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Bard sat outside of his tent, staring absent-mindedly into the fire. It was not even midnight yet, and still he had already abandoned the hopes to indulge in a sound sleep. Every bone in his legs ached from all the running around he had to do in the past few days - breaking out of jail, climbing atop of a tall wooden tower to slay the dragon, rescuing his family and others out of the ruined city, distributing supplies, establishing order, and defending their city from the herds of orcs. His neck was tense and achy, and his back one big knot. And now he has no chance of falling asleep.
“Please relieve me of your nonsense and do your work as usual,” he heard a familiar arrogant voice from behind the tent. Apparently, Thranduil was also out of bed, and he was giving some elf a hard time. Bard straightened, feeling something stirring inside him, and refused to let the thought of Thranduil bother him. It distressed him that he could never stay dispassionate when he heard the sounds of that voice.
Bard hated the way Thranduil talked to his subjects, and he was even worse with the dwarves. He was disrespectful to Gandalf and barely paid any attention to humans besides Bard. Thranduil was so entitled, so ridiculously self-assured, and he swirled his cape around himself as if he was the king of the world. Bard despised such behavior, and yet he could not get his eyes off Thranduil or focus on anything else when his deep, bold voice was heard. For whatever reason, however, the Elven king was never rude to Bard himself. In fact, he was quite gentle and polite, which surprised Bard to no end. Bard’s change of status was not followed by a change in appearance: he still looked like a bargeman, but the polished, glamorous Thranduil did not seem to be bothered. It was impossible to be mad at someone who, for whatever reason, cared about him. Thranduil listened to Bard’s ideas, inquired about his well-being, and was apparently ready to protect him from Thorin during that brief negotiation. When Bard seemed to grow tired during their conversation with Mithrandir, the king himself poured him a goblet of wine - his fine wine which he shared with no one, into his own goblet, with his own hands . Bard was very proud of himself when he managed to tame his trembling fingers while taking the goblet from Thranduil.
“I repeat,” the voice was heard again, louder this time, “I am your king, and I do as I please.”
There was no way Bard could suppress a chuckle. That sounded precisely like Thranduil’s motto; he had to engrave it on his shield, if he had one.
“Have I said something funny?” an irritated voice approached.
Bard turned back abruptly.
“Oh,” Thranduil’s disgruntled face calmed and smoothed. “That is you, Bard.”
The Elf sat next to him, wearing only a thin grey robe and not his usual kingly attire.
“Some of my subjects are worried by my lack of rest,” he explained apologetically.
Bard sat there, blushing and looking down, still amazed that this graceful, arrogant king talks to him and even feels the need to explain himself.
“Mine are not so caring,” Bard finally managed a reply.
“But how come you are here?” Thranduil inquired, moving his face closer to Bard’s. “I believe I provided you with a tent…”
“Bain kicks in his sleep,” Bard explained with a chuckle.
Thranduil smiled, probably for the first time since Bard met him.
“Legolas did, too. When he was little and slept in my bed. He crept all over me!”
Bard imagined the mighty Elven warrior as a small, bothersome child and had to suppress a laugh.
“Did you yell at him?”
“How could I?” Thranduil shrugged with a happy smile. “He was so lovely and open-hearted, my Legolas. He looked at me with those big blue eyes, and all I could do was embrace him as tightly as I could. Which only encouraged him, of course.”
Bard stared at him, utterly amazed.
“What?” Thranduil raised his eyebrows.
“You don’t seem… particularly… affectionate,” Bard answered - and immediately regretted his words. That was not a polite thing to say, even to such an arrogant and entitled person as Thranduil.
However, the king did not flare up. Instead, he sighed and looked away.
“Well… He grew up, and we drifted apart… to an extent.” Thranduil sighed again. “I hope you do not…” he fell silent and shook his head. “It is too cold here, Bard. Why don’t you join me in my tent?”
“Do you kick in your sleep?” Bard attempted a joke.
“I am afraid I do not know,” Thranduil smiled apologetically. “There is no one to ask.”
Bard felt a slight stinging in his chest, suddenly upset on the king’s behalf. Was he that lonely?
“I will find that out,” he promised.
Thranduil smiled and rose gently, giving Bard his hand for support. As Bard got up, he noticed the Elf’s hand was quite warm and not ice cold as he imagined. Many things were not so ice cold about Thranduil, despite the initial impression that Bard acquired. Even so, this night, the Elven king was particularly strange.
