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Little and less light filtered through the flaps of the Elvenking's tent—it must have been getting on nightfall, but Bard trusted Sigurd and Bain to be sure Tilda was safely to bed. Even if 'bed' that night was a thin blanket on a dry patch of stone. His children were as safe and comfortable as all who had survived Laketown, and he and Thranduil had been speaking at length—it felt exceeding rude to take his leave of a king without good reason.
The candles flickered as Thranduil shifted in his chair, taking a sip of wine from his goblet. “Tell me, Master Bowman,” he said, “I know little of the ways of Men—among your people, are you considered pleasing to look at?”
Brow furrowing slightly, Bard sat forward in his own chair, a little disconcerted at the shift in topic, but he tried to answer honestly, “Reasonably so, my lord.” He ducked his head, clearing his throat. “My, uh, my late wife seemed to think so—always said she got lucky.” He grinned, shaking his head. “The truth is, I was the lucky one, and my children get most of their good looks from her.”
Thranduil's brow furrowed and he turned slightly in his chair, regarding Bard through narrowed eyes. “You just said you were considered pleasing to look at by your people.”
Bard smiled, a little embarrassed. “My wife was much more so, at least to my eyes.”
Thranduil nodded. He took a sip of wine then said, “So...all this hair is appreciated among Men?” and ran the backs of his smooth, pale knuckles over Bard's chin.
Bard couldn't help blushing a little, but he didn't pull back. No doubt, Elvish customs being quite different than those of Men, the Elvenking was not intending to be rude. Shifting a bit in his chair, he swallowed. “By some, yes. Many men choose to shave some or all of their beards—we're not quite like the Dwarves in that. But many also choose to wear beards; it's a matter of personal preference. And some women do very much appreciate beards on men, while others prefer those who shave.”
“Do your women not grow hair thus?” Thranduil asked, gesturing to Bard's chin. “I do not believe I have seen it.”
“Not usually,” Bard answered. “It's not exactly uncommon for an older woman to have a few hairs on her chin, but it's not like dwarf-women.” Perhaps the younger women sometimes grew hair they resolutely tugged out with tweezers—his wife and mother both had done so on occasion, saying they'd rather not 'look like men'. Not that either could have ever been mistaken for a man.
Thranduil chuckled, taking another sip of wine and shaking his head. “Indeed not.” He turned slightly narrowed eyes on Bard. “You Men are a strange race: shorter than Elves, yet taller than Dwarves, smoother than Dwarves, yet hairier than Elves.” Bard nodded; it was true. “Were such a thing possible,” Thranduil continued, “you could almost be the bastard children of Elves and Dwarves.”
Bard cocked his head slightly to one side, brow furrowed. “Is that not possible?” He knew Men and Elves could produce children on occasion but hadn't heard tales of any other combinations. Though, now that he thought about it, he couldn't come up with a good reason why it shouldn't be possible.
Thranduil shrugged, expression bored. “I don't suppose many elves or dwarves have ever had inclination to try.” And that did make sense, given the long-standing animosity between the two races. “Tell me,” Thranduil continued after a pause, “do men ever find the beards of other men alluring?”
Bard nearly choked on his wine, blinking several times as he managed to swallow. “I suppose some do, my lord. I only know I never have.” One corner of Thranduil's lips turned up and his eyes shone with a pleased light. Bard wondered if he'd said or done something amusing—the wine was slowly muddling his head. “My lord?”
Thranduil gave his head a quick shake. “You need not call me 'my lord'; we are equals.”
Bard grimaced as he tried to smile in response. He surely did not feel an equal to the ancient and terrible elf. But he certainly did not want to offend the saviour of his people. “What should I call you?” He carefully did not allow the words 'my lord' to slip over his lips.
“My name, 'Thranduil', will do.” Thranduil arched one dark, striking eyebrow.
Bard ducked his head slightly, lips twisting into a bashful smile. “Thranduil, then.” Dropping his gaze to the goblet in his hand, he wet his lips then added, “I suppose you ought to call me 'Bard' then, so it's fair.”
Nodding, Thranduil managed something of a smile with just his eyes. “Bard.” The name sounded smoother than velvet on his tongue. Bard suppressed a shiver. Reaching out, Thranduil brushed a lock of hair away from Bard's cheek, pausing to stroke it meditatively between his pale fingers. “Even your hair is nearly as rough and coarse as a dwarf's must be.”
