#matingmarch

“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.

“Anytime.”

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The car is right there. You can see the glossy black door waiting beyond the barricades, the suited driver standing by it with the kind of stiff posture that says he has been told not to react to anything short of a missile. It is maybe twenty feet away. Twenty feet and an entire wall of people.

Camera flashes keep firing in your face. Somebody on your left is calling your hero name in a voice that turns shrill on the last syllable. Another fan has shoved a programme booklet over the barrier and is pleading for an autograph. There is perfume in the air, hairspray, somebody’s takeout coffee, the expensive powdery smell still clinging to your gala clothes after three straight hours of smiles and handshakes inside the ballroom.

You sign the booklet. You smile for a selfie. You tell yourself you can do ten more seconds of this, then five, then just enough to reach the car.

It would almost be easier if it were hostility. Easier if anyone here were actually trying to hurt you. But they are thrilled, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, leaning over the barriers to get a little closer to No. 6. They are only excited. They are only loud. They are only grabbing for your attention because they think it costs nothing for you to keep giving it.

Being the No. 6 Hero means you don’t get to belong to yourself in public anymore. You belong to the lenses, to the fans screaming your name, and to the reporters shoving recorders toward your face like bayonets. You are far newer to this part than Bakugo is. He was famous before he even settled into the Top Ten. People have been fawning over him since he was a teenager with a temper problem and a habit of destroying training grounds. You are still trying to get used to what it means when your face starts showing up on giant screens outside train stations, when magazines write two-page articles about why you were smiling at a restaurant, when strangers speak to you as though they know you just because they once saw you bleeding on the evening news.

"Don’t stop moving," he mutters. His words aren’t for the crowd. They’re for you, vibration-low and edged with a warning he hasn’t vocalised yet.

A hand brushes your bare shoulder. Another catches the edge of your sleeve.

You keep that smile going. Until your cheeks hurt.

Somebody asks if the dress is custom, and you laugh politely, even though you barely hear yourself over the noise. The gown had seemed a good idea under the hotel lights: sleek, fitted, dark enough to flatter, slit high enough that your stylist declared it bold without being slutty. Out here, right now, it feels like borrowed skin. Your heels are biting. Your earrings feel too heavy. Every inch of you still needs to stay available for photographs.

You keep stepping sideways. The driver catches the movement and opens the rear door another few inches.

You’re so close.

"Please, just one more!" A girl squeals, holding up a phone with a case covered in tiny glitter stars. "You and Dynamight are seriously my favourite hero duo."

You pose again because saying no to that face would make you feel monstrous. The photo takes too long. She squeaks so hard you think it might crack glass.

A second phone appears. Then a third.

Security is trying to keep the line from collapsing, but the crowd is swelling now that more people have spilled out from the gala exit. Somebody shouts Bakugo’s hero name from somewhere behind you, and the whole pack jolts like a flock changing direction at once.

You turn your head on instinct, and that is when it happens.

A man in a suit leans over the barrier, grinning so hard it pushes his cheeks flat. "Hey, wait—just sign this—" His fingers close around your forearm before you can step away, not painful at first, just abrupt, a stranger’s hand hot on your skin. "Please, my daughter’s a huge fan."

Your breath catches.

There is no room to move. Bodies press in from both sides, close enough that the air itself grows hotter. More voices pile on top of each other. A biro nudges against your wrist. Someone else shouts your hero name right near your ear and it scrapes over your nerves like sandpaper.

You should say something. You should pull your arm back and tell him not to touch you. You should.

Instead, you get stuck there with that sweaty grip on you and every instinct you have splitting a thousand different ways: hero training telling you not to escalate, public image telling you not to make a face, your own body quietly screaming at you to get out.

The noise goes thin and sharp.

You hear yourself say, "Sorry—just a second—"

The hand tightens. He’s not being cruel, just insistent, as though he assumes you’ll understand.

A shadow cuts across the flashes.

Then there is a shoulder in front of you, broad and black-suited and familiar, forcing a wedge of space where there wasn’t any before. Bakugo moves like somebody kicking through a door. One second, you are trapped behind a line of eager faces, and the next, he’s there, driving the crowd back with the sheer violence of his presence.

"Back off," he snaps.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.

Some people start to recoil on reflex. A woman with a camera stumbles back into somebody else. Security finally gets their heads out of their asses and starts pushing the front row behind the flimsy barrier again.

Bakugo’s eyes drop to your arm. The man is still holding you.

Bakugo goes very still.

The sound that leaves him doesn’t qualify as a word. It sits lower than that, a rough vibration torn straight from his chest that travels up through his teeth, ugly enough that the people nearest him flinch before their brains catch up. Even the guy gripping you finally seems to register that he has made some catastrophic mistake. His smile vanishes.