Thranduil’s tent was surprisingly modest, far from what Bard had imagined. No wide canopy beds, no feast tables, thrones, and certainly no life-sized statues of Thranduil.
The king seemed to read Bard’s thoughts.
“I apologize if the interior seems uncomfortable.”
“Oh, please, Thranduil,” Bard smiled, calling the king by his name for the first time, “I lived in Esgaroth. That city was the definition of uncomfortable. Anything that is not moist and reeking of the lakewater is a luxury.”
“Well then,” Thranduil smiled, “Welcome to my luxury suite.”
He took off his high grey boots and lay onto his cot, making room for Bard. The latter set uncomfortably on the edge of the cot; it was surprisingly narrow.
“You tried to say something before we went to the tent,” Bard reminded. “That you hoped for something.”
“Oh,” Thranduil sighed. “I hoped… I hoped that you and your children stay close when they grow up.”
Bard gasped; that was probably the nicest thing Thranduil has ever said to anyone.
“Please do not be that kind of father, even if you are a king,” Thranduil shook his head. “Do not be me. Nothing is worth that.”
Bard raised his eyebrow.
“In other aspects, should I be you?”
Thranduil laughed.
“You are fine, Bard, the way you are. You are a good ruler. No need to change anything. Though… ” The Elven king narrowed his eyes. “If you want fashion advice…”
They both laughed, and Bard finally felt comfortable enough to take off his boots and coat and climb into bed next to Thranduil.
“You said I was a good ruler,” Bard said quietly, “and yet I already failed you.”
“How so?”
Bard smiled.
“I think I’ve lost your barrels.”
A new round of laughter followed.
“I am a little sleepy,” Thranduil said finally, “and we need to be refreshed before negotiating with Dain in the morning.” The king rubbed his chin. “And, if you have no objections, I would like to talk to you before we voice our terms to Dain. Given your lack of experience… I mean no offence here, mind you.”
Bard tried to settle in the bed, realized it was impossible to maintain respectful distance without being utterly uncomfortable, and finally allowed himself to lie down on his side, his chest touching Thranduil’s a little.
“No offense taken,” he said. “I appreciate your help, and I also appreciate your politeness.”
Thranduil chuckled and closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was fast asleep, breathing calmly and not moving at all. No kicking, then.
Bard belatedly remembered the candle still lit in the tent, but any movement would have woken up Thranduil, so he decided to leave it be. He closed his eyes, wondering how the children would react when they wake up in the morning without their father. They would probably think he left early to prepare to the negotiations, which would not be completely untrue. He hoped they would not be scared. They had enough to go through in the past few days: being spied upon, withstanding the attack of the dragon, losing their home, another attack, this time by orcs… Bard recalled their little house, modest and indeed wet and smelling like the water in the lake, but theirs. He thought of the homes of friends and acquaintances that were now lost to the fire, and the little shop he liked to visit, the one that had the tapestry with Thorin’s ancestry. The tapestry was vivid in front of him, bleached and ragged and moving, and he realized he was drifting to sleep. Bard smiled; he did not mind at all. If only the children were fine…
“No, please, no, it is a mistake!”
Bard opened his eyes sharply. What?..
“Father, we should not, please, listen to me…”
The voice could not have been Bain’s. Bard looked around and realized he was in Thranduil’s bed. The Elven king tossed in his sleep - so much for not kicking - and breathed rapidly.
“Father, no, it is death, we should follow Gil-Galad.” Thranduil begged in his sleep, almost in tears. “Father, please!”
Who in hell was Gil-Galad? Bard rubbed his temples and recalled that it was the name of the Elven warrior who fought the Enemy ages ago. He heard this story when he was little. Thranduil must have been there, then? He looked too young to be that ancient, but again, all Elves did.
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Bard touched the king’s shoulder gently.
“No, no!” Thranduil wailed. “Where is my sword?”
This had to stop.
“Wake up!” Bard raised his voice. “Wake up, Thranduil!”
Thranduil gasped and opened his eyes at once. His entire body was shaking, his eyes staring at Bard. He tried to say something, but his lips failed him.
Bard sighed and rose to bring the Elf some water. After a few gulps, Thranduil sighed with relief.
“I apologize,” he muttered. “I woke you up.”
Bard climbed back into the bed and put his arm on Thranduil’s shoulder, hoping that it would not irritate him. It did not.
“I saw the ghosts of the past in a dream,” he spoke softly.
