some people are really looking so hard for some morally correct excuses to harass other people and be bullies, and then they wonder why fandom becomes toxic and no one wants to post their fics or art anymore. it's just pathetic.
fanfic writers and fan artists do not owe anybody anything
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 31/31
Fandom: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil (Tolkien), Haldir of Lothlórien/Legolas Greenleaf
Characters: Bard the Bowman (Tolkien), Thranduil (Tolkien), Legolas Greenleaf, Bain of Dale (Tolkien), Thorin Oakenshield's Company Members
Additional Tags: writing challenge
Summary:
A collection of dribbles following Bard & Thranduil in a modern AU - this is the direct sequel to MatingMarch. From awkward family dinners and parenting disasters to tender moments, a misadventure at a time. As usual, the notes introduce the theme of the day.
The evening had been calm: the boys had gone to bed early, the house was quiet, and for once, no drama had erupted. Bard and Thranduil were lying in their bed, the lights off, only illuminated by the moon filtering through the curtains.
Thranduil was unusually silent. He was tenderly stroking Bard’s arm, his gaze lost toward the ceiling. After a long moment, he murmured, in a low and solemn voice:
“I want to be with you… forever.”
He had said it with that elvish gravity that characterized him, as if pronouncing an ancient oath under the stars. His words carried all the weight of his long existence, of his fears, of his deep and sometimes clumsy love. Bard, who was half-dozing, opened his eyes. He remained silent for a second, then a small nervous laugh escaped him.
“Forever?” he repeated, amused. “Is this a marriage proposal under a sacred tree with ancient chants and all the tralala?”
Thranduil stiffened slightly, offended.
“It was a sincere declaration.”
“I know, I know!” Bard replied, smiling, still shaken by a contained laugh. “It’s just that… you say it with such solemnity. It’s like you’re going to make me sign a contract in front of the Valar.”
Thranduil turned his head toward him, eyebrows furrowed.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“A little,” Bard admitted, moving closer to kiss his shoulder. “But it’s because I love you. And that ‘forever’ with you, even if it’s a little scary… it suits me very well.”
Thranduil remained silent for a moment, still a little miffed. Then he sighed and slipped an arm around Bard to pull him closer.
“You’re a real drama queen,” Bard murmured against his neck. “But I love that.”
“King, please,” Thranduil corrected.
“No no, I said Queen.”
They stayed entwined in the dark. Thranduil eventually smiled despite himself, his chin resting on Bard’s hair.
“Forever, then?” he asked more softly.
“Forever,” Bard confirmed. “Even if we argue, even if the boys set the house on fire, even if you become unbearable with your elvish rules…”
Thranduil let out a small laugh.
“Deal.”
In the calm of the bedroom, the promise floated between them, a little awkward, a little solemn, but sincere: a perfectly imperfect “forever,” just like them.
Thanks for the challenge @monthlywritingchallenges also thanks for the reblogs @bi-widower-dads and the reviews @cherrrysthings
Bain had been observing Thranduil differently lately. He saw how Legolas shared with his father a natural elvish grace. He, Bard’s human son, sometimes felt left out. So he had an idea: to learn the elvish traditions. Archery, posture, calligraphy… everything that could allow him to get closer to his stepfather.
“I want to learn to shoot a bow,” he announced one morning with touching determination. “Like you, Ada.”
Thranduil was surprised, then visibly moved. He accepted. After breakfast, he took Bain into the garden, an ancient elvish bow in hand, and began to explain the posture, the breathing, the concentration. Bain, too enthusiastic, drew the bow with far too much force. The arrow went into the Greenwood forest.
“We’ll start again,” Thranduil said, stoic.
The second arrow ended up in the roof of the toolshed. The third ricocheted off a stone and came dangerously close to Bard, who was watching from the terrace.
“Maybe we should take a break,” Bard suggested, slightly worried.
But Bain refused to give up.
“No! I can do it!”
He insisted on trying elvish calligraphy. The result: three hours of work, a bottle of ink spilled on the living room carpet, and a parchment where you could vaguely read “Ada” provided you turned the sheet 90 degrees and squinted. Thranduil, who had spent the day patiently correcting Bain’s posture, picking up lost arrows and cleaning up the ink, was exhausted. His face remained calm, but his shoulders were tense. That evening, Bain, covered in ink and dirt, sat down at the table, looking dejected.
“I’m useless…” he murmured. “I just wanted… to be a little more like you.”
