A/N: Hey guys I'm being very naughty and starting a new project before I finished Dominoes but I was inspired by a prompt on Hobbit Kink Meme to write this.
If you like where this story is going so far, please let me know. I only update when your reviews inspire me :)
Thranduil felt the branches scratch against his face as he rode through the dense underbrush. Every thump of the horse's hoofs against the earth shook him to the core. A simple gallop, now an epic feat in his exhaustion. On both sides the branches caught in his hair and silver robes, pulling him back, dragging him down, stopping him from leaving the forest. The tress recognized him, didn't understand his hurry, didn't want him gone...
"Why did you bring me here?"
Thranduil walked around the dwarf. His captive was tied to a chair, naked and until moments ago blind folded and gagged. He was enjoying the power. Loved the control he possessed over this stubborn, proud, unreasonable being who had the atrocious fortune of owning his heart.
"I wished to see you, Thorin, son of Thrain," he said simply and used both hands to remove the crown of berries and red leaves from his head, placing it on a nearby table. Then, with intricate grace he began to shed his clothing, one layer at a time, until he was left in nothing but his under cloth. Turning around he found the dwarf's heated gaze fixed firmly on him, scalding him. Sighing he walked back to the chair and used the back of the seat to swing into Thorin's lap.
"I want us to reconnect again my love," he said, straddling the dwarf, "for what was between us and what is now, is simply the product of hurt pride and grave misunderstanding."
Thorin spat at him. Slowly and with complete control, Thranduil wiped the spit from his cheek.
"I guess it was rash of me to expect civility from a dwarf," he drawled and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Thorins. "Perhaps," he said and sucked on the shell of the dwarf's ear until he heard a promising hitch of breath, "I would have more success, if I just showed you."
There was a shout from behind him and an arrow whizzed past his head and into the trunk of an ancient oak. Another sailed under his arm, just barely missing his mount's ear. They wanted him dead. Dead or alive, is what they said. The council agreed that it would be unwise to depose a king simply for a misunderstanding. All would be forgiven, they had said, if he would simply drink the potion. An ancient brew, made from the Élan berries of Foghorn. A purification elixir that rid the body of all depended life forms within it.
"Stop!" roared the dwarf
"Why?" he asked, "when you are so clearly enjoying it…"
"I've moved on elf, I don't love you anymore," hissed his captive, even as he thrust against Thranduil's loincloth.
"Is that so," he drawled, making a point to grind his hips, so the dwarf's impressive length lodged in the crease between his cheeks. Its passage restrained only, by a thin stretch of fine linen, wet and sheer from the dwarfs pre-cum.
"I was under the impression," he continued, undulating his hips so the dwarf's length rubbed teasingly against the fabric, "that dwarfs loved only once."
Thorin groaned when Thranduil lifted himself from the chair and took a teasing step away from him. With nimble fingers he untied his loincloth and let the tortured fabric fall to the ground. Thorin growled; his eyes black with lust. He jerked his hands against the binds, and made another feral sound at the sight before him; so temptingly close and yet not nearly close enough.
"Is it not so?" teased Thranduil
"No elf," barked the dwarf. "Only foolish elves like yourself, who never bother to expand their knowledge beyond their own kin, would believe something so stupid."
Thranduil wasn't fooled for a moment, but managed to hold his tongue. Instead he swung himself back onto the dwarf, and reaching back, grabbed hold of the heavy length and began to guide it into his passage.
"Are you crazy," roared Thorin, and began shifting about to shake him off, "you didn't cover me with oil, you stupid elf. I will ruin you!"
"Is that concern I hear, Thorin son of Thrain," smirked Thranduil.
The dwarf pursed his lips and said no more, glaring vehemently at the elf. Turning his smirk into a genuine smile, Thranduil leaned in to place a loving kiss to the dwarf's lips, a relic of better years.
"You need not worry for me meleth," he said as he forced the head of the dwarf's shaft through his moist sphincter, and allowed gravity to sink him, "I have prepared myself in anticipation for you."