“Your father,” Bard nodded.
“I…” Thranduil moved a little closer to Bard, as if wanting to recline on his chest. “There are reasons I have been reluctant to engage in battles. But I did engage, and now my dreams are back.” He sighed. “You must think me a coward.”
“You are not a coward,” Bard shook his head. “Do you think I wasn’t scared when I shot the dragon? Do you think I did not suffocate with fear and panic as I was aiming at him?”
“I am not scared of being killed.” Thranduil answered quietly. “Or being maimed, for that matter, which I already am.”
Bard gasped and tried to recall any signs of disability in Thranduil.
“I am scared for my people. I am scared of being foolish and losing their lives to no purpose. When my father refused Gil-Galad’s command, he lead us to death. I barely rescued a third of the army. A third! All able-bodied Elves of our realm marched to that battle. Our country was devastated. I swore I would never let that happen again, not for some foolish ambitions of any creature!”
Thranduil clenched the bedsheets in anger and despair until he noticed Bard looking at him with concern.
“I am sorry,” he whispered with humility. “You lost your city and many of your friends mere days ago, and here I am, dwelling on the long-forgotten past. My apologies.”
Without further talk, Bard wrapped his arms around Thranduil and pressed him close. The Elf let out a sigh and rested his head on Bard’s chest. Bard did not dare stroke his back, but he ventured to touch his hair, which turned out to be surprisingly soft. How does he even take care of it in this tent?
“Bard?”
Bard really hoped Thranduil was not going to voice an objection to his embrace. The Elven king was so warm, and this nice hair, and his vulnerability, and the thoughts of him being maimed… Bard could not let go of him yet, he was too enchanted by Thranduil and too sorry for him.
“Yes?” Bard asked quietly.
“Do you think that I am cold?” came a weak, muffled question as Thranduil nuzzled into Bard’s chest. “That I have no care or regard for anyone?”
“I…” Bard spoke carefully. “That was my initial impression.”
Thranduil twitched in his arms.
“Please, Bard, do you really think that? I do not… I cannot show everyone how worried I am. If I do, everything will fall apart. Everything that took so much pain and effort to build.”
Bard dared to stroke Thranduil’s back.
“If it raises your spirits, I actually like your behavior. It’s very… kingly. And inspiring. And entertaining.”
Thranduil moved up a little and chuckled, tickling Bard’s neck.
“I am sorry I burden you with these talks. Is there something you want to talk about?”
“I want to ask about your… impairment,” Bard started carefully. “Oh, I hope it wasn’t rude. I cannot see any… You’re perfect.”
“I am not,” Thranduil chuckled, bitter this time. “I am as ugly as an orc, but skilled in magic.”
Bard felt his heart sink.
“Is that just the appearance, or..?”
“My left eye does not see,” Thranduil blurted out.
“No way,” Bard shook his head. “It looks no different…”
He covered Thranduil’s right eye with a palm and made a motion with his lips as if he was going to kiss Thranduil. If the king could see him, the reaction would probably be outrage.
Thranduil smiled, but apart from that, there was no reaction.
“Bard, what are you doing?”
“Sorry. I was only checking.”
Thranduil sighed.
“I still do not believe you are ugly as an orc,” Bard teased. “Is your hair magic, too?”
“My what?” Thranduil laughed. “Hair? No, the hair is my own, and I take great pride in it.”
“That cannot be,” Bard continued teasing. “You have been here for days, and the only source of water is a stinking lake with a dead dragon at the bottom. You fought and dealt with the dwarves and… where do you find time for that? It must be magic.”
Thranduil chuckled and rubbed his nose at Bard’s neck. Bard gasped, feeling a jolt down his stomach and growing heat in his chest.
“Bard,” Thranduil spoke softly, smiling and all but laughing at him. “I know how you feel about me.”
Bard blushed, heavily, and his knees started trembling, but it was somehow pleasant, as if he was fully exposed before Thranduil.
“But, my dear,” the Elf continued, and Bard’s heart skipped a beat at hearing this name, “if you see my face, you will run as fast as your legs allow, and you would rather be on the bottom of the lake with the corpse of a dragon than in my bed.”
Bard sighed, his knees still trembling.
“You cannot know that.”
Thranduil moved away from him and shook his head.
“No one is going to know that, because I am not showing that to any living thing. Maybe if I want to scare the dwarves a little bit. But not to you.”
