Prompt: “Don’t touch me.” Day 13 of the Mating March writing challenge hosted by @monthlywritingchallenges
Word Count: 275
Summary: You rescue Dean from a vampire.
Warnings: Show level violence. Dean is the damsel in distress. Handsy female vampire. Hurt & Comfort.
“Don’t touch me,” Dean seethed.
His green eyes glittered in rage, his head tilted back in the female vampire’s grasp, exposing his neck to the tip of her nose. After inhaling deeply, she smirked on an exhale. Clearly relishing Dean’s disgust.
“What’s the matter, Winchester?” She licked up his neck to the base of his ear and whispered hotly there, “I’ll be gentle, baby, don’t you worry.”
Dean’s face contorted; his body rigid in the vamp’s grasp.
“Hey,” you spoke just loud enough to get her attention.
The moment she whirled to face you, your machete was already slicing through the meat of her neck.
“Hands off,” you growled, your voice steel as you watched her head roll and her body slump to the floor. Dean visibly relaxed upon seeing you.
“Cut that kind of close, didn’t you?”
Your eyes gentled when they landed on him. Immediately, you worked on setting him free from his binds.
“What happened?”
“She got the jump on me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, just – in dire need of a hot shower.”
Your hands pat across his chest, turned his chin from side to side to confirm that Dean was in fact alright.
“That was unbelievably hot by the way,” Dean added to get your attention off him.
You stared dryly into his face.
“She must have banged your head pretty good. You probably have a concussion.”
He scoffed and allowed you to wrap one of his arms around your shoulders to then encircle your own around his waist.
“Thank you,” he quietly said, after taking a few steps.
You tightened your hold around his waist and looked at him.
MATING MARCH MASTERLIST | 2026
Hosted by @monthlywritingchallenges
[A03] [Fanfiction.net] [Wattpad]
Again (3.9k words)
Hyakkimaru x Reader
summary: Hyakkimaru stumbles into your house bleeding and running on instinct. You feed him. You clean him. You teach him what it means to be touched. He only knows one word afterwards: again.
warnings/themes: Reader Insert, Sex Worker!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Strangers to Lovers, Blood and Injury, Vaginal Sex, Hand Jobs, Creampies, Multiple Orgasms/Rounds, Sexual Overstimulation, Loss of Virginity, Sexual Discovery, Possessive Behaviour, Touch-Starved, Canon Compliant.
A new week begins with a kind of light you'd forgotten to expect. Winter's been pushed back just enough to invite you outside for your morning routine for the first time in months. The pale boards of your porch have been drinking in sunlight since early morning, leaving them warm beneath your bare feet.
You sit on the edge of the wooden engawa, your feet dangling over the dirt as you watch the mist cling to the cedar trees, the edge of the forest pressing in close to the deck. It is a quiet morning, the kind that usually precedes a long day of waiting for a traveller with enough grain or coin to justify opening your sliding doors.
You drink what passes for tea. It gives your hands something to do. The bowl—still chipped where your father used to hold it—reminds you of him, his thumb worrying the same spot every morning. Now the bowl is yours, and the house is much too quiet to pretend otherwise.
You've been alone since your father's heart gave out two years ago, leaving only his battered fishing knife and a debt you can't afford. You had to learn quickly how to keep yourself alive, how to trade what little you had. Keep your eyes lowered without looking broken, talk as though you've done this forever, even when your stomach is growling with hunger.
Smoke seeps from the chimney, drifting and curling into the pale blue of the sky. If you hold perfectly still, you can hear the world breathing; wind weaving through bamboo, a magpie chirping somewhere past the garden, your own heart knocking softly behind your ribs.
You swallow the last mouthful of tea and set the bowl down beside you. The forest beyond the deck shivers with movement. Your fingers close instinctively around the knife at your hip.
Men often stumble out of those trees. Hungry men, violent men, drunk men with their belts already loose, soldiers with a lot of coin and as much contempt to match. The life of a woman alone in these woods is nothing but a series of transactions, and nowadays you have grown far too used to the weight of calloused hands and the smell of cheap sake on the breath of men who do not know your name. It's a humiliation you swallow like medicine.
But the figure that emerges isn't a soldier or a drunken lech. That's why you notice him right away—not because he's a man in the woods, but because he moves wrong.
He isn't trying to sneak. He carries no arrogant swagger. He sways, catching himself on a sapling that bends under his weight. His cloak is torn and darkened in places where it's been wet. When he turns his head, it doesn't track the way people do when they see a house. It turns as if he's listening for it.
He comes closer in short, halting adjustments, bare toes finding the edge of the clearing by accident rather than aim. He's younger than the soldiers who've shoved your shoji open, younger than the men who've thrown rice at your feet as payment, but he carries himself like someone who's been old for years.
