silver hair swept back from Oropher’s face when Oropher let his head fall into his neck, exposing his throat to Gil-galad. In response he stilled his movements; catching his own breath as the sight literally took his breath away.

The necklace Oropher wore matched his crown; tendrils of interwoven vines with silver leaves, adorned with precious emeralds that caught the sparkling incandescence of the flames, meandered tightly around his throat that now so wonderfully flexed around his cock each time Oropher tried to swallow.

Far from the gentle touches, fluttering and warm, as it had been so long ago, Gil-galad now was somebody else, somebody he would only become in Oropher’s presence; devoid of empathy, a trait which usually was strong in him. Instead, adrenaline raced through his veins, drowning out sanity and gentleness. Whiney sounds bled from Oropher’s lips, and like music they rang in Gil-galad’s ears, fueling his desire.

Instead of trying to catch his breath when his head was released for mere seconds, Oropher simply smirked at him; not maliciously as he had perhaps expected it – or wished him to do – but with total indifference. Oropher’s burning lips and chin were wet with his own saliva mixed with sticky pre-cum, humiliated and abused, yet the arrogant smile persisted.

Gil-Galad’s breath was scorching hot in his throat, his knees weak from the sensation he felt, and through all of it, Oropher just watched him, quiet and calm, smiling as much as his position allowed it.

Oh how much he wished to slap that annoying smirk off his lips, oh how much wished he for an uncontrolled spill of insults and curses, futilely so. Of course, Oropher would not give him the gratification, being perfectly controlled as ever. Worse: he wrapped his mouth around Gil-galad’s cock, tongue flat against the back of it, eyes obediently directed upwards. All he managed in response was to shove his hips forward until the head of his cock hit the back of Oropher’s throat. Again, and again, as simultaneously his fingers sank hard into the delicate skin on his neck, holding him down until tears started to stream down Oropher’s cheeks. He coughed, he gagged, but he did not fight it (he never fought it, and exactly that unnerved him.), and for moments in a touch of pity, he jerked his hips backwards to allow Oropher to breathe before he thrust deeply again, once, twice, thrice, guiding Oropher’s mouth down his cock by the hand in his hair, fucking his mouth with the same fierce intensity as he used to fuck his arse. Over the years he had almost forgotten how wonderfully Oropher’s wet mouth felt around him, all the more when he let out a high pitched whimper in which Gil-galad reveled in between his thrusts.

Despite the knowledge of how wrong this perhaps was, he crackled in delight for the selfish use of Oropher’s mouth for his own, sick pleasure without offering alike consideration. Surely, bruises aplenty already adorned Oropher’s neck from the crushing grip of Gil-galad’s hand, a thought that made adrenaline soar through his veins. This was what he was made for, mused Gil-galad, and for the first time in what seemed ages he wasn’t thinking of the dreadful surroundings, wasn’t contemplating their all’s situation, but floating through starlit skies with nothing except the warm wind of summer swirling around him.

As his mind snapped back into reality again, he came with a final thrust, his seed spilling in hot spurts across Oropher’s parted lips with his tongue remaining the last connection with them. Obediently – and as expected, Oropher swallowed, cheeks burning and wet from tears in which the light caught itself.

Never before had he looked more beautiful – and vulnerable.

A time long ago, Gil-galad would have sunk down onto his knees and wrapped his arms about the trembling elf – however these days were long past. The chances that Oropher would backhand him for it were high.

 

*

He had not even fully recovered from his orgasm, when already other ideas sprang to his head. Nothing seemed to be ever enough these days.

“I want to fuck you,” stated Gil-galad hoarsely, tiny pearls of sweat gathering themselves upon his brow.

The true words that perhaps had gathered on Oropher’s tongue went unsaid; “You are king here,” he said instead, smirking. “You can have whatever you want.”

Roughly Gil-galad dragged him to his feet to kiss the cum-adorned lips in an oh so familiar manner. As always, his kiss was far from sweet; asserting his claim he had over Oropher when he exactly knew he never had; it mattered not, all the more when Oropher parted his lips and reciprocated his caresses, and soon the kiss was more teeth and tongue and scratching nails. When they parted they were both panting, lost for breath and perhaps sanity and staring at each other with wide eyes, not knowing which insult to utter first.

