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writerman · 5 years

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Bard never thought that much of Thranduil's top surgery scars, he was told Thran had surgery, and they never bothered him, so that was it. Until Bard finally asked Thran how he got the scars. Thran just gives Bard a look. (Trans Thran, you can throw in my boi Elrond if you want XD.)

//This one is close to my heart for very obvious reasons. Thank you for letting me write this and I hope you enjoy it.

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Scars.

Everyone had them.

All different kinds, from all sorts of injuries- embarrassing or serious.

Life gave you scars, some people were proud of them and others sought to hide them, overall most of the time they weren’t anyone else's business but your own.

Well… all of the time.

People can share stories of their scars with you but only if they want that, you cannot demand the story of another person’s body, nor will they ever be obligated to tell you anything about the world that lives on their skin or under it.

Thranduil had scars.

Scars on his chest, one healing and almost invisible on his forearm. They were faint silvery things that Bard only noticed when they were close.

The discussion of scars never came up between them in conversation, and honestly, Bard never thought it was any of his business.

Though he could not deny he was curious, still, he never mentioned it, curiosity needn't be spoken out loud.

Bard and Thranduil had not been together all that long, a couple of months, they met at the tail end of winter, the last dregs of the winter festivals loitering on the outskirts of the city, looking more menacing than cheery now that Christmas had passed by.

The grey slush had soaked Bard from his shoes up to the calves of his jeans, but he’d trudged dutifully through the snow with his youngest sibling to take her to see the reindeer that lay sullenly at the far end of a dreary paddock.

Tilda was far too involved with naming the reindeer to notice that her older brother’s attention was elsewhere.

A literal angel that had descended from the Heavens was leaning over the paddock fence watching the animals intently as though his gaze might will them to their feet.

It did not and eventually, they gave up, as they turned they caught Bard’s gaze and gave a shy smile before trying to hurry off through the slippery slush.

He’d had half a mind to follow the stranger but even the allure of smooth skin and long blond hair could not pull him from his tiny sister and her joy at seeing “Santa’s reindeer”. They remained at the fence for another 10 minutes before Tilda complained she was cold and Bard offered to take her to get hot chocolate to warm up.

Tilda had taken a seat by the window with her mug of hot chocolate leaving Bard to navigate a chair through the packed cafe, he sat quietly while Tilda chatted about the animals and the names she gave them, meanwhile, Bard could not shake the feeling of awe that had struck him at the sight of the blond stranger.

Sadly, he didn’t see him again that day.

They bumped into another a few weeks later, Bard instantly recognised him and stood in panicked silence as the blond apologised for not watching where he walked- after a long awkward pause Bard cleared his throat and did something he had never truly imaged he’d have the courage to do.

He spoke to him.

“I saw you- uh, at the winter festival.” He blurted out his voice croaking midway through his sentence, mortifying really, he would have to spend the rest of his life living as a hermit in the mountains now…

The blond just nodded as though Bard pointing out the obvious was the norm for him like he had expected this for some reason, the same shy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he looked away.

“Ah, you were really staring at those reindeer.” Again, words came forth and he was wondering if his brain had actually engaged with the rest of his body that morning when he left the house, it seemed not but the blond responded this time with actual words.

Good LORD that voice could restart a heart.

“They looked sad,” Three words and Bard already knew he was done for, who sounds like that and looks like that- this whole beautiful package?! “I was trying to work out if I could come back that night and steal them.” He seemed sincere and Bard had to take a moment to relearn how to breathe as he choked on air.

“So… did you?”

He never got an answer instead he received a very rushed query that sounded something along the lines of ‘Wouldyouliketograbcoffee…. Youcansayno.” After deciphering the code Bard accepted the offer and they headed to the closest place for coffee.

Once in the warmth the blond opened up a bit and apologised for not introducing himself.

His name was Thranduil.

“I’m Bard, it is really nice to meet you, Thranduil.”

And that was how they met, they had had coffee and then remained in contact until a mutual friend forced them to ask one another out.

Even after 4 months Bard still couldn’t quite believe his luck, some mornings, after Thranduil had stayed the night Bard would roll over to watch the other sleep and he’d have to pinch himself to make sure the whole scene was real and he wasn’t just enjoying a ridiculously vivid dream.

Silly maybe, but Bard did really feel so incredibly lucky.

He realised quickly that Thranduil was a quiet man, always seemingly deep in thought, never sharing the contents on his mind as though the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe was to keep it bottled up in one head until one day something clicked.

That’s what Bard imagined, that had a complex system of thoughts and feelings zipping through his mind at a thousand miles per hour leaving him reeling but unaffected on the outside.