He is not very tall; he's wiry, pale, and made of hard angles beneath the rags, with jet-black hair that's tied back in a messy ponytail. Bandages cover too much of him. And his arms—your breath catches at those—are not arms at all. Wood, shaped like flesh, jointed, the colour too warm to match his face.
You jump up from the engawa, heart racing in your chest. "You there, are you hurt?"
His face turns toward your voice. His eyes are wrong, a dull brown glass that doesn't quite settle, yet his attention lands with unnerving accuracy, as if whatever he uses in place of sight has already found your shape. He is covered in grime and dried blood, his skin marred by fresh scrapes.
"Dororo?" He asks. The name is small and breathless, heavy with a longing that makes your chest ache.
"There's no Dororo here," you say. You see the way he sags, the determination in his shoulders wilting. "Come. I have broth. It's not much, but it's hot."
He blinks. Now that he's closer, you notice the dark stain spreading across the front of his kimono.
"You're bleeding," you tell him. You step back and slide your shoji door open wider. "Come, come. Slowly. There's a step."
He nods once, abruptly, then pitches forward. You catch his weight as best you can, staggering beneath him as you cross the threshold into your home. His skin is burning, fever-hot. He smells of rain and blood.
You lead him inside. The shoji doors creak as you slide them shut, sealing out the damp forest air. The tatami gives under his feet, and his body tenses at the sound, at the change in texture. His wooden forearms lift slightly, bracing on instinct—and as you steady him, you see the truth of it: only one limb looks like it's truly his. His left leg is also carved from wood, fitted and finished with a care you could never afford if such a thing ever happened to you. Even so, there's something naturally sure about the way he carries himself, like steadiness is his default, and it's only the blood loss and the long hours on the road that have stolen it from him.
"Alone?" He says.
"Yes," you answer, because lying feels useless. "I'll fetch you some food. Sit."
He makes no sound, only turns his clouded gaze in your direction as you work, kindling the fire, filling a pot. You heat what little you have: broth thin enough to show the bottom of the pot, a fistful of greens, a crust of bread you baked yesterday and have been saving for yourself. When you set it in front of him, he leans in, his nostrils flaring over the steam. He doesn't lift the bowl right away. His hands hover uncertainly over it.
"It's for you. Eat." You say, and guide his hands to the rim.
Then his head dips, and something like relief loosens his shoulders. "Eat," he echoes, and the sound of it is almost boyish.
He eats like someone who has forgotten that food can be warm and offered without a price. When he's done, he sits very still, bowl empty, mouth slightly open as if waiting for the next instruction.
You fetch a basin and a cloth without turning your back for long. When you kneel back down in front of him, he stiffens again.
"Let me see," you say.
You move to peel back the fabric of his torn kimono. The sight steals your breath. His chest is crisscrossed with half-healed wounds, his stomach marked by old scars and fresh bruises which bloom beneath the bandages. His muscles are as hard and pale as river stone. A line of red slices across his chest, not deep enough to be dangerous, but raw enough to make him flinch when the air hits it. His prosthetic arm swings out—not meaning to strike, but as a reflex. You catch the wooden wrist gently. It is cold and hard, and smells of old lacquer.
"I have water," you explain, softly. "For your wounds."
You dip the cloth, wring it out, and begin to clean. When you dab at the cut over his pectoral, he gasps. It doesn't sound like he's in pain. Surprise, maybe, at being touched gently instead of grabbed. He leans into the sensation, his eyes rolling back slightly.
"Warm," he mutters. It's barely a word, more of a discovery.
"Fighting?" you ask, as you close the cloth over his wound.
He nods. "Demons." Each of his words come jagged, not quite right, as if his tongue is still new to the shape of them.
His throat moves. "I... smell... you."
You pause, feeling an unwanted heat crawl up your neck. "It's soap. I can give you some, if you want?"
You work in silence for a while, cleaning blood from his skin. A shudder runs through him every time the warm cloth touches him, then—unexpectedly—he reaches for you. One of his wooden hands comes up and rests against your cheek.
The prosthetic is clumsy, the hard wood cold against your skin, but his touch is feather-light. He presses his forehead against yours with a sudden, bruising intensity. It's overwhelmingly intimate, like he is searching for something—seeing the heat of you, feeling the life of you.
"You," he says, his voice a low vibration. "Soft."
Your breath shivers out of you. He is so close you can count each one of his eyelashes, the damp black fall of his hair, a pale seam where his lip was once split. You've been touched by many men, but never with this kind of unfiltered wonder. Although his eyes don't see your face, his soul seems to be drinking you in.
He stays like that, silent and unmoving, as your hand moves from his chest down to his stomach, trailing the water over the ridges of his muscles. You move in the same way you always do—efficient, gentle where you can be. You don't linger. You don't make it something it isn't. But his body makes it something.