“Ah...” Bard wasn't sure what to say or if he was meant to say anything at all. Finally, he settled on, “Children's hair is generally much softer.”
“Of course.” Understanding dawned in Thranduil's eyes. “You roughen as you age.” Bard nodded. Was that why Elves were so smooth, then? They reached maturity and then just stopped aging? Was that why Dwarves were so rough? They aged but did so far longer than Men? Finally dropping the lock of hair, Thranduil brushed the backs of his fingers across the sun and weather roughened skin of Bard's cheek and Bard couldn't help blushing, if just a little. Maybe he was already flushed from the alcohol. Maybe Thranduil wouldn't notice. “Bard,” Thranduil murmured, “will you stay with me tonight?”
Bard blinked at him, honestly confused and entirely unsure how to respond. What was the Elf-king asking? Was this an Elf custom he didn't understand? Certainly Men shared their beds from time to time—siblings or parents with children being the most common aside from married couples. But Thranduil was standing and holding out his hand to him, and Bard couldn't think of a good reason not to take it, so he did, letting Thranduil pull him to his feet, cool grey eyes glinting satisfaction. “I think,” Thranduil murmured softly as he drew Bard across the tent, “that you are beautiful by my standards, Bard.”
Swallowing, Bard replied shakily, “Thank you, my lord...Thranduil.” Everything was too warm, and wreathed in a fuzzy glow like candlelight through a clouded glass. Thranduil's smile was bright with a vicious edge as he eased the two of them down to sit on a bed, Bard straddling his lap. The wine—and perhaps the worries of the past few days—were to blame, surely, for Bard not understanding until the Elvenking's lips were on his own, strong fingers twined through his hair to pull him closer. So close, Thranduil smelled sharp and rich, like a forest full of life after a heavy rain. And his lips were warm and tasted of the wine. But kissing—Bard was quite sure—meant the same to Elves as it did to Men. Or at least, something quite similar.
He had to pull back. “Thranduil, I—” He shook his head, alcohol swirling, warm and slow, confusing his thoughts. His hands gripped Thranduil's biceps through the fine material of his kingly robes, and maybe he shouldn't presume but he wasn't sure he could keep himself upright otherwise. He made himself meet Thranduil's eyes as they watched him, quiet and maddeningly unaffected by either the alcohol or the kiss. “I can't.” It felt like an apology, sad and broken and not nearly good enough.
Thranduil nodded slowly, hands moving from Bard's hair to rest on his shoulders as his eyes slid away. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, careful. “Can I ask why?”
Bard made a rough sound in his throat, eyes wide. Of course he could ask. If Bard could answer was another question entirely. “I'm sorry.”
When Bard could not find any other words, Thranduil finally spoke again. “You are, like me, widowed. You have not remarried.” Bard nodded shakily and swallowed. His thoughts still shuddered, like an arrow shot into a tree trunk, on the idea of Thranduil kissing him. “It was my understanding,” Thranduil continued, “that Men did not require such long periods of grief as Elves do.”
It was different for everyone, but, “One year is considered standard,” Bard said, then quickly added, “but that's not—” The truth was, while he was sure he would always feel some grief at the memory of his wife, it was not grief that held him back—he just hadn't had any interest since losing her. He'd had three children to raise, a livelihood to keep up, taxes to pay. When did someone his age find time for such things as romance? His mind spiralled, scrambling for a reason, but all he could come up with was, “You're a king.”
Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “As are you.” His fingers smoothed the fabric of Bard's coat where it had become rumpled on his shoulders.
Right; they were equals after all. Shaking his head, Bard let out a relieved laugh. “I suppose I am, despite my objections. Perhaps they'll call me 'King Bard the Reluctant'.” It wouldn't be so bad. Better than 'the Cruel' or 'the Mad' or 'the Bloody'.
“There was a time,” Thranduil said, one corner of his lips quirking up as his eyes went far away, “when I did not want to be king. I was born to it, as many kings are. I never minded, not until...” His face darkened. “I lost someone very precious to me.” He grimaced slightly, shoulders moving in the faintest of shrugs. “I didn't want to be a king then. I didn't want to be anything. I found I did not have a choice.” His voice and features hardened. “The people will demand a king and will not let him go easily.”
Closing his eyes, Bard rested his brow against Thranduil's. “Your son is older than I.” Probably by several hundred years.