Thranduil froze. He looked at this human boy, stubborn and full of good will, who was trying with all his might to fit into a mold that wasn’t his. He approached and placed a hand on Bain’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to be like me, Bain. You’re perfect as you are.”
Bain looked up, surprised.
“But… I wanted to make you proud.”
“You already make me proud,” Thranduil replied with rare softness. “Every day.”
Bard, who was watching the scene from the kitchen, smiled softly. Bain eventually smiled too, even if his shoulders remained a little hunched.
“Can we still continue the lessons? I promise not to destroy the garden this time?”
Thranduil sighed, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
“We can try. But I think I’ll invest in foam arrows first…”
Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges @bi-widower-dads @cherrrysthings
The intimate life of Bard and Thranduil had taken a backseat for the past few weeks. Between classes, work, arguments, and Haldir’s invasive presence at Greenwood, they hadn’t had ten minutes alone — or else they collapsed from exhaustion as soon as they lay down in bed.
That evening, the boys had gone to a party. Silence reigned in the house, so unusual it was almost unsettling. Bard joined Thranduil in bed, kissing him in a hungry, even brutal embrace. Thranduil settled on top of him, his breathing already short.
“Finally…” he murmured, leaning down to kiss his neck.
Bard let out a raw groan, his hands gripping Thranduil’s hips.
On the other side of the wall, in Legolas’s room, the console turned on with its characteristic sound, immediately followed by shouts and laughter. Bain had clearly come back with him.
“GO ON! SHOOT!” Bain yelled.
A barrage of virtual gunfire and panicked horse neighs exploded through the speakers, followed by a resounding “BOOM” and the victorious screams of the two teenagers. Thranduil froze above Bard.
“What are they doing here…?” he growled.
Bard closed his eyes, frustrated.
“Ignore them.”
Thranduil tried, but he pulled out of Bard.
“What are you doing? Stay!” he tried to grab him by the arm.
“Wait. I’m just checking.”
He slipped on his expensive silk robe and went to knock on Legolas’s bedroom door. He entered:
“Didn’t you have a party tonight?”
Bain had his mouth full of candy:
“S’all cancheled. Aragorn and Arwen got gachtro”
Thranduil raised a perplexed eyebrow:
“Okay. Try not to make too much noise. We’re trying to sleep.”
Legolas and Bain exchanged a knowing look, giggling as soon as the door was closed.
Just a few seconds later, as Thranduil tried to make love to Bard again, a victorious cry from Bain pierced the wall:
“I GOT HIMMMM! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”
Legolas burst out laughing, followed by a new round of gunfire and explosions. Bard let out a desperate laugh.
“This isn’t possible…”
Thranduil collapsed on top of him, his face in his neck, shaking with silent, frustrated laughter.
“Even when they’re not in the room, they’re in the room,” he murmured.
They persisted anyway. Their movements became more urgent, almost angry, as if to compensate for the noise coming from the neighboring rooms. But when Bain screamed “TAKE THAT!” and the game music started up again at full volume, Bard completely broke. He burst out laughing, a desperate and exhausted laugh.
Thranduil lifted his head, his cheeks red, half-frustrated, half-amused.
“We’re cursed.”
They stayed like that for a moment, naked, entwined, laughing softly in the surrounding sound chaos. The frustration was real, but the ridiculousness of the situation was too strong.
Bard finally kissed Thranduil tenderly on the lips.
“Tomorrow, we’re sending them to the Dwarves. All day. And we’re cutting the Wi-Fi.”
Thranduil smiled against his mouth.
“Good idea.”
On the other side of the wall, another victory cry rang out, followed by a dramatic “OOOOH NO!” from Legolas.
Bard and Thranduil looked at each other: the desire was still there, burning. But tonight, it would have to wait. Again.
Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges @bi-widower-dads @cherrrysthings
By an unusual meteorological phenomenon, Greenwood woke up one beautiful morning under a thick blanket of abundant snow. As soon as he got up, Bain declared that they had to have a snowball fight. Legolas had raised an eyebrow but eventually agreed. Bard had laughed and said “why not?” Thranduil, for his part, had first refused with dignity and then gave in to the pleading looks of his sons (and Bard’s mocking smile).
The teenagers rushed outside shouting with excitement. The adults followed them, calmer — on the surface. Bard threw the first snowball, which hit Thranduil square in the chest. The Elf narrowed his eyes, picked up a handful of compact snow and aimed with frightening precision. The snowball struck Bard right in the forehead.