His breath changes. You feel it under your palm as you wipe across his skin, the quickening rhythm, the small tremor that runs through him. When you move lower, his hips jerk.
His head tilts back from your forehead. When you glance up, you see his lips have parted, his cheeks have flushed pink. His hand slides down your neck, his wooden fingers catching in the collar of your robe. He doesn't know how to ask, so he simply pulls.
"More," he demands, tongue pressing to his teeth as if coaxing words into shape. "Touch. There."
Something twists inside you. You search his face, trying to understand the hunger in him. It doesn't feel like lust; you've had plenty of men pay you for this. You've had men demand it. No one has ever sounded like they're just asking for water. It isn't entitlement. It's discovery.
He's half-undressed, kimono pooled around his hips, hakama loose and binding low on his waist. You hesitate, eyes tracing the lines of him without meaning to: the hollow beneath his collarbones, the faint shadow of muscle where his ribs descend, the pale sprawl of his stomach rising and falling.
Too beautiful for this world, you think dimly. Or maybe just too unfinished.
His head tilts as if he senses your pause. His hand lifts again, that odd, careful prosthetic brushing your wrist. He guides it down, not rough, but urgent, as if he's terrified you'll stop.
His brows draw together. Confusion flickers across his face, then frustration—not at you, at his own lack of language. "Feels good," he says. "…here."
He places your hand over his groin. He's hard, pulsing and twitching with a need he clearly doesn't quite understand. You could pull away. You should. Instead, you cover his hand with yours and ask him his name.
"Hyakkimaru."
"Hyakkimaru," you repeat, testing it. It fits in your mouth like something sharp. "That's… that's not cleaning."
He swallows. His voice comes out rough, stripped down. "Touch. Please."
It's so clumsy and sincere you can't pretend it means nothing. His face has gone taut with sensation—brows drawn, mouth parted like he doesn't have words for any of it. You've seen this a hundred times, in a hundred different shapes. But never like this—never so unguarded, so honestly undone. He watches with his body instead of his eyes, leaning toward sensation like a starving man offered bread.
So you slip your fingers beneath his fundoshi.
When your palm closes around the length of him, he loses all composure. He is a storm. He thrusts upward into your hand, his prosthetic arms thudding against the mats, his teeth gritted. His forehead drops forward, hair brushing your shoulder, and his next breath shudders violently through him.
"Oh—" He stops. Starts again. "Good. So… good."
You move as slowly and as carefully as you can, watching his face, reading his tells: the tightening around his mouth, the way his throat works, letting him learn the feeling instead of overwhelming him. His cock is hot, weeping, impossibly sensitive. His hips begin to move on their own, chasing your touch, grinding desperately. You murmur soft things—nonsense, really, meant to soothe—and guide him gently, but he's already unravelling.
He doesn't last long. It's almost as though his body has been waiting years for permission to do this. Within seconds, his body jolts, and he spills over your hand and his own stomach. The sound he makes is strangled, loud, embarrassed by nothing. He goes rigid, then collapses forward, breathing hard.
You hold still until he settles. Then reach for the cloth to clean him, but he grabs your wrist. His head turns, mouth brushing your hair.
"Again," he says hoarsely.
You blink. "Again?"
He nods. "Again. More."
You laugh before you can stop yourself. It slips out, startled and breathless. "You don't waste time, do you?"
He doesn't seem embarrassed—not even a little. If anything, there's a growing intensity in him now, like something fundamental has been woken and refuses to lie back down.
You realise he won't let you go. You stand to move the basin, and he follows at once, pushing himself upright without reaching for you, without wobbling, even on the tatami. That suspicion from earlier settles into certainty: he can walk just fine. It's the injuries that brought him down, not his body.
"Need," he says, trailing after you. His hand brushes your hip—accidental, then not. "Need you."
Your mouth goes dry.
You turn slowly, studying him. He's flushed now, colour blooming high across his cheekbones, his body alive in a way it hadn't been before. Desire sits on him awkwardly, uneven, like a child trying on armour that's too big—but the hunger beneath it is sharp and real.
"You've never…" You hesitate, then ask softly. "No one's done this for you. Have they?"
He shakes his head once. "Didn't know," he admits. Then quieter: "Only felt... pain."
You glance down at your own clothes; simple, patched, tied and retied so many times they've learned your shape. You've undressed for strangers with dead eyes and rough hands. Undressing for someone who seems to worship the idea of skin feels far more dangerous.
You loosen the ties anyway.
"Alright," you whisper, your heart softening at the sheer desperation in him. "Alright."
Your clothes fall away in quiet layers. Air kisses places that have been touched for money and never for gentleness. You feel exposed in a way you haven't in years, even though he can't see you.