Thranduil made a dismissive noise. “By elven standards, he is but a youth. And you are a father yourself.” His hands were gentle and steady on Bard's shoulders, and he didn't pull his head away. “This is the way of Men? To be so concerned about such things?”
“Well,” Bard explained, eyes still closed and brow still resting against the warm smoothness of Thranduil's, “when we live and die in less than one-hundred years, I suppose age and difference in age becomes quite important.” But everything Thranduil said made it seem like all Bard's objections were unfounded, that they were in fact equals in every way that mattered. He let out a shaky breath, made a decision. Pulling back, he looked into the Elf-king's face. “You are without a doubt, one of the two most beautiful people I have ever known.” He would not, could not say if his wife was more or less beautiful than Thranduil. They were so different—impossible to compare.
Thranduil favoured him with a faint smile, tilting his head downward ever so slightly. “Thank you.”
Watching Thranduil carefully to be sure it was still okay, Bard leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. What did Thranduil want, exactly, though? Just one night? A brief affair? Something more long-term? Neither of them had to worry about pressures to marry and produce heirs—such things were demanded of kings, even immortal elven kings. But Bard already had three children. And Thranduil had one. But maybe, by elven standards, all Bard could offer was a brief affair. His heart skipped in his chest. He could offer the rest of his life and it would be but a false spring for Thranduil. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn't sure how. So he kissed him again, wetter, harder, hoping that this at least was something Thranduil wanted. Something he could give him.
Thranduil's hands moved, one sliding to grip the back of his head once again and the other finding Bard's hip, and he growled, low in his throat as his teeth found Bard's lip, scraping over it. After a moment, he pulled back, eyes bright and breath a little shaky. Tugging at Bard's coat he said, “I want to see you.” Bard didn't bother trying not to blush as he shrugged out of his coat, pulled off his gloves, and undid his belt, tunic, and shirt with trembling fingers, letting it all fall to the floor of the tent in a soft rustle of leather and cloth. He sat astride the Elvenking's thighs, bare to the waist in the flickering glow of the candlelight. Thranduil ran his hands down the planes of Bard's chest, down to the top of his trousers. His eyes flicked back up to meet Bard's. “All of you.”
Bard had to slide off Thranduil's lap and stand to get out of his boots, socks, and trousers. As he did so, he smirked at Thranduil and asked, “Do I get to see you as well?” That was usually how this was done, was it not?
“In due time,” Thranduil murmured, settling his hands on Bard's hips once he stood utterly naked before him, and pulling him closer to press a kiss to the flat of his belly. Pulling back, he grinned up at Bard. “You are so very hairy.”
“Yes, well.” Bard huffed out a breath, scratching the back of his neck. “Head, face, arms, chest, belly, legs...any man older than fifteen usually has quite a bit.” He grinned, a little crooked and a little awkward. “Some even have hair on their backs. But...we don't tend to have so much hair on our feet as Hobbits.” He shrugged.
Thranduil's eyes fell to Bard's bare feet. “Indeed not.” Something in his voice suggested he was glad of that. Looking up at Bard's face once more, he said, “Turn?”
Smiling indulgently through the heat of his blush, Bard turned in a slow circle for Thranduil's inspection. He looked back over his shoulder to ask, “Good?”
Thranduil's fingers trailed over the smooth, soft skin of one cheek of Bard's arse. Bard shivered, catching his breath. “Very good,” Thranduil purred, eyes hooded as he looked up into Bard's face again.
The wine still loosened his tongue, so Bard teased, “Not too hairy?”
“I think,” Thranduil said contemplatively, tilting his head to one side as he examined the man in front of him, “I rather like the hair.” As if to prove his point, he ran his fingers through the curled hair low on Bard's belly, eliciting a gasp from Bard and a twitch of interest from his body. It had been so long since anyone had touched him there or with anything like intent. Watching Bard with interest and tilting his head to the other side, Thranduil trailed his fingers lower, teasing, then finally encircled Bard's length. Bard made a helpless sound. If he tried to remain standing much longer his legs would likely fail him. “There is even hair partway up your shaft,” Thranduil informed him as he turned it in his hands, examining it. He met Bard's gaze. “Is that common?”
Bard grimaced, cheeks burning. He hadn't thought much about it, though his wife had laughingly complained sometimes when using her mouth on him. “I don't know,” he admitted. “I haven't exactly examined any other men this closely.”