To show that his decision is final, Thranduil turned on his other side, with his back to Bard.
Bard was not going to give up. He shoved his body into Thranduil’s and wrapped his arm around the Elf’s waist to show he was not letting go. Thranduil gasped.
“Please, Bard,” he begged in a delightfully weak voice. “Oh, what are you doing to me?..”
Bard forgot to breathe for a few seconds. He was surely mistaken; could Thranduil really… want him ?
But there was no mistake: Thranduil gently took Bard’s hand and made it stroke his stomach.
“Oh my, Bard,” the Elf whispered, “why did you stop?”
Bard remembered to breathe again and pulled Thranduil even closer. The Elf hummed in delight and pressed his backside tighter against Bard’s groin.
“My dearest,” Thranduil said in a breathy whisper, moving his hips to please Bard with his rubbing, which proved to be quite successful. “Please, do you want me? You can have me. I am yours, I have been yours since I saw you.”
Bard moaned in delight and surprise and squeezed Thranduil’s hip.
“That can’t be.” He turned Thranduil to face him and looked into his eyes. “What do you mean?!”
Thranduil brought both of his hands to Bard’s face to caress it, smiling.
“What is so surprising, my lovely bowman? Cannot I like a handsome man?”
Bard smiled.
“I understand your passion towards handsome men. I fancy one, too. Only I do not know what he really looks like, because he uses some magic to cover himself.”
Thranduil’s smile faded.
“Why do you do it to me, Bard?” his voice trembled miserably. “Am I a joke to you? Do you want to torture me? Laugh at me?” He turned his face away to hide his tears.
Bard stroked his soft hair gently.
“No, no, Thranduil. Never. I would never laugh at you. I merely wanted to show you that you are still attractive to me with your battle scars. That is all. You do not have to uncover if you don’t want to.”
Thranduil turned his face back to Bard and watched him attentively.
“Besides…” Bard smiled. “It cannot possibly be that horrible. You have this nice hair of yours. Even Azog would look good with that hair.”
Thranduil chuckled, apparently imagining Azog don his hairstyle.
“Bard, you are an idiot.” The Elf shook his head and closed his eyes. “Fine. But do not say I did not warn you. And if you decide to barf, go outside. Not in my tent.”
“Gods, Thranduil,” Bard chuckled.
Thranduil closed his eyes and winced, as if in pain; apparently, lifting the magical veil was not a pleasant task. The skin on the left side of his face, from chin to temple, went bubbly and opened like water, revealing dark red muscles underneath. He sighed and opened his eyes; the left one was entirely blueish-white and blurred, strangely matching his hair.
Bard stroked the pale hair gently and lowered his face to Thranduil’s. The Elf closed his eyes again and received a kiss on his left eyelid - much to his surprise. Bard was reluctant to kiss the scars - what if he gives Thranduil pain? - but he kissed the skin as close to them as he could. Thranduil looked at him in quiet surprise.
“I fail to see the ugly-as-an-orc part,” Bard smiled.
Thranduil gasped.
“Bard, you are an idiot.”
Bard smiled again and touched Thranduil’s lips with his. The Elf finally smiled back.
“I cannot believe you first kissed me when I looked like this.” Thranduil sighed, closed his eyes, and skin slowly covered his scars again. “That’s enough, Bard, I almost lost my mind trying to guess what you were thinking. You owe me.”
“Yes,” Bard whispered, “yes, I owe you,” and kissed him, deeper this time. “By the way… Is it just the face or there’s more?”
A fast, precise movement of the Elf’s elegant wrist - and Bard felt a burn on his cheek. Thranduil pressed his lips into a thin line.
“Not a word more, or I will give you a set of matching scars on various parts of your body.”
“Good,” Bard smirked. Somehow, being hit on the face by this Elven beauty made him even more aroused. “We’ll be a striking couple then.” He covered Thranduil’s lips with his before the Elf could craft a rejoinder. Now Bard knew why he was so bothered when Thranduil behaved arrogantly. It made him burn.
Thranduil moaned into his mouth and writhed under him. Bard loved it, he enjoyed that the Elven king gave up so soon, that his arrogance and self-importance gave way to these submissive movements of the hips and sobs and trembling touches. The cold, always reserved Thranduil was his now, and he was suffocating and trying to get rid of his clothes to expose as much of his overheated skin to Bard as he could.