You move closer and guide his hands to you. To your hips, then up to your breasts. He drags his wooden fingertips across the swell of your curves, then pauses, listening to your breath. When he leans forward instinctively and takes your nipple into his mouth, the sound he makes borders on a sob.
He's awkward at first, licking at your skin, learning the same way he learned his way around your house—by trial, by listening. When you guide him with your hand at his jaw, your fingers in his hair, he follows like he's been waiting for instruction his whole life.
His body resets, heat gathering again with alarming speed. His hands slide to your waist, not fumbling now. The first taste has made him greedy, and his body doesn't seem interested in learning patience.
He shifts his hips forward, searching, and when he finds what he's looking for, he makes a sound like relief. His cock nudges insistently between your thighs, a blunt, untrained certainty; some buried part of him that recognises where he belongs.
Your body responds despite you. You make a sound you haven't made in front of anyone in a long time: not a practised sigh meant to please, but something honest, startled out of you.
"Here," he breathes, broken and urgent.
He hauls you with him before you can think better of it, backing you out of the room in quick, blind steps that never miss their mark. The basin sloshes as you brush past it. The wooden floor is colder than the tatami when your knees hit, but he doesn't hesitate—pulling you close, angling you the way a body does when it already knows the answer.
You fit together clumsily at first, until sensation hits him again and he ruts deep inside you, gasping. He loses himself in the warmth, in the softness, and goes wide-eyed in the most human way.
When he starts to move, it's with a frantic, uncoordinated power. He isn't trying to please you; he is trying to consume the feeling of being inside you. Every time his hips hit yours, the wooden joints of his arms creak, and he lets out a series of broken, guttural sounds.
"Tight... Feels—good. So good. Inside." He babbles, his speech fracturing under the weight of the pleasure. You pull him up to kiss you because you want to feel his mouth on yours, because you want to decide this for yourself. He whines and clings, forehead bumping your cheek as if he's trying to fit his whole face into the comfort you're giving.
The way he moves is driven by need, by instinct, by that animal urgency born from first taste. He breaks again too soon, breath tearing, body shaking with the force of it, and you can't stop your laugh this time—quiet and incredulous. "Already?" you whisper.
He turns his face toward your voice, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to his brow with sweat. "Again," he says immediately, as if that's the only word he has left.
You stare at him, and then you laugh harder, the sound bubbling up despite the ache building between your thighs. It's absurd. It's almost sweet. It's almost tragic.
You shouldn't. Your body is already tender, already edging into sore. But you're the one who knows how to make the world bearable for someone, if only for a little while. You've done it for cruel men who left you nothing but bruises. Doing it for someone who looks at kindness like it's a miracle feels like stealing something back.
So you do it again.
The second time is longer, slower, only because his body is forced to catch up to his mind. You hold his face, speak into his ear, anchor him with your voice. When he starts to buck harder and faster into you, you tap your finger against his cheek and say, "Gentle," and he slows down at once, obedient as a dog that wants to be good.
You wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the strange contrast of his warm, fleshy thigh and the cold, unyielding wood of the other. He is worshipful in his greed. He tastes every inch of your neck, his tongue searching for the salt on your skin.
When he comes again, his face screws tight with the ache, his body finally learning its limits. He collapses against you afterwards, panting, face pressed to your shoulder.
The second time bleeds messily into the third. Your thighs are shaking, your body humming with a dull ache that is both pleasant and exhausting. He is still on top of you, his weight heavy, his prosthetic arm pinned beside your head. You're breathless, overstimulated, laughing helplessly when he begins to stir again, his hips giving a small, hopeful nudge against yours.
You push at his shoulder gently. "No."
His head snaps up. Confusion flashes. "Hurt?" he asks immediately.
"I'm not hurt," you reassure him, giggling softly. "Just... too much of a good thing."
You reach up and brush a lock of black hair from his sightless eyes. "You need to rest. You have a friend to find, remember? Dororo?"
The name acts like a cold splash of water. His shoulders tense.
"Dororo," he repeats. The name comes out like regret.
You exhale slowly. "You're still thinking about them."
He nods, the movement small. "Lost..."
"Then you'll go find them," you tell him. "After you've rested..."
His mouth tightens. He turns his face toward you, forehead brushing yours the way he did when he first walked into your house, like that's the only language he's certain of. "You… good," he says, clumsily. "Kind."
You swallow past the sudden ache in your throat. "Don't go calling me good," you murmur. "You don't know anything about me."
He shakes his head. "I know."
You guide him back down onto the tatami, feeling the way his body is still trembling beneath your touch, and pull a blanket over him. For a moment, he lies rigid, as if rest is just another kind of trap, his shoulders held too high, breath caught shallow in his chest.
Then your hand finds his hair.