Thranduil hummed, back to examining what was apparently his new favourite part of Bard. “And I certainly have not.” Pressing his nose into the thick, dark hair, he inhaled, and Bard's knees threatened to buckle.
Catching himself on Thranduil's shoulders, Bard admitted, “I need—to sit down.”
Letting his hands fall away, Thranduil said, “By all means.” So Bard took a seat next to him on the bed. “Would you like to see me now?” Thranduil asked.
“Yes,” Bard replied. Not only was he getting a little impatient to see what hid under all those ornate layers, but it just felt more fair to have them both fully exposed. “If you please.”
Nodding, Thranduil slid smoothly to his feet, fingers moving to unfasten clasps Bard would have had trouble even finding. As he removed his trappings, Thranduil only appeared more beautiful—and more alien—until he was standing before Bard utterly bare. In fact, far more bare than Bard, since he had no visible hair lower on his body than his eyelashes. Without prompting, Thranduil did a slow turn. His skin was so smooth and so entirely hairless that it reminded Bard—rather disconcertingly—of a baby's. But...the softness and hairlessness of his skin was the only thing that reminded Bard of anything small or helpless. For the most part, he looked rather like a pale, slender, tall, lightly-muscled naked man—but far more beautiful and far more terrifying. Not that Bard had much experience at all with naked men of any sort, beyond a few summers of swimming with the other youths that had involved far less looking. “Still beautiful?” Thranduil asked—was he really unsure?
Bard grinned, broad and bright. “More so.” Ducking his head, he swallowed, peeking up at Thranduil from under his brows. “I'd like to touch you.”
Thranduil took a step towards him, arching one eyebrow. “Then do so.”
So Bard let his hands run over the skin of Thranduil's muscled thighs, narrow hips, and flat belly. It was as soft as a newborn babe's, yet he could feel the hardness of muscle beneath. How could such seeming tender, delicate skin belong to a being so deadly, so powerful? He pressed a kiss to Thranduil's hipbone then looked up, meeting Thranduil's eyes and whispering, “How are you even real?”
Thranduil's hair fell forward to hang about them like a curtain as he moved, lithe and graceful, to straddle Bard's thighs, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Perhaps I am not,” he murmured, lips brushing Bard's cheekbone, Bard's temple. “Perhaps I am a dream made of starlight and melting frost and the nectar of Spring's first buds, just unfurled.”
Bard's hands gripped Thranduil's hips as he shuddered, swallowing. “The description suits you.” His voice was shaky. “But you feel very real, here.” He pulled Thranduil closer, body thrilling at the feel of his legs sliding against his own. “Were you a dream, I'd expect you to be as untouchable as a rainbow, as mist, as a sunbeam.”
“You never told me you were a poet, Bard,” Thranduil mused, running warm fingers down the side of Bard's neck and tracing the shape of his collarbone. Then he met Bard's eyes. “So, how would you like to do this?”
'This' apparently being...well, this. Dropping his gaze, Bard scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and grimaced a little. He really had very little idea how 'this' was done between men—or between men and elf-men. He'd only ever done it with a woman, his wife—they'd spent most of the first year of their marriage figuring out what they both liked. “I could use my mouth on you,” Bard offered after a moment. “I have to admit, I've never actually done it.” He scratched at the back of his head through his tangled hair, offering Thranduil a look that was part awkward grimace, part blithe smile. “I do think I understand the concept, though...well enough to make a decent try.” He shrugged. Thranduil was watching him, lips half-curled and eyes warm. “But, oh,” Bard added, grimacing and shifting on the bed, hands sliding to rest against Thranduil's smooth thighs. “I wouldn't—I couldn't ask you to do likewise, not—” A quietly desperate huff of breath. “I haven't had a chance to bathe, or even to wash really.”
“I know,” Thranduil replied, voice low, twining a lock of Bard's hair about his fingers and leaning in to press his nose against it and inhale deeply, eyes closed. “You smell of dragonfire.”
Bard grimaced again, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “I suppose I would.” The entire town had burnt around him, after all.
Threading his fingers through Bard's hair, fingertips moving soothingly against his scalp, Thranduil met his eyes once again. “You saved not only your own people when you slew the dragon, Bard; the beast was a danger to all. Any sweat-salt dried on your skin, any smoke lingering in your hair, is well-earned.” Pulling Bard closer, he brushed his lips across his forehead. “I would gladly taste the mark of such a battle upon your skin.” Pausing, he pulled back to meet Bard's eyes once again, his own gaze intense. “If you do not mind.”