Bakugo steps in close enough that the man has to crane his neck to keep eye contact.

"Take your damn hand off her," he says.

There is nothing theatrical in it. Bakugo doesn’t bother with polished hero optics or that fixed public smile. He just delivers it flat, jaw locked tight enough for the muscle near his ear to twitch.

The man lets go immediately, his face draining of colour. "I—I was just asking for—"

"The hell do you think this is?" Bakugo cuts in, every word crisp as broken glass. "A petting zoo?"

Nobody laughs.

The man recoils, mutters an apology to absolutely no one in particular, and vanishes into the crowd with the rest of them backing off in a messy wave. Fans who were still holding out posters lower them. A teenager who had been shouting your name now looks as if she wants to melt through the pavement.

You are free.

Bakugo turns to you so sharply the tails of his black jacket swing. He looks expensive tonight against his will: fitted dark suit, shirt collar open because there is no force on earth that could keep him in a tie, blond hair combed into something that had probably looked presentable half an hour ago and now sits wild again from how often he has shoved his hand through it.

His gaze races over your face, your arm, your stance.

"You okay?" It comes out harsher than the question deserves, but you know him well enough to hear what sits underneath it.

You nod too quickly. "Yeah. Just—crowded."

His mouth flattens.

He plants a hand at the small of your back, firm and hot even through your dress, and steers you toward the waiting car. There are still people calling your names, still flashes popping from the curb, and security are trying to recover whatever professional dignity they had five minutes ago. Bakugo ignores all of it. He keeps himself half a step behind you and to the side, all hostility and threat display, making it obvious to anyone with a functioning set of eyes that they are not getting near you again tonight.

The driver shuts the door the second you duck inside, and silence drops like a curtain.

The city is still out there, camera clicks and engines and distant shouts muffled by the thick glass, but compared to the pavement outside it feels unreal. Cold air from the AC brushes your overheated skin. The leather seat beneath you is cool and smells clean, expensive, faintly sweet in a way you can’t place. Your own reflection looks back at you from the tinted window: lipstick smudged at one corner, hair coming loose, eyes wider than you expected.

Bakugo gets in after you and slams the opposite door with enough force to rattle the frame.

"Drive," he tells the driver.

Then he reaches up and drags the privacy partition closed with a hard shove. The panel slides into place, turning the front half of the car into another world.

For a second, all he does is sit there, knees spread, chest rising too fast, one hand braced on the seat. The city lights slip over the scar on his cheek and the line of his throat. You have seen him angry more times than you can count. This isn’t that. Anger is usually louder. Easier. This feels like he swallowed a live wire, and it’s still sparking inside him.

You lean your head back against the seat and let the cold air hit your face. "Katsuki—they didn’t know."

His eyes snap to yours. "What?"

"We haven’t gone public, remember? That was your call." Your voice sounds rougher than you wanted. "He wasn’t trying to be an asshole. None of them were."

Bakugo stares at you as though that’s the dumbest thing he has ever heard in his life.

"I don’t care if they knew."

He scrubs a hand over his mouth, then points at your arm. Faint pink fingerprints still bloom where the man grabbed you.

"That bastard had his hands on you."

"I’m fine."

"Quit saying that."

The words crack across the little space between you. You blink.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees now, glaring at the floor for half a second before looking back up. "Don’t give me that crap. You were standin’ there with that fake-ass smile like I wouldn’t notice something was off."

Embarrassment stings hot behind your ribs because the worst part is that he’s right. You kept playing nice because that is what a rising hero is supposed to do when cameras are rolling, and nobody has technically done anything wrong.

"I was handling it." You mutter.

"Like hell you were."

His voice drops lower on the last word. His fingers drum once against his thigh, then stop. He notices you noticing. Annoyance flashes across his face at the betrayal of his own body.

You shift closer across the seat before you can think better of it. "Katsuki—"

He catches your wrist and hauls you the rest of the way.

The kiss lands hard enough to jar your teeth. Not messy or careless, but hungry in a way that feels halfway to violence. His hand slides around the back of your neck, holding you there while his mouth works over yours like he’s starving and furious about it. You open for him with a sound you don’t mean to make. He takes the invitation instantly, tongue pushing deep past your teeth, breath hot, as if kissing you is finally letting something out.

Your hand fists in his jacket.

He breaks the kiss just enough to get words out. "The hell were you doing, just standing there while they grabbed at you?"

Your pulse is still uneven from the crowd, from him, from the way he saw straight through you. "I didn’t let—"

He kisses you again before you finish, shorter this time, biting your bottom lip hard on the way out.

"They cornered you." Another kiss at the edge of your mouth. "And you were still playing the nice hero." His nose brushes yours as he speaks, voice frayed with restraint. "The hell did you expect me to do? Stop being a dumbass."