You smooth it back from his forehead, and the tension begins to leak out of him in small, reluctant increments. His one real leg slides beneath the blanket, searching. It hooks around yours at the calf, then higher—an unthinking hold, possessive without meaning to be. When you don't pull away, when you let him keep you there, his exhale comes out longer, heavier.
After a while, his breathing slows. And when his lashes finally lower, it's not surrender so much as a pause, a brief, fragile allowance. You keep stroking his hair anyway, even after his face softens, even after the line of his mouth unclenches, watching over him while he drifts for a little while, as though you can teach him what safety feels like simply by staying.
You stay like that for a few hours, until his concern for his friend finally wins out.
"Dororo," he says again, rough with sleep.
You feel him gather himself, whatever is scraped and aching in him not enough to stop him anymore. Worry doesn't leave room for it.
He untangles his leg from yours with obvious reluctance, but the decision has already been made; his body turning toward duty even while his hand hovers, searching for you one last time.
You help him tie his clothes back on. He lets you, head angled toward you the whole time. When you press the cleaned cloth against his chest and retie the bandage, he flinches less than before.
At the door, he hesitates. His hand cups your face again, familiar now.
"You go," you say gently. "Find your friend."
His throat works. "I come back."
It's not a promise dressed up in pretty words. It's simple. Dangerous. True.
He slides the door open and vanishes into the mist of the cedars, leaving you alone in the silence of the woods, the scent of him still clinging to your skin.
You slide the shoji closed behind him and lean your forehead to the paper, feeling the thinness of it between you and the world. Your body aches in a way that is not unpleasant, and that alone feels like a small betrayal of the life you've lived.
In the woods, his footfalls fade.
The bowl on the hearth is still chipped where your father once held it.
You pick it up and drink the last of the tea, and you don't know whether you're smiling or simply trying not to cry.
Shane lay face‑down on his nest , half buried in blankets, phone buzzing against his cheek. He was exhausted, the last few games had been hard wins and on ice fights.
A message popped up.
Ilya: You are tired, zaychik. I can almost smell it from here.🛌
Shane squinted at the screen.
Shane: You can smell me through text now? That’s a new superpower.
Another buzz.
Ilya: Da. Your sleepy scent is strong. Honey and chamomile and that tea you like. Rise. Like warm air.
Shane snorted into his pillow.
Shane: R U kidding me? You have all my scents memorized?
Ilya replied instantly.
Ilya: Yes, Hollander. I do.😍
Shane rolled onto his back, smiling even though he wished Ilya was with him.
Shane: Oh yeah? Prove it.
There was a pause. Then:
Ilya: Right now you smell tired. Soft.Lilac and Dryer Sheets. Like when you fall asleep on couch and pretend you were “resting your eyes.”
Shane groaned.
Shane: I was pretending.
Ilya: You were drooling, zaychik.
Shane covered his face with his arm.
Shane: Okay fine. What else?
Ilya: When you are annoyed, you smell bleach and citrus. You get this little wrinkle in your nose too. Very cute. Very dangerous.For me.
Shane laughed.
Shane: Dangerous? Really?
Ilya: Da. You look like you will fight with pillow, not fist.
Shane: Maybe I will.
Ilya: I will hold your coat.🧥
Shane snorted so hard he coughed.
Shane: Okay, what about when I’m happy?
Ilya: Easy. You smell like flowers insunshine. Warm sugar. And your heartbeat gets fast. You bounce. Literally bounce. Like little rabbit.
Shane: I do NOT bounce.
Ilya: You bounce, zaychik. I have video.
Shane: Delete it.
Ilya: Never.😈
Shane kicked his blankets off. Huffed.
Shane: Alright, alpha genius. What about when I’m… y’know. Nervous.
Ilya took a moment before answering.
Ilya: You smell like spring rain. Like the air before storm. And you look everywhere but at me. Your hands shake. You try to hide it.
Shane swallowed.
Shane: You always notice that?☺️
Ilya: Always. I know all your moods. All your scents. All your tells. You are mine. I pay attention.
Shane’s chest tightened in that good way.
Shane: Okay. Last one. What do I smell like when I miss you?
The reply came slower this time.
Ilya: Lonely. Quiet. Like cold empty room.Withered leaves. I hate that one.
Shane’s breath caught.
Shane: Yeah. Me too.
A final message buzzed through.
Ilya: Come sleep now, zaychik. I will be there soon. I want real scent, not phone scent.💕
Shane smiled into his pillow, eyes already closing.
Mating March 4 & 6. Close & Protective Touch- Odypen
It started with a presence at her side.
Penelope, in any other circumstance, wouldn't have noticed it. She would, at most, move slightly so Odysseus could be closer. Perhaps she would have offered her hand and he would take it, gently squeezing her hand.
However, her marriage had been anything but normal.