Swallowing, Bard took a shaky breath. “I don't mind at all, so long as—well...” Chuckling softly, he shook his head. “I suppose you've already made your position clear.”
Smiling with warm amusement, Thranduil pulled Bard down to lie on the bed, one pale hand running up the length of Bard's arm to his neck then down his side to his hip. Leaning in, he kissed then licked at Bard's neck, and Bard shuddered, one hand coming up to tangle in Thranduil's long pale golden hair. It felt like finest silk, like cool water. “You taste wondrous, like a hero,” Thranduil said, breath ghosting over the moistened skin and making Bard shudder again and press forward into Thranduil's thigh, groaning at the deliciously firm muscles sheathed in gloriously smooth skin. Pulling back, Thranduil smiled down at him, hair hanging about his face on all sides and hiding the two of them from the world. He ran a finger sunbeam-light over Bard's lips. “My hero.”
Swallowing, Bard blinked up at him. “I slew the dragon, aye.” He gripped Thranduil's shoulder, enjoying the solid warmth of it beneath his hand. “But you saved us all from a much slower yet just as certain death—you're my hero, too.” It felt a little silly, a little clumsy, but Thranduil's face lit with pleasure. Bard could wait no longer to taste, no matter how selfish it might be to insist on going first, so he rolled Thranduil onto his back and slid down his lithe body to take him into his mouth. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but he hadn't expected to like the taste as much as he did: clean and vaguely earthy with the slightest hint of salt and the faintest, sweetest touch of musk. He moaned a little deep in his throat, and Thranduil's hands tightened in the bedding at his sides. Looking up, Bard met Thranduil's gaze as he moved his head and tongue, sucking experimentally. Laughing at the way Thranduil's eyes and mouth widened in response, he pulled off, rubbing at his lips with the back of his hand. “You taste amazing, Thranduil.” He grinned, then looked away, blushing. “But I really have never done this—and I—” He grimaced. He had no idea what he was doing, but he wanted to do it well.
“Bard,” Thranduil said, an edge of gentle warning in his voice as he took Bard's jaw in an insistent grip and turned his face back to meet the intensity of his gaze, “you think me some expert lover? That I should judge your efforts wanting?”
Bard shook his head as much as he could in Thranduil's grip—which wasn't much. He dropped his gaze, ashamed. “No, Thranduil; I didn't mean—” He had not meant to imply Thranduil was some trained courtesan. He made a quiet, ragged sound of frustration, eyes furtively flickering back to Thranduil's face. “It's just that...you have had many more years than I in which to...” Oh, he probably should stop talking. Pressing his lips together, he looked away.
But, letting him go, Thranduil just patted his cheek then folded his arms behind his head, shifting languorously on the bed. “I have had but one male lover in my time, Bard. And that was in my youth.” Bard pushed the thoughts away before they could spin his mind entirely into an abyss, but...that would have been a long time ago. “I rather expect,” Thranduil said, narrowing his eyes slightly, “that what I have had is time to forget. You will not find me particularly skilled either.”
Offering Thranduil a weak smile, Bard admitted, “I don't think I'll mind overmuch.”
“And neither will I.” Reaching out, Thranduil encircled one of Bard's wrists in a firm, warm grip. “I do not desire your skill tonight, Bard; I desire you.”
Nodding and letting out a breath, Bard offered Thranduil a relieved and grateful smile softened with apology then bent his head to take him in his mouth once again. The taste of his own cooling saliva marred the flavour momentarily, but very soon nothing mattered other than the sounds Thranduil was making—gasps soft as moonlight and groans like wick wood in a fresh spring wind—and the little twitches of his muscles. The brightness in his eyes. The sharp, pleasant tug on his scalp where Thranduil's fingers tangled in his hair—neither holding him still nor guiding him, just holding on.
“Bard,” Thranduil said, tugging once on Bard's hair.
Slipping off, Bard raised his head, wiping drool off his chin. “Yes?”
“You need not...” Thranduil's eyes fluttered closed, and he pet at Bard's hair with shaky fingers. He swallowed. “You need not finish me with your mouth.”
Bard smiled, grateful for Thranduil's consideration, but, “I admit I'm curious about the taste.” His smile tilted. “The rest of you tastes so fine.”
Thranduil laughed, and it was like the sound of snowmelt trickling cheerful and bright over glistening rocks. “Then please,” he said, gesturing lazily with one hand, “go on.”