Something hot and shaky moves through you. The air-conditioning, the leather, the sealed dark of the car, the city sliding by outside while he crowds into your space smelling of expensive cologne and sweat and the faint bite of his nitroglycerin under the surface—it all tips together until you feel almost drunk on it.

You touch his face. "Well, I’m here now. Safe."

His expression changes in a way that would be easy to miss if you didn’t know him so well. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it shifts. Gets swallowed by something more naked.

"Yeah," he says. "You are."

Then his hand is on your thigh, pushing the slit of your dress open until cool air hits the skin high above your knee. His thumb digs in once, hard enough to make your breath jump.

"You’re still shaking," he mutters. "C’mere."

You almost laugh because you are already practically in his lap, but he means something else. He guides you down across the back seat, one big hand at your waist, the other lifting your leg over his thigh. The leather gives a little under your shoulders, the hem of your dress rides up. The ceiling of the car suddenly feels low and intimate, the dark glass throwing back fractured glimpses of your gold earrings, pale skin, his broad frame bending over you.

"Katsuki—"

"Quiet."

It’s not impatience. It’s certainty.

His mouth finds your throat, then the underside of your jaw, rough but careful where it matters. One hand slips between your thighs and his thumb presses right against your underwear. Heat zips through you so fast it almost hurts. You jerk into him on instinct.

"Yeah, thought that might shut you up," he says against your skin, as if he’s been waiting for your body to stop lying on your behalf.

His fingers hook the fabric aside. The first stroke over your clit has you biting back a cry so sharp it turns into a gasp. You are already wet. More than wet. Embarrassingly, desperately ready, your body caught between the residue of panic and the relief of having him here and the filthy thrill of being handled like this in the back of a moving car while the whole city outside has no idea.

He knows exactly how to use his hands. Katsuki Bakugo does not do anything badly, and you have benefited from that fact more than once. Two fingers slide through your slick, gathering it, then circling back to rub slow and firm where you need it most until your knees twitch.

"Couldn’t focus on a damn thing out there," he says, watching your face now instead of what his hand is doing. "Just wanted you in here."

You swallow. "I thought—ah—you were gonna kill someone."

"I was real damn close."

That would be funny if he were not pushing a finger inside you at the same time. Your head knocks back against the seat. He works you open steadily, thumb still grinding tight patterns over your clit, never giving you enough space to think. Your hips start chasing the pressure. The cool leather under your back and the cold air blowing across your overheated skin make every touch feel brighter, sharper.

"You do that crap every damn time, y’know that?" He says. Another finger. A slight curl that finds the spot that makes your whole body seize. "Pisses me off."

A broken sound slips out of you.

"That’s it." His forehead dips briefly to yours, voice dropping. "Drop the act. I’ve got you."

The words punch straight through whatever composure you had left. Your orgasm catches fast, built on too many things at once. Humiliation, relief, how closely he watches you, how good his hand feels, how the night has left you rubbed raw in all the places nobody else can see. It hits with your legs shaking and your mouth open against his shoulder, a helpless little rhythm jerking through you while his fingers keep going just long enough to drag every last pulse out.

You come down in pieces, thighs wet, breath snagging.

"Fuck," you whisper.

"Yeah."

He sits back just enough to yank his belt open. The metal clicks loud in the enclosed car. He shoves his trousers down far enough, fists himself once with a strained look crossing his face, then nudges your knees wider.

You’re still oversensitive, still damp and trembling, dripping onto the black leather seat, and something about the way he looks at the mess of you—pleased, possessive, a little stunned by it—sends another rush of heat straight through your stomach.

He lines himself up and pushes in.

The stretch makes you gasp again. You’re used to his size by now, but sinking back around him while you’re still soft from your release feels overwhelming anyway. A warning growl, quieter this time but no less mean, rumbles out of him as he holds there for half a beat, eyes shut, one hand planted by your head.

Then he moves.

The car is long enough that the ride stays mostly smooth, but every turn and every brake sends a different kind of sway through the seat beneath you. Bakugo uses it. He keeps one hand under your thigh, holding you open, and drives into you with deep, controlled thrusts that still feel edged with the same temper he carried in from the street.

"Look at this," he says, and the words come out focused. "Knew all that nice-girl crap would drop the second I got my cock in you."

You laugh weakly, and it breaks into a moan when he hits deeper. His mouth curves without mercy.

He leans down and kisses you again, shorter, dirtier, his hips never stopping. Your head is full of static now, body bouncing lightly against the seat, every push of him making your thoughts blur at the edges. He’s slick with sweat, and every so often, one of those little blasts kisses hot against the curve of your breasts.

"You know what pisses me off most?" He says against your mouth.

You can barely string words together. "What?"