She noticed it, with the concern that the deer felt that hunters were close. She had been hounded and hunted for over twenty years by men who wanted her throne, her kingdom, her body.
A hand brushed hers.
She felt herself relax- not fully, not yet, but just a bit. She knew those hands. She had memorized them like she had done when they were first married. They were rougher, with more calluses, but they were still warm and familiar.
In front of the mirror in their bedroom in Greenwood, Bard stared at his reflection with a desperate expression. Tonight, for the first time, Thranduil had asked—no, required—his presence at some kind of charity gala. All the greatest lords of Middle-earth would be there. So Bard felt absolutely no pressure. None whatsoever. Not for a single second.
He had managed to get himself a ridiculous suit and was desperately trying to tie the bow tie around his neck. He heard Thranduil call him.
“I’m in the bedroom!” he shouted back, flustered, stressed, and irritated.
He heard the rustle of fabric and saw Thranduil step inside. Bard’s jaw nearly unhinged, and his eyes widened in alarm.
“You’re not wearing a suit?!” he exclaimed, his voice climbing to an unusual pitch.
“What? Of course not!”
“What do you mean, of course not?! You told me it was a fancy event!”
“It is. That’s precisely why I’m wearing this.” Thranduil gestured to his attire.
Bard’s eyes swept over him, and with every passing second, the panic grew. Thranduil’s outfit was dark, but not entirely black. The fabric seemed to absorb the light as much as it reflected it, flashes of silver and midnight blue appearing with each movement. The long coat fell to the floor, heavy and elegant, shaping his silhouette without weighing it down. Beneath it, his tunic was intricately crafted, adorned with delicate patterns reminiscent of stylized branches and leaves. The cut was tailored, emphasizing the narrowness of his waist and the straightness of his shoulders.
Then Bard’s gaze traveled upward, and he choked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What now?!”
Around his forehead was a metal crown, like twisted branches. Fine, almost organic, it looked more shaped by the forest than by any artisan’s hand.
“You’re wearing a fucking crown!!!” Bard clutched his head and turned back toward the mirror. “Look at me! I look like a… like a valet!”
“Oh, come now, you’re perfect.” Thranduil turned him gently to face him and tied the bow tie with flawless—and deeply irritating—dexterity. Then his hands moved to Bard’s hair, holding his face still as he kissed him. Bard shivered at the contact of Thranduil’s thin lips against his fuller ones. But for once, the shiver wasn’t desire or love—it was fear and apprehension.
They looked at each other for a few seconds. Bard almost suggested staying here in Greenwood while Thranduil joined his friends, but his lover beat him to it.
“Come on. We must go or we’ll be late.”
Not having the heart to crush his enthusiasm, Bard sighed, cast one last look at his reflection, and followed him downstairs. Legolas and Bain were on the couch, backpacks ready.
“We’re ready, boys. Let’s go,” Thranduil said, gesturing for them to stand.
The two teenagers looked at their fathers with obvious admiration.
“You both look amazing,” Bain said, hugging Bard, who smiled and kissed the top of his head.
“Thanks, kid.”
“Thank you, Bain,” Thranduil smiled, taking his car keys.
They all got in, the two teens chatting cheerfully in the back while Bard’s leg trembled uncontrollably—and stubbornly. Thranduil noticed, of course, but merely raised a concerned eyebrow.
They dropped the teenagers off at Haldir’s—they had plans of their own. Then they drove toward the gala venue. As they approached, Bard felt a terrible nausea rising in him. He was hot; his heart felt painfully tight. He rolled down the window and inhaled deeply as cool air rushed into the car.
“Are you alright?” Thranduil asked, placing a hand on his thigh and squeezing gently.
“Yes… yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
Thranduil didn’t press, but he knew Bard was lying.
They arrived in front of the luxurious building, lining up behind countless cars. A young man opened their door and took the keys in exchange for a ticket. Thranduil bit his lip—he was dressed just like Bard. Judging by Bard’s pallor, he had noticed too. Thranduil took his hand, laced their fingers together, showing his support and love through the gesture, and they climbed the stairs to join the celebration inside.
Immediately, Bard’s discomfort deepened. It wasn’t just elves. There were Men—Denethor, Theoden—richly dressed. Thorin’s father was there, and Gimli’s as well. None of them were dressed as modestly as Bard. And the elves were worse.
A beautiful blonde approached Thranduil with a smile. He greeted her.
“Good evening, Galadriel. May I present Bard, my companion.”
Her smile was kind when she looked at him, but Bard still felt out of place.
“May I borrow him for a few moments?” she asked politely.
“I’ll be right back,” Thranduil smiled as he followed her.
Bard nodded and found a quiet corner, away from conversations, grabbing champagne glasses from silver trays carried by servers. More than once, someone asked if he was working the event. Politely, he replied that he was accompanying Thranduil.