“It’s war!” Bain shouted, wanting to defend his father.
Legolas joined the battle with formidable grace, sending fast and precise snowballs. Bain, more chaotic, threw them any which way while laughing. Thranduil tried to maintain a certain elegance until Bard sent him a huge snowball that made him stagger back several steps.
“Watch out for the slope!” Bard shouted.
Bain, carried away by his momentum, slipped on a patch of icy snow. He tried to grab onto Legolas, who lost his balance in turn. Legolas instinctively grabbed Bard’s arm to steady himself. Everyone fell: Bain dragged Legolas, who dragged Bard, who dragged Thranduil. The four of them tumbled down the small garden slope in a shapeless pile of arms, legs, and shouts. They rolled over each other, snow flying everywhere, until they ended up in a big tangled heap at the bottom of the garden, completely covered in snow.
A stunned silence settled for two seconds.
Then Bain burst out laughing. Legolas followed, then Bard. Even Thranduil, lying on his back with snow in his hair and on his eyelashes, let out an incredulous giggle before laughing heartily, head thrown back.
They stayed like that for a long time, in a heap in the snow, laughing like children. Thranduil eventually put an arm around Bard, while Legolas leaned against Bain.
“We should have just made a snowman,” Thranduil murmured.
“That’s true,” Bard replied, laughing, before kissing his snow-covered temple.
In this great white mess and this collective burst of laughter, their little blended family had never been so beautiful.
Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges @bi-widower-dads @cherrrysthings
Thrain and his son Thorin had come to Greenwood for what was supposed to be a “diplomatic meal.” Bard had hoped it would remain civil: he was wrong.
The dinner had started rather calmly, then the conversation had drifted, as it always did between Dwarves and Elves, toward old grudges. Someone had mentioned Thror — Thrain’s father. Thranduil, who had remained silent and dignified until then, suddenly straightened up. He knew he should have stopped, that it was dangerous territory. But the old wound, the old guilt resurfaced.
“Thror mocked me,” he began, his voice calm at first. “He used my wife’s death to hurt me.”
The table fell silent. Once started, Thranduil could no longer stop. He was lost in his memories, in his justification, in the regret he had carried for centuries.
“I had warned him that I would take revenge. I had told him I would not forget. But he was as stubborn as all you Dwarves. He preferred to make me his enemy.”
His voice grew more intense. He didn’t notice that Thrain had stopped eating. He didn’t see Thorin’s jaw clenching tighter and tighter.
“You got your necklace back, didn’t you? Isn’t that the main thing?” Thrain cut in coldly.
The tension skyrocketed. Thranduil continued speaking, trying to explain, to justify, to make himself understood. He was completely lost in his own words, in his guilt, in his need to be understood. His usual icy control had vanished. Bard watched the scene with growing horror. He tried to catch Thranduil’s eye, to signal him to stop, but the Elf was too far gone. At the end of his patience, Thrain finally slammed his goblet on the table.
“By Durin’s beard, are you going to keep talking much longer?”
Thranduil blinked, as if coming out of a trance. He looked around the table: everyone was staring at him. Some amused, most annoyed. Bard had his face in his hands.
“I… appear to have lost track of time,” Thranduil said stiffly, his ears slightly red.
Bain snickered, Thorin hid a smile behind his cup. Bard finally intervened, his voice strained with suppressed laughter:
“Yes, my love. You spoke for twenty minutes straight.”
Thranduil remained seated, mortified but trying to maintain his dignity. He cleared his throat.
“A thousand apologies. Old wounds run deep.”
Thrain looked at him for a long moment, then, against all expectations, let out a low chuckle.
“Stubborn Elf. At least you admit it.”
The tension eased slightly. Old grudges didn’t disappear in one evening, but the dinner continued without bloodshed; between Dwarves and Elves, that was nothing short of a miracle.
Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges @bi-widower-dads @cherrrysthings
Bain and Legolas had had a spark of brilliant inspiration.
It was soon Bard’s birthday, and they wanted to give him “the most beautiful gift in the world”: a homemade fireworks display, made by themselves in the garden, with the help of Fili and Kili, who had found the ideal materials from the Dwarves.
“It’s going to be epic,” Bain had said, eyes shining.
“We’re going to call it ‘The Tribute to Bard’,” Legolas had added.