At last, it was Oropher who spoke with a mocking laugh: “Satisfied already?”

He was forcibly silenced by warm, rough lips that questing explored his mouth, biting and pulling at his lower lip from time to time until the metallic taste of blood tickled Gil-galad’s senses and Oropher whimpered against him.

When his mouth was released, Oropher wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring first down at the remains of blood, and afterwards at Gil-galad, eyes widened in shock.

“My fault,” Gil-galad murmured lowly, staring at Oropher’s disheveled appearance. “And pardon me for ruining your precious mouth, which is a pity indeed.” This was as far an apology as it would ever come across Gil-galad’s lips in Oropher’s presence. His hands latched onto Oropher’s lower back and pulled him close, fingers pressed so roughly into his skin that a bruise perhaps would blossom the following day; it only turned him on more.

Gil-galad did not know what exactly was on Oropher’s mind, if he planned to lash out at him as he had done once before – it mattered not as he kissed him breathless until Oropher was quivering against him, sucking at his mouth in return until it grew swollen and red; all the while the Sinda smiled against him, mocking him, when he pushed his tongue inside his mouth without having been invited. But since when was an invitation uttered before they fucked?

Impatience reigned Gil-galad’s mind, and all too eagerly he began to undress him.

Oropher’s belt came undone and his velvet robes fall open, exposing light armor underneath it. “Worried about a fourth kinslaying?”

“One can never know,” said Oropher, glaring at him under his eyebrows. “Given your heritage, and with the knowledge who your father’s best friend was. Surely, they must have told you the most wonderful bedtime stories, about their deeds of valor on the distant shores,” Oropher spat as his handsome face turned into a grimace the longer the spoke.

A heavy sigh left Gil-galad’s lips upon that stupor; did he truly have to fight him on everything? “Leave him out of this,” he muttered. It was not so that this was the first time they held that very conversation, and it never failed to spark his temper. Now, however, the distraction the words provoked lasted only momentarily before his impatient fingers undid the lacings of Oropher’s armor, tugging and pulling at them to gain access. At last the richly crafted piece of thin metal came undone and fell carelessly onto the thick furs covering the ground, revealing yet another layer underneath it. Gil-galad frowned with impatience; it was not that cold, now was it? Quickly he loosened the buckle of another small belt with his hands were still trembling in post-orgasmic haze, all the more when they went further down, ghosting over the bulge in Oropher’s breeches. A victorious smirk began to spread at his lips. Despite the humiliation, Oropher was hard for him, the fabric slightly damp from pre-cum.

“Though you certainly will deny it, you are such a whore for me.”

The obvious insult did not hit its mark as Oropher’s lips curled into a smile. “Says the one who’s a whore for so many himself.”

“I should gag you.”

“It will be true no lesser if you do.”

Oropher leant in and began to nibble at Gil-galad’s ear, varying his actions between licks and soft bites, whispering: “You think you are in command here, you always do so; you think you are strong, imperious and brave when you are nothing but weak, a pitiful slave of your desires.”

Gil-galad nearly lost his temper then, as perhaps all too true Oropher’s words were, and later he would not remember how he had controlled himself not to lash out physically.

Bastard.

Without warning, he spun Oropher around until his chest and face came into close contact with the wood of the table, and the sheer force of it sent ink bottles and papers flying; of course there was a provisional bed in his tent, however the table was right there and certainly served the situation much better than the bed could ever do. The last intention on his mind was to make gentle love amidst fur-covered sheets until dawn announced the new day, and judging from previous experience, Oropher wasn’t all too fond of that idea either.

After all, they were not so unlike.

Oropher arched under him and Gil-galad pressed one hard thigh between his legs, all dignity forgotten as his hand skimmed the length of Oropher’s torso greedily.

“Predictable,” sneered Oropher, but did not struggle against the hold. Gil-galad opened his mouth to speak, but found himself caught in the sight Oropher presented; the golden light of the torches catching itself in the long silver hair that was in complete disarray, skin so soft and glowing – so perfectly unmarred without a single scar adorning it. When his need had become far more urgent than before he did not know, nor when the idea to take him deeper, rougher than he ever had begun to occupy his mind.