It was not fair to put him on a pedestal like that, he knew deep down if he ever voiced his thoughts that Thranduil would be hurt and he wasn’t sure why, it just felt wrong that he assumed the other was on the side of Godhood than mortal man.

Maybe in a past life…

The blond had a flair for art, thought stifled by his family and their expectations of him. Always needing to be better, to stand taller, to speak clearer and only to speak if the words held meaning- a scary way to live wondering if your words meant anything to those that surrounded you on a daily basis.

Asking to pass the salt would likely end up in a conversation about the wealth of the earth if that was how he was to live.

Bard hoped it was a slight embellishment the information Thranduil fed him, the tiny morsels of his life at home revealed with one sentence at a time but as soon as the blond realised he was talking about home he shut down.

There were times Bard would be studying frantically very last minute for an exam, his masters was important but not important enough to study in good time for a test,… at 29 years old he still lived like a teenager but with more bills and more responsibility, and suddenly he would be presented with a sketch of himself his hair wild and falling in his eyes as he leaned over a book gripping a pen a little too tightly.

Thranduil often explaining that it was always a pleasure to draw him while he studied or even slept, though he would quickly add that he hoped he did not “appear creepy” at the admission that he had, indeed, watched him sleep once or twice just to draw him.

“All in the name of art!” Bard would quip, he would then proceed to smother the blond with kisses- though if things got too steamy Thranduil would stammer out excuses before putting some distance between them.

Apologies would come from both of them but the air would remain tense. It was usually around this time that Thranduil would take his leave and head home claiming he had forgotten some important appointment with his family or doctor.

He saw the doctor a lot, and it worried Bard. Yet, he did not pry.

It all came to a head one summer night, they were walking back from a garden party/BBQ hosted by the same mutual friend that got them together, both of them on the right side of buzzed from the few drinks they had.

He wasn't sure why he brought it up, the lack of intimacy in their relationship and his constant doctor's visits.

“We have intimacy it just isn't sexual. I know it isn't enough for you,” The words came out wrong and sounded accusatory to his own ears. “In truth, it isn't enough for me either.” Thranduil trailed off and looked away, he couldn't find any other words to further explain himself.

His gaze stayed on the floor for a moment to shield himself from Bard's curious and intense gaze.

“Tell me about you, what bothers you. Share the burden, you don't have to do this alone.” Bard grabbed Thranduil's hand giving it a supportive squeeze, smiling when the blond finally looked up at him.

“I'm so scared of how you'll see me if I tell you who I am.”

“You're Thranduil, my boyfriend and sketch artist extraordinaire!” They both laugh and Thranduil seemed more at ease but fear lingered in his now glassy blue eyes.

It was now or never it seemed.

“I've seen you look at the scars on my chest, I know you're curious and honestly thought you'd work it out from that but… now I'm seriously thinking that you just look at me adoringly and don't think what things are only that they are there.” A weak and nervous laugh escapes Thranduil, his hand is damp in Bard's and he pulls it from the other's grip.

“Well…” Bard began a small smile forming as they continued to walk back towards his flat, Thranduil was half right. It had never occurred to him that they were close enough that he could ask- he knew they were in a romantic relationship and that generally they could be more open about themselves but to Bard it still seemed inappropriate to ask about something like that.

Scars were something intimate and secretive about a person, a story that they may have buried deep within themselves almost repressed so as to not relive the memories every time they saw the reminder in their skin.

They way Thranduil spoke it was as though he wanted Bard to ask, perhaps it was easier to explain if someone asked than to broach the subject completely out of the blue and unbidden.

Quite the quandary, Bard was well aware that his boyfriend was notoriously secretive about many things, many personal things aside from his general interests and whatnot.

To ask him now was bold but if he didn’t he may lose the chance to try again later. The alcohol in his system buoyed his confidence to a degree and with some hesitation pushed on and bit the bullet.

“I do want to know- I see them all the time and I am curious as all Hell what they could be from. I just…,” He stopped speaking trying to grasp at words all the while they continued to walk now in an awkward silence both holding their breath for a moment. “How do you even bring up the conversation of scars without sounding like an ass with no tact?” Thranduil laughed as soon as he heard Bard’s reasoning for remaining shy on the subject and he grabbed his hand to squeeze it, clearly happy that his boyfriend was just as unsure as he was at times.

Though it never really showed, the uncertainty he certainly harboured. Bard seemed untouchable in his enthusiasm and courage, constantly looking out to the horizon and following the edge of the world rather than looking at his feet and watching his every step.