He kept watching him. Then he began noticing the looks from others. First directed at him—the eyes assessing him, then turning away, mocking smiles, stifled laughter followed by glances to gauge his reaction. Then directed at Thranduil. Men and women glancing at Bard before openly devouring Thranduil with their eyes.
Bard knew exactly what they were whispering: how could they possibly be together? Him, a bargeman, with a wealthy elven lord?
The nausea returned. The champagne he had swallowed didn’t help. Thranduil was like a fish in water: his beautiful cape swirling as he moved from one elf to a lord’s wife, then speaking with Thrain and Gloin, then turning toward an elf who practically devoured him with her gaze while her husband offered his arm. In full display, Thranduil smiled, laughed, nodded to every word, seemingly unaware that he was surrounded by sycophants.
Bard had seen enough.
He slipped out through a half-open door into the park bordering the building. The cool air struck his face but calmed nothing. He tugged angrily at his bow tie, nearly ripping it off, stuffing it into his pocket as if he could rid himself of the entire evening.
Music drifted behind him. Laughter rose in waves. Through the tall windows he saw elegant silhouettes turning on the dance floor, gowns shimmering, impeccable suits—and Thranduil, still impeccable, still at the center.
Bard walked further, aimless among trimmed hedges and white statues. His steps grew less steady as the champagne took hold. His vision blurred slightly—not enough to fall, but enough to make everything too bright, too distant. He finally sat at the edge of a fountain. Water murmured softly. Almost soothing. Almost.
The alcohol slid through his veins, heavy in his limbs, loosening his thoughts. What he had seen replayed in his mind: the looks, the smiles, the hands lingering too long on his man. Then the different looks directed at him—mocking. How could they be together? He knew the answer. He simply couldn’t bear it.
He barely heard someone call his name. It was the shadow of a cape blocking the light that forced him to look up. Thranduil: magnificent, impeccable—and furious. Bard attempted a crooked smile.
“I’ve been looking for you for an hour.”
His voice was low, controlled.
“Oh yeah?” Bard muttered. “I was right here.”
Thranduil crouched to his level. The contrast between his splendid attire and Bard’s drunken state was cruel. He slid his hand beneath Bard’s chin, lifting his face.
“You’re drunk.”
Bard shrugged loosely. Thranduil glanced around, making sure they were alone.
“You’re ashamed of me, aren’t you?” Bard said with a bitter laugh.
Thranduil’s face hardened slightly.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m ashamed of your behavior. Not of you.”
He took out the car keys.
“Can you find the car?”
Bard’s eyes were bright—whether from alcohol or humiliation, hard to tell.
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah!”
Thranduil’s patience was thinning.
“Very well. Go wait for me in the car. And don’t you dare vomit inside.”
He stood and offered his hand. Bard looked at it, ignored it, and pulled himself up alone, nearly losing his balance before steadying himself against the fountain. Thranduil didn’t move to help. He watched him stagger down the gravel path, the elegance of the evening definitively shattered. When Bard disappeared behind the hedges, Thranduil briefly closed his eyes. Then he straightened his shoulders, adjusted his cape impeccably, and returned inside. Obligations first. Explanations after.
When he came back, Bard was slumped in the passenger seat, his head resting against the cold window. Thranduil sat behind the wheel and started the engine.
He drove, back rigid. Bard watched the scenery pass by, nausea returning—not just from champagne.
When they entered the house, Thranduil removed his cape with a sharp motion and set the crown on the console.
“What were you thinking?”
The question fell immediately. Bard looked up.
“What?”
“Don’t mock me.” His voice was low, tense. “Leaving without a word. Drinking until you could barely stand. Sitting outside while I searched for you.”
“You searched for me?” Bard laughed bitterly. “You were with Galadriel. Then with Thrain. Then with I don’t even know how many others. When exactly were you planning to come back to me?”
Thranduil’s eyes darkened.
“I left you for five minutes.”
“Five minutes?” Bard stepped closer. “You left me in a room where people were asking if I was serving champagne!”
Silence snapped between them.
“Who said that?” Thranduil demanded.
“How should I know!”
“You were gone. Like I was supposed to just manage. Like I belonged there.”
“You did.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“And you didn’t even notice.”
Thranduil’s jaw tightened.
“I was speaking with allies, friends, clients.”
“You were shining in the middle of bootlickers.”
The words were harsher than Bard intended. Thranduil’s eyes darkened further.
“You would have preferred I stayed glued to you all evening?”
“Yes!”
Lower now:
“Yes. At least a little.”
His voice had lost its aggression.
“You knew I hated this. You knew I didn’t know anyone there.”
“You could have spoken to the people around you.”
“They were discussing lands, contracts, lineages, treaties. I’m a bargeman, Thranduil. Not a diplomat. You abandoned me.”