They never made love, they did not have sex, either – they fucked, rutting against each other like the animals in the wild forests around them (or Sauron’s foul creatures as there surely weren’t any animals in those accursed lands); before he had met Oropher he had never even suspected that he liked it that rough, and most likely Oropher hadn’t known it, either.

What they had done in Lindon – in gloomy hallways and stables hardly befitting for royalty – had been primal, stoked by raw lust, without the veneer of civility; savage and devouring.

What they were about to do, wasn’t befitting for kings at the verge of war, either.

Sadly, and for once, Oropher’s breeches had to stay intact as otherwise Gil-galad would simply tear them apart (not for the first time); as it was it was entirely out of the question. Instead, he simply pushed them down until Oropher’s buttocks were exposed to the chilly air.

With a smile he bent down over him and moved his silver hair off his shoulder to the side, exposing the neck to which he lowered his mouth, inhaling Oropher’s unique scent; earthy, mossy, like the soil after heavy summer rain. Petrichor. Before he had met Oropher he had never known that a word for that typical smell existed; he hadn’t known about different scents of violets; he hadn’t known of so many things. He kissed him from ear to his collarbone, surprised by his own sudden gentleness that did not fail to elicit a moan from the one beneath him.

“Why did you truly come?” Gil-galad found himself asking once more, for reasons he did not exactly know.

“I dreamt of you,” stated Oropher, and momentarily, Gil-galad stilled his lips against Oropher’s neck. He couldn’t distinguish if the Sinda lied – or not; he never could from Oropher’s words alone, and greatly he now regretted the position they were in as over the years he had learnt to distinguish truth from lies in Oropher’s eyes. As it was, he was robbed of this advantage.

“Inclined to tell me more?” he asked, drawing idle patterns onto Oropher’s skin, trailing distinctly lower with every touch bestowed.

“Not quite,” said Oropher teasingly.

The touch of gentleness dissipated as quickly as it had arisen, and fiercely Gil-galad grabbed a fist full of Oropher’s shining hair, pressing the side of his face to the map. A muffled whimper fell from Oropher’s lips which were still graced with the smug smirk that persisted no matter how strong and painful the grip became.

“Tell me more.” The words were never spoken as a question but as a demand, and Oropher would do well to play along.

“You have hunted me in my dreams of late – like a hunter hunts his prey.”

“Interesting,” commented Gil-galad, the subtle urge to continue. When Oropher remained silent a moment too long, he pushed one finger inside his unprepared entrance, hard and unforgiving, relishing in the tightness around it.

A sharp intake of breath announced Oropher’s following words. “Now, that I look around myself it must have been here where you brought me once you have caught me. Alas! And then you fucked me, clad in full armor, the air heavy with the cacophony of rattling chainmail disrupting the peaceful silence of the starless night until the most unique flowers blossomed on my skin. Until sanity was erased from my mind.”

Gil-galad swallowed hard, quivering against Oropher’s velvet skin. The words alone were enough to make him hard again, and for the first time in a long while he felt grateful that he had refrained from taking himself in hand being too exhausted.

Surely, Oropher must be jesting – but then he was not as no lie veiled his gaze. Gil-galad frowned, feeling robbed of a unique opportunity as his own dreams did not so greatly differ. “You could have told me so.”

“Hardly,” retorted Oropher, the word nearly lost in the yelp that spilled from his lips when Gil-galad added a second finger. “Remember who all too eagerly removed that armor of yours?”

There was nothing he could say in his defense. “Yes.”

“See.” A genuine smile played on Oropher’s lips. “Perhaps, at least, you could undress me,” he requested softly, and it was as much begging as it would ever come across his lips.

“What?” snapped Gil-galad, torn out of his reverie. His voice sounded foreign to him; hoarse and low, full of unsated desire.

“You have understood me fairly well; undress me that at least that part of my fantasy comes true.”

He barely managed to bite back a groan, and briefly Gil-galad allowed the words to linger in his mind before acting or replying to Oropher’s words; as he did, he slid a third finger into him. “Are you telling me that–“

Upon the sudden invasion Oropher cried out loudly, his words interrupted by low moans. “Surely – isn’t that how it is supposed to be, my king?” asked Oropher sweetly, and at that point Gil-galad nearly lost it.

Oropher’s proclaimed innocence was the most powerful aphrodisiac.