Bard very much appreciated Thranduil’s skin, trying to cover all of it with kisses, especially his neck and the sensitive zone behind the ears, and the collarbones, too. Thranduil was not trying to be reserved - or even quiet, for that matter. Apparently, the guards already knew that their king was being caressed, and by whom. If he were sober, Bard would object to such unwise behavior, but he was too drunk with Thranduil’s moans to care.
“Bard, please,” Thranduil sighed after Bard had slid down to kiss the warm skin of his thighs, “please, have mercy, it’s been hundreds of years, I don’t know how long I will last…”
Bard lifted his head.
“Hundreds of years? Are you serious?”
The Elf’s eyes widened in a threatening way, but his voice was deceptively calm.
“Yes, what is wrong?”
“Nothing.” Bard smiles. “I only thought you could find someone for yourself.”
“I have found,” Thranduil growled, “but he does not know how to treat me!”
“ What ?” Bard descended upon Thranduil, pinning the Elf to the bed with his weight. “ I don’t know how to treat you?”
“You do not,” Thranduil nodded, squeezing Bard’s backside and making him moan, “you are still dressed, and you are still not inside me, and you are not making me scream.”
“Do you have to scream?” Bard asked, taking him by the chin. “Should I stuff your mouth with something?”
Thranduil moaned, no longer able to hold his arrogant posture. Bard rose and slowly undressed, his every movement followed by the gaze of icy grey eyes. He decided against stuffing Thranduil’s mouth - the moans were so delightful, and if they grew too loud, there was always kissing. Another thing, however, was necessary.
“So do you want me to take you, my magical sweetheart?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes,” Thranduil nodded angrily, “and if you don’t do it, I’ll make you regret.”
“Fair enough,” Bard replied nonchalantly, “but do you have anything to?..”
“I do,” the Elf nodded and jumped up quickly to approach a little chest at the other wall of the tent. The small height of the chest required Thranduil to bend down to open it, and it was impossible not to slap his pale round buttocks.
“What are you doing?!” Thranduil gasped angrily as he ran through the chest.
“Slapping you, of course,” Bard replied, barely keeping himself from giggling.
“Again,” Thranduil breathed out.
A bit surprised, Bard smacked him again and again, and Thranduil moaned and moved his hips in the most unkingly manner.
“Oh gods, Bard, stop, or I’ll never find this oil!”
“Oil?” Bard smirked. “You haven’t had anyone for hundreds of years, yet you come here with a bottle of oil? Are you sure you came to deal with the dwarves and not to have your ass fucked?”
It took half a second for Thranduil to turn around. Another slap on the face, much more powerful.
“You mind your language, mortal,” the Elven king growled, and then added in a softer voice, “It is for my hair.”
Bard chuckled despite the pain in his cheek.
“Your hair? Is that why it’s so silky?”
“Yes,” Thranduil nodded, annoyed, “that’s why it’s so silky, and I will skin you if you use more than two drops, because I did not plan to be stuck and fight a battle here, so I took only the smallest bottle with me.”
The elf continued his search, leaving Bard to chuckle at his reply. In the chest, Bard spotted a collection of differently sized combs, a few bottles and jars with some essences, and various jewelry. One bottle did resemble a vial of oil, so Bard decided to help Thranduil by squatting and grabbing it.
“No, no, that’s not it,” Thranduil spoke calmly as he shook his head. “That’s for the eye.”
“I am sorry for touching your things,” Bard apologized and put it back. “Does it hurt?” he asked tenderly, removing a strand of Thranduil’s hair that covered his left eye.
“Sometimes,” Thranduil sighed, “sometimes it does. Especially during the battle, when there is dust and blood and sweat that may go into it.”
“And yet you fight and wield two swords,” Bard gasped in admiration. “What a man!”
Thranduil smiled and looked down in what seemed to look like shyness - shyness ?
“Help me. Green bottle.”
With Bard’s help, they did locate the green bottle quite soon, but it was not easy to return to their playful threatening after that gentle moving of hair and blushing cheeks. They kissed slowly and tenderly, sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking each other’s faces and touching hair. Then, Bard put Thranduil on his back, smoothly, and covered his body with slow kisses once again. Thranduil did not protest or threaten this time; he obediently drank the caresses Bard showered him with, moaning softly and calling his lover’s name. It was hard to stop saying it when Bard stroked his hips and massaged his thighs, and oh, those fingers between his cheeks…
Despite his chuckles at Thranduil’s prolonged celibacy, Bard did not want to hurt his lover, and he proceeded with gentleness and caution. Using a minimal amount of oil, he slid one and then another finger into Thranduil, which did not seem to pain him, only to make him overwhelmed and breathless. Bard tortured him a little, getting the fingers right where he wanted and then removing them, until Thranduil whispered, pleading:
“Bard, my love, please, please , I need you, I need you now .”