Never brutish in his words or actions, not overly gentle but capable of comfort- he had a calming influence simply because he seemed so confident all the time.

Thranduil felt lucky to have met such a man by chance, and he didn’t want to think about the future especially if Bard was not in it- there was a flutter of hope in his chest that once he explained what he had been through things would not change. But such an outlook felt entirely too positive for Thranduil and he dampened down the hope so that his expectation fit with who he felt he was and how he came across to others.

There had never been a time he had enquired as to how people saw him from the outside looking in, that would require speaking to a lot of people and he already felt tired thinking of doing so.

“They are surgery scars.” God, the words had come out in one breath and he felt his inside seize up as Bad whipped his head round to look at Thran, his eyes darted to his shirt then back to his face before speaking.

“Surgery scars, were you unwell?”

Thranduil gave a noise that could be construed as ‘Well…’ but nothing more, after a moment of silence Bard spoke again.

“You can tell me, I promise you that everything will be fine.”

That was not a promise Bard could make not with the nature of the surgery, instead it would open a whole other can of worms, Thranduil felt stiff with fear, the process of rigor mortis setting in before he’d even died from the sheer fear of what he was doing. HIs heart had never beat so fast.

“For a long time I believed I was sick, that there was something horribly wrong with me but I was not sick I just didn’t have the words to describe who I was yet.” He was drawing this out unnecessarily and it wasn’t helping his anxious heartbeat in the slightest.

“I am transgender, I have not always been known as Thranduil and the scars are from surgery to sculpt my chest to appear more masculine.” The stunned silence that followed was sickening, it felt heavy and cold in the pit of Thranduil’s stomach and he felt tears sting the corners of his eyes.

Then there it was! Bard’s grip tightened on Thranduil’s hand the squeeze of comfort he had always offered until he realised he was being pulled round to face his boyfriend.

They were stood at the foot of the path that led to Bard’s front door.

Their eyes met.

“This changes nothing- Thranduil, I love you, I can’t even think of enough words to get across how much I love you. I know you’re scared, I mean, you’ve just told me something huge something important to you and honestly I feel honoured that you trust me with this.” Bard wasn’t sure what to say, for all he knew Thranduil was the first transgender person he had ever met, he couldn’t be sure but he was definitely the first transgender person who had openly told him that about themselves.

Rather than hanging around outside while the blond felt so vulnerable, he tugged Thranduil into walking again and they went inside.

Thranduil remained quiet for a long time, Bard moved about the flat a moment before returning with a glass of water for Thranduil who accepted it gratefully.

“I- want to ask a question but I think it is too forward,” Even as he spoke Bard regretted the words but Thranduil had a knowing look in his eyes, as though he had expected a certain question before it had even been voiced.

“You want to know if this is the reason we haven’t had sex.” His tone flat and he took a sip of water, one hand clenched into a ball rested on his thigh the other holding tightly to the glass, at that moment he looked exhausted and Bard was at a loss on what to say.

So, rather than saying anything he sat next to Thranduil and covered his balled fist with his hand giving a light squeeze- the blond needed time and he absolutely needed an apology.

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t necessary for me to question you on that- I can’t just assume things about you.” There were many things he wanted to say but wording them seemed hard now, or at least accusatory and that was the last thing he wanted.

“No, it’s fine, really… it is the reason but the fact you just jumped right to that as though, as though it was something that was wrong and not just nerves. I can’t expect you to be perfect about this if you don’t know anything.”

“You’re right to be upset, I wasn’t exactly delicate about it, and I shouldn’t have questioned you at all. Google is a thing, you don’t have to tell me anything, I want you to know that you have the freedom to tell me whatever you want or not.” Finally Thranduil set down the glass eyes red and glassy still he wanted to cry with relief that this man still loved him the fear in the back of his mind that leached into his heart and stomach was subsiding- how terrified he had been to think that Bard would toss him aside for ‘lying’ to him this whole time.

But no, his Bard as not like that. His Bard wanted to learn and understand and his Bard treated him like a human, as a man.

“I love you.”

#thranduil #bard the bowman #bard #trans thran #the hobbit #writing prompts #mypackpride

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redknight3996 · 4 years

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23: Prometheus

If you were asked what type of superpower you would want if you could have it, what do you think you would answer? Whatever it is, you’re wrong. The correct answer is all of them.

If you are ever presented with three artifacts of immense, cosmic power, all linked to beings beyond your imagination, wouldn’t you take all three? Isn’t that just human nature?