The imagery in his mind went riot, all the more as his fingers were tightly squeezed by the clenching walls; indeed he was utmost reluctant to withdraw his fingers. At the end he did, and violently he dragged Oropher to his feet, spinning him around. A glint flashed in Oropher’s eyes, one that Gil-galad recognized all too well, and he weaved his hand into the silver strands. For the first time that night, Oropher mimicked his motions and brought his own hands to Gil-galad’s hair, pulling him close.

“You still think you are in command here,” whispered Oropher against his lips, low and with a dangerous edge to his voice, “when you are solely falling so wonderfully into the trap I have laid out for you.”

With that, Gil-Galad wrapped a fistful of hair around his fingers and pulled hard, so hard that Oropher cried out, gasping, with his back arching in discomfort.

Bastard.

He captured Oropher’s mouth with his own lips, and kissed him hard – and breathless - yanking at the laces of Oropher’s silken tunic with the impatience that was so typically for him. Valar, he wished that he was naked and at his mercy already, and apparently so did Oropher who tried to kick off his boots. At the end, they both succeeded in their tasks and their ragged breaths mingled in the stillness of the night when they parted. Gil-galad’s breath caught when his gaze travelled along Oropher’s smooth skin, glowing so softly in the low light of the torches.

However, the distraction lasted only momentarily as all too eagerly Gil-galad leant over him, lifting him up to sit on the table, before he pushed against his chest to lay down for him; without fight, Oropher obliged, but not without giving him yet another of those smug smirks that were so typical of him. The smirk that never failed to spark something deep inside him. Today was not any different and baser instincts won over everything else. Soon, he brought Oropher’s arms to either side of his head until he could grip them with one hand, his upper body pressed flush against him.

Oropher was so stunningly beautiful when he was offering himself like that and all Gil-galad wanted was to bite, to kiss the unblemished parts of his neck.

“Fuck me already,” demanded Oropher with an impatience Gil-galad hadn’t expected. It took him by surprise.

“Soon.”

Gil-galad rocked his hips against him, nails digging into his flesh as he kissed him, lips consuming and cruel. Demanding. And whilst he did, Oropher’s legs found their way around his waist, pulling him close.

That did it – or – better said: undid him.

Though Oropher was hardly sufficiently prepared, he wrapped a large hand around the base of his cock and positioned himself, after all he only did as he was bidden to. In one smooth thrust he entered him, with Oropher gasping and trembling beneath him. He stretched him open with his cock, and surely he must feel the most exquisite burn ripping him open until he was completely inside him. Briefly their gaze met, and then Gil-galad’s fingers were everywhere: on Oropher’s neck; in his shimmering hair; his lips against his ear, murmuring the most obscene words that had come across his lips for a while and whilst he did so, he began to fuck him with hard thrusts until Oropher mewled beneath him, encouragingly so. Finally, everything felt complete again, all sorrows and pain swept from his mind, drowned in a wave of lust and greed. The monotonous sound of tapping rain against the fabric persisted, only interrupted by moans and filthy gasps.

Still, he wasn’t satisfied – he never was with Oropher, no matter how much in carnal sin they indulged. He was brutal in battle, why should he be any different in bed (that today wasn’t actually one), and so he fucked him relentlessly, hard and savagely.

“Such a whore for me,” his rough voice announced above Oropher as yet another filthy moan bled from the Sinda’s lips; however, the hoarse edge to his exclamation was more than enough proof that he didn’t question who exactly was in control.

“The same goes for you, I daresay.” The quiver in Oropher’s usually stoic voice made his knees weaken; he was right: he was a whore for him, perhaps had always been.

It wasn’t kind what they did – their mutual anger for each other fueled the desire they shared, and said desire only fueled the anger; a vicious circle from which it was impossible to escape once caught in it. Oropher’s nails scratched along his back until he cried out, and thrust all the harder into him. The table under them shook and shuddered with every thrust, pencils and quilts flying one by one onto the furs beneath it. Oropher hummed in sensation, begging voicelessly for more.

Now it was Gil-galad who, despite himself, obliged.