Thranduil lifted himself in the saddle for the jump ahead, sailing cleanly over the fallen tree, but landing heavily over the neck of his mount. She made an unimpressed snort, but blessedly didn't slow as he pulled himself back up. Of course he'd refused. A life, no matter how unexpected or unwanted was still a life. This was not a parasite, but a being living inside him; or to be more precise, two precious beings. He would die before snuffing them from existence.
"I've missed this," he hissed, letting his eyes fall closed in pure bliss at the familiar burn. Thorin was using what little freedom he had to roll his hips and thrust under his weight.
"Patience my love," he whispered, grabbing hold of the muscular shoulders. Carefully he began lifting himself up and falling back down in slow leisurely swings.
"Faster," Thorin growled. It was clear the dwarf was struggling. His pride hating him for enjoying this; this familiar comfort that once bought them both so much joy.
"No, I believe I will take my time," he said, lifting himself until only the head remained before sinking back down. "For who knows how long it may be, before I get to enjoy this again."
"Never," roared Thorin, "never again!"
"See," conceded the elf, "all the more reason to enjoy myself now, while I still have this 'golden'" he purred the word, "opportunity." Thorin was sweating and grinding his teeth together, so after a few more thrusts, Thranduil took pity on the dwarf and began to speed up his movements.
He saw a promising glimpse of an open field. That must mean the edge of the forest was within reach. Silently he thanked Illuvater for his fortune. The shots from behind had ceased, but the lack of flying arrows only served to worry him as to why they had stopped. When the ground changed shape and the last of the branches released his garments, Thranduil was once more assaulted by his thoughts. The council had not taken kindly to being snubbed; over the course of three weeks they thrice more ordered him to take the potion, but thrice he did refuse. When it was clear that he would rather die then do as instructed, they called forth the guards to hull him to the dungeons until an execution date was set.
"Harder," he screamed
"I could if you would untie me," Thorin growled, trying his best to keep up with Thranduil's pace.
"I don't trust you to finish, and not run away as soon as your legs are free," gasped the elf.
"You have guards posted at the door elf, where would I go," said the dwarf throwing his head back, and biting his bottom lip in order to stow an oncoming orgasm.
"No," the elf stuttered, "no guards. They wouldn't," he moaned and fell into Thorin, to rest his face in the crook of his neck, "approve."
"I won't leave," growled the dwarf, "I promise."
"Ah," Thranduil screamed as his own orgasm raced towards him, "no!"
"Trust me," screamed the dwarf, even as his hips beat out of rhythm into the elf.
The Elvenking went peacefully, dignified to the very end. He remained in that cold cell for hours, gently holding his lower belly and humming old Elven nursery rhymes. The thought that he would never see his children born, never see them grow-up had had so devastated him, that for the first time since his father's passing Thranduil cried. He had failed them, just as he failed Thorin. He didn't deserve to live. They did, but they wouldn't; their only crime, to be conceived inside him. So overwhelmed with grief was he, that he failed to notice the decent of another elf into the dungeons.
It was Legolas and he held a key in his left hand and small satchel in his right.
"Go," he had said, "leave now, through the back entrance and go to the West Wing stables, there you'll find a mount I had prepared for you." He unlocked the door and waited for Thranduil to exit before grabbing a hold of both his shoulders and pulling the startled king into a hug. "Ride like you've never ridden before Ada, ride and do not stop. Ride to Erebor and plead the king for mercy. Only he can help you now."
Thranduil kissed his son on the brow, grabbed the satchel and rushed for the door. He managed to get to the West Wing and mount his steed before the alarms went off. Quick as fire he fled into the forest, preying the loyal greenwood would shield him and his babes from harm long enough for him to leave the kingdom and its vengeful subjects.
It was too late; the onslaught of orgasm was not to be swayed. It crushed over them like a tidal wave, rolling them both ashore, like a couple of beached fish; gasping for air and shaking from cold.