"None of those extras out there know you’re mine." He thrusts harder, enough to drag a cry out of you. "Stand there screaming your name like they know a damn thing about you." Another snap of his hips. "None of ’em know who gets you spread out and whining like this."

His words hit you somewhere deep and strange. You clench around him, and he curses, dropping his forehead to your shoulder for one second before lifting it again.

"You hear me?" His grip tightens at your thigh, enough to bruise. "They can look all they want. They can jerk off over interviews for all I care." Another hard slam of his hips. "But this?" He forces deep, pressing at your cervix, his voice low and vicious in your ear. "This is fucking mine."

Heat rolls through you in another wave. You are too wrung out to keep up with him, too full of him and the night and the lingering buzz of having almost gone under in that crowd, only for him to drag you back by force. Your eyes sting for a stupid second.

"Katsuki—"

He reaches between you and puts his thumb back on your clit. The sound you make is wrecked enough to earn a dark, satisfied look from him.

"Fuck," he growls. "You gonna make a mess again? Come on my cock."

You come again with less warning this time. So hard your heel slips on the seat. Bakugo catches your leg, drives in deep, and loses whatever control he had left. His rhythm goes feral. You can feel the exact moment he tips over—his jaw clenching, the breath tearing out of him. He buries himself and stays there while he comes hard inside you, one hand clutching at your waist as if the force of it surprises even him.

He’s still shaking as a red light washes through the tinted glass and disappears. The air-conditioning hums on. Then he does something that would make half the country faint if they saw it: he carefully shifts your dress back over your hips and presses a kiss to the side of your knee before pulling away.

You stare at him.

"Don’t start." He grunts.

He fixes himself one-handed, then reaches into the console for the little folded packet of wipes the driver keeps stocked, because he has been briefed on exactly what sort of disasters occur in this car. Bakugo clicks his tongue at the sight of them but uses them anyway, cleaning between your thighs with brisk efficiency that turns gentle whenever you twitch. He wipes his own hands, then yours, for some reason that makes no practical sense and still nearly undoes you.

When he is finished, he gathers you up with surprising ease and shifts until your head is tucked under his chin and your legs are draped across his lap. The suit jacket comes off and lands over your shoulders.

You let yourself sink into him. His shirt is warm. His heartbeat has finally started slowing under your ear.

The aftermath in him is always strange to witness. The rage burns off and leaves this concentrated attentiveness behind. He smooths your hair back from your face, thumb brushing once across your lower lip.

"You okay?" he asks again. This time it sounds less of a demand and more something he has to know.

You nod. "Better."

"Hn."

A pause. Not awkward. Just him deciding how much he is willing to say.

"You scared me," he mutters at last, looking out at the dark glass. "Not because I thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. I know damn well you can. I just saw you getting stuck out there and knew what it was doing to you."

You go still.

His arm tightens around you. "I hate that shit."

"I know."

"No, you don’t." He clicks his tongue and looks down at you, his expression still fierce even now. "You matter too much for me to stand there while idiots act like buying a ticket means they get a piece of you."

The car turns. Light slides over the scar on his cheek again, the line of his mouth, the stubborn set of him. He is still holding your gaze like it owes him something.

Then he says, "Screw this. I’m done keeping us quiet."

You blink. "What?"

"Us." The word seems to annoy him on principle. "I’m done acting like you’re just my partner when every idiot with internet access already treats us like a package deal anyway."

You push up on one elbow. "Katsuki, the ratings—"

"The ratings can choke."

You laugh before you mean to. He scowls like you have offended him and then, because he is who he is, keeps going.

"I know what’ll happen. I know dumbasses’ll whine about professionalism and favouritism and whatever dumb garbage they can dig up." His hand settles flat on your back. Steady and certain. "I don’t care."

You search his face. "You really mean that?"

He gives you a look that clearly screams don’t insult me.

"I’m not letting a bunch of extras decide what I do with my life." His thumb presses once into your side, grounding both of you. "And I’m sure as hell not standing next to you in public anymore not getting to touch you."

Heat rises in your chest all over again, softer this time and somehow worse for it.

You tuck yourself back against him. "I like that idea..."

In return, you get the tiniest shift in his mouth. Not a smile. Something meaner—more him and all private.

"Good." He looks smug about it for half a second. "Too bad if you didn’t."

By the time the car slows outside the private garage entrance to his building, you are drowsy from the comedown and the low thrum of the engine and the way his fingers keep combing through your hair without him seeming to realise he is doing it. The city can have its rankings and its flashbulbs and its screaming crowds for one more night.

In the dark back seat, held close under his jacket, you let yourself enjoy the first quiet moment you have had all evening.

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.

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.

“Stop squirming,” Thranduil said, perfectly still.

“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.