He gripped Oropher’s hips with a tenacious strength as he drove into him, adjusting the angle deliberately until Oropher cried out against his will. Simultaneously he bent down and kissed him, hard and obscenely until all air left his lungs and Oropher scratched his back in response. Surely, once morning came bruises would blossom like delicate flowers on his skin, but for once he did not mind. Their skins were clammy and heated, over sensitized from the rough touches they bestowed on each other, equal delight sparking in their eyes. It undid him. It undid both. As Gil-galad continued to fuck him with an almost brutal pace, he kissed Oropher’s open mouth, letting his hand move along his cock in an absurdly slow rhythm.

“Stop this torture!” exclaimed Oropher against his lips.

“Why should I when I see what great delight you take in it?”

Oropher swore something under his breath in the alien tongue of his people that he couldn’t understand, glaring at him under half-lidded lashes. Gil-galad had so often fantasized about sex with Oropher, yet somehow never like this and he kept wondering why. Because it was spell-binding. Quick and dirty and rough – with Oropher being completely at his mercy. So close against him, naked, ready for him, almost fragile despite his strength. Valar it got him nearly off. Gil-galad dipped his head down and sank his teeth into Oropher’s neck as punishment, so high that the mark would be visible to everyone. And then he slammed back in, a warm surge of pleasure running along his spine, all the more when Oropher tossed his head from one side to the other. He wished to last the moment to last forever when he knew all too well he wouldn’t last long.

Gil-galad’s throat contracted as he tried to swallow, eyes fluttering shut, and for once he just felt: his cock buried deep inside Oropher, the warmth of his velvet skin, the clenching muscles around him. Overwhelming pleasure coursed through Gil-galad, and only faintly he heard Oropher moan as he bucked up against him. He bit into his shoulder to keep himself from crying out loud, cursing the thin walls of the tent under his breath; oh how he wished to be back in Lindon where the thick walls swallowed his obscene noises so wonderfully and he hadn’t needed to restrain himself – nor Oropher who could only be silenced with either a hand across his mouth or a fierce kiss. It was indeed a pity to make him shut up at the heights of pleasure as nobody had ever screamed so wonderfully for him – with him.

Gil-Galad could feel the tension building between them, their orgasm approaching rapidly as the control of his body dissipated; the thrusts became shallow, his breathing ragged and hot against Oropher’s skin.

“Oropher,” he sighed, and the world went blissfully blank. Blackness, streaked with stars, closed in and he inhaled one last stuttering breath, lips tightly pressed against Oropher’s before he allowed his mind to focus entirely upon the sensation, and with one last brutal, and rather uncontrolled thrust forward he came, groaning as the spasms overwhelmed him. His vision blurred around the edges as somehow he managed to keep up the rhythm with which he stroked Oropher’s cock. Gil-galad knew Oropher was close, so very close and he stroked and kissed him until his exhausted body could take no more; warm seed spurted between them, covering his hand, his stomach, most likely his table, too, but all he did was to revel in the beauty of Oropher’s face.

 

*

Gil-galad collapsed on top of him, spent and breathing hard with tiny pearls of sweat glistening in the low light of the candles. Oropher did not look any different; lips bruised and swollen, passion marks blossoming on his ivory skin, yet curiously he glanced up at him, expectantly almost.

“What is it?” asked Gil-galad in a low voice, pushing a stray strand of hair behind Oropher’s ear. The smell of wine and hair oil mingled into a sweet mixture with the smell after their sex, something he had always found irresistible. Yet even more irresistible was Oropher’s appearance; cheeks graced by a faint blush, and ample bruises flowering over his waist and hips, neck covered with bite marks.

“Nothing – only that you look perfect once you have fucked your insane haughtiness from your face,” stated Oropher softly in the drowsy sweetness of coital post-haze.

Roaring laughter filled the tranquil night. “Says you of all.”

“Indeed,” muttered Oropher, mirthfully.

No, Gil-galad wasn’t in the mood to reopen the earlier argument they had, too wonderfully their bodily union had felt – still felt – to be wasted with such ridiculousness. He had other ideas on his mind than that. Oropher’s hair was like liquid silver, flowing through Gil-galad’s fingers like silk as he pressed his lips to Oropher’s parted mouth almost affectionately in his post-orgasmic haze. “Anything awaits you in your encampment this night?” he murmured, enjoying the warmth of Oropher’s body against his own until he stopped trembling.

“Nothing that couldn’t wait, king of these humble halls.” Oropher smiled, genuine and open with a radiance in it for which no words were made.

*