Thranduil was away for the day, which left them free to do whatever they wanted without him on their backs. They had spent the afternoon tinkering in the garage with the rockets provided by Fili and Kili, black powder, and an adorable childlike enthusiasm. In the evening, when it was dark enough, they set everything up in the garden to test their creation. It was only a rehearsal before the real evening.
“Ready?” Bain asked, lighter in hand.
“Ready,” Legolas replied, slightly less confident than his brother but not showing it.
The first rocket went off, barely rose two meters before exploding in a ridiculous “pof,” sending sparks everywhere. The second was worse: it shot horizontally like a missile and crashed into the hedge, which immediately caught fire.
“Shit shit shit!” Bain shouted, running with the garden hose.
Legolas tried to put out the other rockets with his feet, but one of them lit up by itself and spun off, whirling around the garden with a whistle.
At the height of the disaster, Thranduil’s car pulled into the driveway. Legolas’s father got out of the car, still in his suit, staring at his garden turned into a war zone: sparks everywhere, smoke, the hedge on fire, and his two sons running around like headless chickens.
“But what the…?!”
He dropped his briefcase and ran toward them in his expensive suit, grabbed the hose from Bain’s hands and started spraying the hedge like a firefighter in full crisis mode.
“Are you completely out of your minds?!” he yelled over the noise of the last fireworks still exploding.
Bain and Legolas froze, covered in soot and grass.
“It was for Da’s birthday…” Legolas tried in a small voice.
Thranduil turned toward them, hair disheveled, a black smudge on his cheek, and an absolutely furious expression.
“You nearly set the house on fire for a birthday?!”
At that moment, Bard arrived on the doorstep, alerted by the noise. He looked at the charred garden, the smoking hedge, his two sheepish sons, and Thranduil in a soaked suit, hose in hand.
He burst out laughing, genuinely, an uncontrollable fit of laughter that doubled him over. Thranduil shot him a murderous look.
“It’s not funny.”
“Oh yes it is,” Bard gasped, wiping his eyes. “You’ll understand when you look in the mirror.”
Bain and Legolas, seeing that Bard was laughing, started giggling nervously too. Thranduil stood there, dripping wet, surrounded by his devastated garden, and let out a long, defeated sigh. Bard approached, still shaking with laughter, and kissed him on the temple despite the smell of smoke. Thranduil groaned as he looked at Legolas and Bain who were giggling uncontrollably:
“Next time you have a brilliant idea, warn me. I’ll lock myself in the basement.”
Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges @bi-widower-dads @cherrrysthings
After the story of Thranduil’s giggling, Bard, still a little annoyed despite everything, decided to start a little revenge game. While Thranduil was getting ready for bed in the bathroom, he approached him from behind, slid his hands over his back, moving them slowly to reach and caress his stomach, his ribs with his fingertips, making him shiver. He kissed his shoulders, moving his hands up to his nipples which he slowly brushed. Thranduil relaxed under his fingers, already sighing with desire, but Bard stopped abruptly:
“Good night, my love,” he said with an innocent smile before leaving for the bedroom. Thranduil stared fixedly at his reflection in the mirror, frustrated. But Bard had forgotten who he was dealing with; and Thranduil was certainly not going to let it slide.
He waited until the next evening: he joined Bard in bed, slipped naked against him. He caressed him slowly, languorously, from his neck to his crotch, which he barely touched just enough to make him hard. Bard let out a moan of desire, grabbed his hand to pull him closer but Thranduil pulled back with a satisfied smile.
“Good night, my love,” he repeated Bard’s unbearable tone from the day before.
The game lasted a few days; each caress became bolder, each kiss deeper. And each time, one of them would stop just before the other lost their mind. The tension between them built up, until it became unbearable.
One evening, Thranduil pinned him against the mattress and spread his legs. Bard thought he was finally giving in. But he only rubbed against him, never penetrating.
“Stop playing,” Bard begged.
“You’re the one who started it,” Thranduil growled.
As the days passed, the game became more and more chaotic. They lost control at the same time one evening, half surprised to be on the same wavelength. They made love furiously, clumsily, desperately, both like two teenagers who couldn’t wait any longer. They made the bed creak as if threatening to break it, knocked over the bedside lamp. Thranduil banged his skull hard against the headboard while changing position. They came at the same time, in a mix of moans and curses. They then stayed lying down, sweaty, pressed against each other, trying to catch their breath.
The argument had been forgotten long ago. All that remained was this ridiculous, clumsy, and wonderfully chaotic revenge. But neither of them wanted to complain about it.
Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges @bi-widower-dads @cherrrysthings