So Bard did, and it was only a short moment before Thranduil was spasming under him, hot liquid spurting into his mouth. It didn't taste bad; in fact, it reminded him of the tang of some fruits, though a bit saltier, a bit fattier, like butter—maybe like a fruit pie? He carefully licked all traces from Thranduil, pushing what dribbled from the side of his mouth back in with a finger and swallowing it as well. His own finger tasted like mud, like soot. Maybe a bit like blood—and wood from the splinters embedded in his skin.
“How's it taste?” Thranduil slurred the words slightly, face aglow as he watched Bard from under heavy lids.
“Like fruit pie,” Bard said before he could think better of it. Thranduil scoffed as though he believed this false flattery. Even though it really wasn't. Widening his eyes, Bard trailed his gaze from Thranduil's hips up to his face. “I apologize; I did not save you any.”
Grabbing Bard by the hair, Thranduil pulled him down, sliding their mouths together as he rolled Bard onto his back and pressed him down against the mattress with his body. His tongue slid into Bard's mouth, insistent and demanding and he sucked greedily on Bard's own tongue. “One day you must let me try this Esgaroth fruit pie,” he murmured against Bard's lips, “of which you speak so highly.”
Bard laughed breathlessly. “You might have to provide the fruit—if you're in the mood for more charity.”
“Gladly,” Thranduil insisted, kissing Bard deeply again, “but it would not be charity.”
Laughing softly and a little breathlessly, Bard let his head fall back against the mattress as Thranduil began kissing down his neck and trailing his tongue over his collarbone. “Do I taste of dragonfire?”
“Yes,” Thranduil hissed against dampened skin.
Bard combed his fingers idly through Thranduil's long hair. “And that's good?”
“Very.” Thranduil's teeth scraped over one of Bard's nipples, eliciting a gasp of surprise. “You taste of salt and musk and battle and death and life.” He ran his hot tongue over Bard's nipple, meeting Bard's eyes from under his thick brows. “You taste like victory.”
Thranduil's lips, nose, and tongue trailed downward, and when he finally took Bard into his mouth, Bard had to tense his whole body to keep from thrusting his hips upwards and muffle a shout with his fist—the struggle actually kind of hurt. Gasping a bit, Bard tried to make himself relax. It wasn't that he'd never felt anything like it. It had just been years. Thranduil was watching him, amusement glinting in his eyes and then he did something with his tongue, and Bard made a strangled sound partway between a moan and a growl, teeth digging into his own wrist. “Sorry,” he panted, blinking damp eyelashes.
Frowning, Thranduil pulled off and asked, “'Sorry'?”
“For, um...” Bard grimaced. “I can't seem to stay quiet.” And also, I almost choked you; I can't imagine you would have liked that.
Thranduil's hair slid against the smooth skin of his shoulders as he shook his head. He ran his tongue over glistening lips. “Your voice does not offend me, Bard.”
“But...” They were only in a tent. Thin walls, guards just outside. “The others will hear.” Hear and know what was happening, for Bard could not seem to make his sounds less obvious.
“Ah.” Thranduil rolled one graceful shoulder. “My guards know when to turn away their ears. And the rest...I hardly think your voice will carry far unless you are much louder than you have been.” Which was true, of course; the hasty camp filled the old city with the shuffle and slap of feet upon stone streets, the indistinct murmur of hundreds of voices, the cries of children and babes, the crackle of fires, the clatter of weapons and pots and tools. Even the wind slipping through gaps in the old broken towers provided a layer to the background hum. But Bard could not help blushing at the thought of Thranduil's guards carefully turning away their exacting elf-ears, no doubt already fully aware that their king dallied with the bowman who'd brought down the dragon—the simple rough bargeman who collected their barrels. He didn't realize he'd hidden his face in his arm until Thranduil's fingers stroked down his jaw and he had to turn his face back to see him. “Bard?”
He met Thranduil's gaze again. “I just...” But it didn't matter what a few elven guards might think. No doubt they were in fact more concerned with the impending battle than with how their king chose to spend his night, or with whom. Letting out a breath, he smiled up at Thranduil. “I'm all right.”