Bard did not need a second plead, especially after hearing Thranduil call him my love . He lowered himself to be on top of his lover, used some more oil to coat himself, and entered Thranduil, slowly and gently.
“You can be faster, darling, I am fine,” Thranduil whispered with his eyes closed, and Bard accepted the invitation: it was too hard to resist anyway. Thranduil wrapped his strong, lean legs around him to have him even closer.
“Did you imagine me, Bard?” Thranduil asked breathlessly as the pace quickened. “Have you imagined us together?”
“No, my sweet,” Bard replied and bit his earlobe gently, “I did not dare. I thought that would never happen.”
“But I imagined you, ah! so many times, Bard,” Thranduil exclaimed as he moved his hips, “so many times, that you would enter my tent… at night, and… have your way with me, and also… ah, Bard, yes!.. and also how you would have me in front of everyone, and I cannot resist you, I only… moan and beg you not to stop, please, Bard, please, don’t stop, don’t stop!”
Bard had no intention of stopping - not after hearing about Thranduil’s fantasies, gods , this Elf pretended to be all royal and reserved and in control, yet all this time he was secretly dreaming about being fucked in front of his own army? Oh, gods . He gave Thranduil all the kisses and bites and deep, fast, delicious thrusts he was capable of.
“Oh, you’re so good, Bard,” Thranduil whispered and added with a smirk, “for a mortal.”
“What, you mock me?” Bard answered with a similar smirk. “Well then, have it your way!”
He slowed down, barely moving at all, driving Thranduil mad.
“What?..” Thranduil suffocated. “What is this?! Bard, please, don’t be cruel, I’m so close, please, my love, I’m sorry…”
“No, darling, you must learn to handle the consequences of your actions.” Bard’s grin widened.
“I must nothing,” Thranduil hissed, “I am the king, and you do as I say!”
A blade flashed in front of Bard’s eyes and rested with its cool edge against his throat. A dagger! Why was Thranduil keeping a bare dagger under his pillow?!
“Fuck me fast, Bard, or I’ll stab you,” the Elf said between his teeth.
Bard should have been outraged, but a wave of desire almost swept him of his feet. The cold blade felt so good against his throat, and it was so enjoyable and unusual to be told what to do and still have a sweet, tight hole around him. He moaned and sped up as ordered by his king. Thranduil arched his back, his entire body trembled but the arm, the steady arm of a warrior who did not truly wish to harm Bard with that dagger. Bard closed his eyes in pure bliss, moving as fast as he could.
“Oh, Bard,” Thranduil whimpered and finally removed the weapon as he could no longer control it; he let it drop to the floor. He was breathing in large gulps, moving frantically under Bard and staring at him with his warm grey eyes. A couple of times, Bard could have sworn he saw Thranduil’s blind eye and a flash of his scars, but his usual appearance would resume in a blink.
Thranduil took Bard by the face, desperately trying not to choke on his own words.
“Please, Bard, forgive me, oh, forgive me, I can no longer, please do me for as long as you need, oh gods, close my mouth, for I will scream, oh gods, oh!.. mhm…”
Bard covered his mouth with his firm palm and drove Thranduil to the edge; he became so delightfully tight that it was impossible not to follow.
For a few minutes, they lay in silence, listening to each other’s calming breaths.
“Oh Bard,” Thranduil smiled, playing with his lover’s hair, “I should have invited you earlier.”
“When?” Bard smirked. “When I first walked out and saw you with your entire army?”
“Yes, right there,” the Elf smiled in delight. “It would be so good.”
Bard cupped his cheek gently and fondled it with his fingers.
“Are you fine, my dear? I think I saw a glimpse of your… real face.”
“Ah, truly?” Thranduil arched his eyebrow. “Then you were better than my Elven lovers. I had never let go of the magic veil until today, not for a second.”
“Wonderful,” Bard whispered, nuzzling into his lover’s neck, already sleepy. “But next time, you do what I want.”
“No,” Thranduil shook his head, “you still owe me, lovely bowman.”
Bard lifted his head a bit.
“For what?”
“For the barrels, you silly.”