“I did not abandon you.”
But there was hesitation now.
“I believed you capable.”
“Capable of what? Of enduring being looked at like a mistake?”
Thranduil’s gaze shifted.
“A mistake?”
“That’s what they thought. All of them. They looked at you like I didn’t belong beside you. And I started wondering if they were right.”
Thranduil’s anger cracked—not completely.
“You don’t need to compare yourself to them.”
“Easy to say when you were born for rooms like that,” Bard replied bitterly.
Thranduil stepped closer.
“You think I like those evenings?”
“You looked perfectly at ease.”
“Because I learned. Because I had no choice. I was not born for it either.”
The words hung there.
“But I do not drown my discomfort in alcohol. And I never have.”
Bard looked away. The confession finally slipped out.
“I was jealous. I needed to forget.”
“Jealous of what?”
“Everything.”
His voice was rough.
“The way they look at you. The way you seem to belong to them more than to me in those moments.”
That was the truth.
“I do not belong to them. And I do not belong to you either.”
Bard flinched.
“I know.”
“Then stop acting as though you must defend me from glances. That is not protection. That is fear. What are you afraid of? That I will leave you at a party because you are not dressed as richly as the others? I love you. I prove it every day. I do not care what they think of you, of me, of us. I care about us. About our family.”
Bard lowered his eyes.
“I was proud to bring you tonight. Proud to have you on my arm.” He sighed. “Go to bed. And drink a large glass of water first, so you do not wake with a dreadful hangover.”
He took the crown and went upstairs without looking back. Bard remained alone in the entryway, went to the kitchen, opened the tap, drank from his hands. The cold water brought him brutally back to himself.
His head throbbed as he climbed the stairs. The bedroom door was ajar, light still on. Bard pushed it open quietly and closed it behind him. Thranduil was already beneath the sheets; he had changed. Bard undressed in silence but felt Thranduil’s gaze on him.
“I should have come back to you sooner. I’m sorry,” Thranduil said as Bard slid beside him, adjusting the covers over them both.
“I should have tried to talk instead of behaving like an idiot.”
Thranduil’s mouth twitched.
“It is only performance. Our relationship, our love, our family… that is real. That is who I am. But I must provide for our family. As you rise every morning to work, I must attend such evenings.”
Bard nodded. His fingers brushed Thranduil’s. He began shifting restlessly, turning from one side to the other, then onto his back, even onto his stomach—something he never did.
“I can’t help it. I need to fuck after that. I want to fuck. Don’t you want to fuck?” Bard propped himself on one elbow, hand already on his chest. Thranduil raised an eyebrow.
“You need to fuck? Charming phrasing.”
“Oh, come on. I’m drunk. I always want it more when I’m drunk.” He kissed his shoulder, licked it, his tongue still feverish.
“So you want me because you are drunk? How reassuring.”
“Come on… you know what I mean. I really want to be submissive tonight… in every sense.”
Thranduil did not answer immediately. He studied him—the uninhibited smile, the heat. He was tempted. Very tempted. But the hand that had rested on Bard’s hip withdrew.
“No.”
“What, no? You want me to take control?”
“I will not sleep with you tonight.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You’re drunk. I will not take advantage of that.”
“But I’m the one asking.”
“You are not thinking clearly.”
Bard froze, then his face closed.
“Great.”
He rolled away dramatically, pulling the blanket to his chin.
“Good night.”
“You’re sulking?”
“No… maybe.”
“What are you? Five?”
“Leave me alone.”
But he did not move further away.
Thranduil watched the tense line of his back. Then he moved closer, slipped an arm around his waist.
“I am not rejecting you. I am protecting you. Even from yourself. Tomorrow, if you still tell me you want me… I will listen.”
Bard grumbled.
“I always want you.”
“I know. You are insatiable.”
“Says the one always asking for more.”
He shifted back against him, just slightly.
“You’re annoying.”
“I know.”
Thranduil’s hand rested more firmly on his stomach. Bard exhaled.
“Good night…”
Thranduil pressed a long kiss into his hair.
“Good night.”
He was still pouting a little, but Bard eventually fell asleep against him—too proud to admit it, and utterly incapable of sleeping without him.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Flins/Illuga (Genshin Impact)
Characters: Flins (Genshin Impact), Illuga (Genshin Impact)
Additional Tags: Mutual Pining, Wound Care, Misunderstandings, Kissing, Romantic Tension
Summary:
During a sudden Wild Hunt attack, Flins comes to Illuga's aid--just happening to be in the area. One manages to get a hit on him. When all is calm, Illuga takes him back to his temporary camp to fix him up, and Flins finds his self-control slipping more than is wise.
For @monthlywritingchallenges mating march, prompt 2: territorial