“Good.” Dipping his head, Thranduil pressed a tender kiss to Bard's hipbone. Then he took Bard in his mouth again, and Bard just focused on keeping his hips on the bed and didn't worry so much about making sounds—which was good, because soon it became impossible to care as the whole world narrowed down to a hazy sphere of fuzzy candlelight, smooth elven bedding, and a smoother elf. Bard blinked once, confused and a little worried, because Thranduil's hand was heavy on his hip, and maybe he had jerked upwards? But maybe Thranduil just held him still as a precaution. In any case, he hadn't stopped his enthusiastic efforts, so it couldn't be much of a problem either way.
Bard swore under his breath and felt Thranduil laughing silently. Growling out a few more curses, Bard twisted his fingers in Thranduil's hair. Everything was heat coiling in his belly, and he barely had time to gasp, “Thranduil!” as a warning—but Thranduil just pushed forward, sucking harder, and then everything was stars, as though they'd fallen in a shower from the heavens to come to rest under Bard's skin and behind his eyes.
Thranduil made a pleased noise, hands stroking over sensitized skin, and murmuring, “Beautiful.”
Bard caught one of Thranduil's hands, holding on as though it were a tether and he still floating adrift. He wanted to say 'thank you' but he wasn't sure that was done. He barely understood the basics of the customs of Men in such situations let alone those of Elves. “Thranduil...” He swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment. “That was...” Wonderful. Amazing. Glorious. No word felt adequate. Thranduil made a hum of agreement, returning Bard's grip on his hand.
And then suddenly, unexpectedly, he was kissing Bard, and it tasted awful. Choking, Bard roughly shoved him away. He rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, but of course that didn't help. Stumbling from the bed on wobbly legs, he grabbed his goblet where he'd set it aside earlier and took a gulp, swishing it around in his mouth then swallowing with a grimace.
“Bard?” Sliding from the bed, Thranduil approached slowly, carefully, as through Bard were some half-wild creature.
Taking another swallow of the wine, Bard shook his head. “You should probably ask a man before making him taste his own seed—that was foul.”
Thranduil's features twisted in something that might have been a grimace. “I shall endeavour to remember for next time.”
Bard sighed, turning towards Thranduil. “It probably depends on the man. I just don't happen to like it.” He liked the taste of Thranduil's seed, but his own tasted nothing like it. If Thranduil's was a fresh-baked fruit pie, Bard's was some vile, overpowering mixture of pine sap and rancid beef tallow.
Thranduil's eyes narrowed, momentarily flicking to Bard's face before becoming heavy-lidded and bored as he trailed his pale fingers from Bard's bare shoulder to his elbow. “Do you suppose I desire many other men?”
Bard grimaced helplessly. “I don't presume to know what you desire.” He'd only just met the elf earlier the same day.
Thranduil's voice dropped lower, hardening. “Then I have not made my position clear.” Wrapping his arms possessively about Bard's waist, he growled into his ear, “I want you, Bard: only you, all of you—whatever you'll allow me.” With a soft sigh and a softer smile, Bard let his head fall back against Thranduil's shoulder, relaxing into the embrace. Thranduil's grip softened, but he didn't let go. “This pleases you?” There was a hint of surprise in his voice.
It made good political sense—for both of them, no doubt—but Thranduil just felt right, like warmth and light and breath in a corner of Bard's heart he hadn't noticed lay empty and cold. Turning his head, Bard looked up into that face of beauty and terror and wanted to say, 'Then have my heart,' but...they had a battle to fight, kingdoms to rule. He should not make promises the morrow might break. So he simply said, “You please me.” He gestured between the two of them, to the way Thranduil held him. “This pleases me.” Because it was true.
“Come lie next to me?” Thranduil asked, his words dusted with the uncertainty of a deep desire. “Sleep where I can see you, where I can feel you?”
“I have to check on my children in the morning, but...” Bard pressed a kiss to Thranduil's jaw. “Aye; I can stay until then.”
“I should like to meet your children,” Thranduil said as he drew Bard back to his bed.
“Of course.” Bard smiled. They might not have time before the battle, though. Probably wouldn't, actually. “I believe I have already met yours—he looks like you.”
Thranduil shrugged as he pulled Bard down next to him. “More like his mother, I think.”
Bard tilted his head, conceding the point though Legolas looked far more like Thranduil than any of Bard's children looked like him. He laughed softly after a moment. “I know he's actually older than I, but...he looks so young.”
Thranduil snorted into his hair. “He is young.” He brushed his fingers against the side of Bard's neck. “Sleep now, Bard, my dragon-slayer.”