Thranduil’s hair is so fine it catches the calluses on Bard’s reverent hands. It flows between his careful fingers like silk, like starlight, like silver; pooling around Thranduil’s naked shoulders. It is so soft — too soft, Bard thinks, to be touched by a man whose hands are as worn and rough as his. The full moon hangs heavy in the clear sky, moonlight spilling across the sheets and painting Thranduil in cool white light and shadows. Thranduil is more fey than ever in the night, a creature knitted of air and ice, but his mouth is hot and Bard can taste the wine they’ve shared on his lips.
There is hunger between them, riding low and raw in Bard’s belly. He cards his hands through Thranduil’s hair, tangling it between his fingers. There is fear too, battle-sharp and sweet, coiling through his need. Fear that this is a game, a dance of velvet and steel, that it will be Thranduil’s laughter, and not Thranduil’s touch, that will break him. He is ill-prepared for this, for the slide of Thranduil’s fingers and the taste of Thranduil’s skin.
He wants to kneel before Thranduil, bare knees on cold stone, those slender fingers on his face, on his throat. And he wants to wreck Thranduil, watch the bruises blossom on that porcelain skin, unravel Thranduil like a spool of thread until Thranduil comes shivering apart.
Thranduil’s breath catches and Bard realises he has tugged on the elf-king’s hair, pulling his head back to bare the pale column of his throat.
"Forgive me," he breathes against Thranduil’s mouth.
"I do not break so easily, Bowman," Thranduil murmurs, and Bard feels his lips curve in a smile as their mouths meet again.