You’re only meant to take one, that’s what they tell you, but why wouldn’t you? You have two hands, presumably. You have a mouth, assumedly. Even if they’re far from each other, on some stupid pedestals, wouldn’t you still want to get them all at once? Wouldn’t you try to reach?

Even if they hate your choice, even if they loathe one another, who genuinely gives a fuck what they think? You want what you want, you should take what you can get! Reach out and grasp the world, grip the moon and sun in both palms and demand they bow to you before biting down on a black hole!

When born into the world, you should look to your parents and demand to know why they did not birth you as a god, why they have failed you in such a way, and then you must seize godhood for yourself.

Such is the ethos of the man strapped to the electric chair. He grips its armrests, digging his fingers into the wood, and grins wide. His eyes have burst, his teeth are cracking as he grits them, his gums are bleeding, and yet he smiles, because he is a part of the ambience. Hell must have its condemned, and laughter bubbles, electric and crackling as he jerks and writhes, still not yet dead. Cooking, but not dead.

And then you let him out.

He is bald. He is naked. He is fat. His body twitches with aftershocks as he stands, jerking and laughing, because those stupid fucks couldn’t kill him, not yet, not ever. You might realize his sockets have a gleam in them, but that might just be pulsing nerves.

His skin is a patchwork of stitches and staples, keeping the segments of his body attached properly. He strolls from his cell with a casual twitching, uncaring of the dark and dirty stone halls around him.

There’s a man named King in one cell who makes all the rats; sterile things, incapable of transmitting any virus as they squeal and struggle and tear their way out of a squirming, screaming man bound tight to a chair. A proper filthy dungeon has rats, so they needed a source.

The prisoners here are mistakes, broken things made of half-finished ideas and thoughts. Even the zombies, uninspired as they are in ratty gray jumpsuits, have limbs replaced. Claws, blades, hooks. Some have metal muzzles, some have spikes in their skulls, some crackle and jerk with the same electricity. The same source.

The real interesting things are kept lower than this, deeper. The labs under the park have been broken into. Crawl deeper if you want. The surface is becoming more hostile.

He will let out others. That’s only natural, only right of him. There were plans and plots and discarded ideas. The operators discarded the hospital angle, found it too dreary, hence the hulking doctor with the chopped off nose; cults were too tricky, too hard to figure out, but the figures in robes are easy to release, and they’ve been waiting oh so eagerly for the opportunity; and there was an early idea, inspired by mimics, for some sort of trap monster. No one would go for a treasure chest, but a tank of water was considered unassuming enough.

And one technician really did want to use the name Rusalka.

Prometheus knows these things because he was on that team. He knows a lot of things about how the park works, why it works, who it works for, but he has no tongue to explain why the man in the mountain is a fool who lacked vision, who lacked attention, who built something he never fully understood but that the sun behind his peak most certainly did.

Even then, there are things people just can’t expect, even when they think they have everything figured out.

A wolf would work first.

Prometheus thought things through, he had a great deal of time to think while in that chair, and he’s positive on his course of action in finding a barghest–those lovely canines sharp in the moonlight–and shoving his arm into its mouth.

He smiles and grips hard so the teeth sink in, then tosses away the twitching, smoking creature as the hair begins to sprout and his gait starts to change. His nails extend, his legs lengthen, his smile gets sharper, but he is not fully them. He finds an icthyan next, before the mutation can spread too far, and offers a simple key to the palace below if she would just bite his wrist, right on the bleeding part, as hard as she could.

She does so, and he willingly shows the way under. There are places to explore, to see, still to find, but first, he returns to the castle and finds a nosferat while his skin squirms into mottled scales. One more set of teeth sink into his arm as the mutagen sings in his veins and he laughs once more. Wings burst from his back in a bloody spray and he sinks his rows of sharpened teeth into the final donor’s neck, drinking deep of its warm blood as he grows and changes.

Frills and fur and gills and gore. His ears lengthen, his muzzle stretches, his body ripples as muscle and fat redistribute. He still has no eyes, but he’s solved the issue that brings. No need to see when he can hear, smell, and feel everything so much easier. The flesh grown where his eyes once were is evidence of that.

The end result is a mess of color. Brown and black fur, green scales, white skin, all wreathed in crackling blue. If pushed, it’ll all go white, and the stitches and staples still present will stand out stark, but for now, he’s content to lope while he waits for things to devolve further and further.

You won’t die to him, or at least he won’t deliberately kill you at the moment, but he’s out there now, and it’s just one more thing to be aware of.

So keep your eyes out. He’ll be doing the same, as much as he’s able.

#31 day horror park #sanguine park #horror #halloween #my writing

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