Send me “&” for my muses reaction to yours tracing one of their scars.
In hindsight, he thinks it great folly to have accepted Thranduil’s insistence to offering him some comfort repaid. A simple massage of the shoulders was all Bard had given to him, seeing so easily the stiffness that lingers in those heavy limbs, Bard had merely taken permission that was not given to place his hands upon another. With a roughness unbecoming, his weathered hands squeezed and kneading at the shoulders, the base of his neck, and even at times daring to dip beneath the high collar to work along the muscles there. He dared to touch what he had not the right to and this is his consequence?
He should practice his insolence more often.
The King of Dale is laid along his stomach, robes and tunic removed, boots cast away, unneeded. The loose white shirt is untucked from his trousers and his head rests comfortably upon folded arms. The first moment Thranduil touches him he inhales sharply, jolted by the feeling of Elvish fingers touching thusly. Tis not the first they have touched upon the bowman’s flesh, for first kisses shared between them were not without some none-so-gentle indulgence of hands as well. But more careful have they been of late and to feel Thranduil’s digits press on tired flesh is one to deliver chills along his spine, a tremor to burn through him. Bard hums with deep contentment, aware of each passing moment that this strain seeps out his bones as water through the riverbed. He is utterly malleable beneath these ha that Bard starts at the intrusion. nds, pliant to Thranduil’s command.
So at ease is he that it is a long moment after questing hands have already dipped beneath the loose shirt. Jaden gaze opens quickly, his shoulders beginning to rise but Thranduil is already pushing higher his shirt, revealing bare skin to the candlelight. How ugly are these old memories now? The King of Dale is lost for words as those healing fingers trace along lines of red and white. The freshest is still hidden, a patch of auburn and brown upon his shoulder. But to his surprise the Elvenking begins lower, finding a short but wide patch of abraised skin near to his tucked away rib cage.
“ A hunting accident. ” Bard speaks over his shoulder, embarrassed to have it seen at all. “ Or at least, the Master’s guard claimed it to be one. ” He hides not the bitter spite to his voice, freshly remembering the pain it had caused him, the outrage at such a vile attack. A long pause, and when he hears no comment from Thranduil he begins to turn his gaze until he feels the shifting of the bed beneath him and the warm press of two soft lips upon his hip. His mouth falls slack for brief moment at the tender touch, agape as he registers this sudden closeness between them. FOR ALL that questing hands have touched and teased each other, lips have not flirted away from lips or jaw, kisses constrained to hands and neck.
Higher from that short marring is another mark, one that Thranduil now also finds as Bard first feels the sensation of fingers that trace the top and bottom lines of it. “ BAIN, ” he explains in happier, lighter tones. “ A rogue arrow as first I taught him how to shoot. You’ll find another mark in similar make upon my other side. It’s twin.” Oh but the hum of warmth that thrums through his body as lips again follow it’s path and Bard allows his head to fall forward once more.