A field opened up before him and he kept his horse in a gallop until the forest of Mirkwood was nothing more than a black wall in the distance. He slowed into a walk when he came upon Laketown and reaching into the satchel, removed a thin hooded cloak. He threw it around his shoulders, pulling the hood over his head to hide his face.
Thranduil rode through the town as nothing more than a merchant. By the time he exited the village night had fallen and the hustle and bustle of the streets became replaced by the chirping of crickets and the distant howling of wolves. He rode on, past the cemetery of Dale where hundreds of souls were laid to rest on that fateful day Samaug attacked. Further down over a creek where his mount paused to take a lengthy drink of water. Finally he reached the gates of Erebor, fatigued and barely able to hold himself up in the saddle.
"Who goes here?" Thranduil startled at the austere growl. There before him, a few meters ahead, stood a dwarf. A guard from the looks of his uniform. He held himself with the authority common of his people as he leisurely approached the horse and peered up at the elf with beady, suspicious eyes.
"Thranduil, King of Mirkwood," he replied, and praised his voice for not failing him.
"Ai, if that be so, how come you're alone on this road. No Elven convoy in toe, just yourself on a filthy horse with twigs dangling in your hair?" the dwarf asked, then as if remembering himself, with a mocking tone added "your majesty."
"I will not have it," said Thranduil, with all the strength of authority ingrained in him from years of being king "that a subject of Erebor, will speak to me with such disrespect. I am a royal guest, and I will not stand this kind of treatment. Take me to see King Thorin at once, and I may yet refrain from mentioning your poor manners!" He finished on a regal note that left no room for argument. The dwarf looked nervously from the elf to the mountain behind him, and then back.
"Ai," he agreed, "you may pass than. Just tell the guards at the front Guron let you by and that you wish to see the king, and they'll take you to him."
Nodding the elf made a gentle kick to his mount so she would start walking again and began to ascend the rocky path to the cave where the entrance hid. Once he was close enough to the stables he dismounted and tied her to a stable post.
"Master dwarf," he called to a sleeping young stable hand. The boy jolted awake and fell of the side of the barrel on which he sat. Sitting up on the ground he looked shocked at the sight before him.
"Take care of her for me," Thranduil said and waited until the dwarf nodded in assent, "make sure to give her nothing but the best treatment." The dwarf made another nod and reached inside his hat to scratch the back of his head in puzzlement. Thranduil understood; this must all be very confusing for him. It wasn't every night that an elf decided to grace the Lonely Mountain with his presence, especially not without a fair amount of due notice, and never at such inappropriate time of day.
Thranduil gave him a grateful smile for his troubles before turning to walk to the mountain entrance. There before him stood two more dwarrow guards. Burly and stocky like oak trunks they were; they held spears that towered a full head over their own, and wore formal looking helmets that ran down the bridge of their noses so only their eyes and beards could be seen.
"Halt, who goes here?"
"I am Thranduil, King of Mirkwood."
The dwarfs exchanged hesitant looks.
"I was told by Guron," continued the elf, "that you will take me to see the King."
The one with the ginger beard nodded and spun around on his heels.
"Follow me," he barked, with his back turned towards Thranduil, and the elf couldn't help but feel slighted with the rude gesture. Still he began to follow the guard into the mountain. Down the hall they went, taking twists and turns, all the while going lower and lower. There was a moment when the elf felt sick at the sudden drop of pressure at being so far below sea level, but then his stomach settled and he was free to move on. On and on they went, down countless flights of steps until at last they stood before the golden doors of the throne room. The guard whispered something to another guard standing before the entrance, and the former vanished through a gap in the door, reappearing a moment later to say something crude sounding to his guide in Khazdul. Thranduil knew many languages, but he never bothered to learn Khazdul; his father having taught him from a young age that dwarves were inferior species, and therefore not learning their tongue was of no great consequence.
The ginger laughed, clapped the other dwarf on the shoulder and began walking back the way he came. The new guard looked at Thranduil and clearing his throat, began to make a formal announcement in a booming voice, so that everyone in the throne room could easily hear.
"King Thorin the Second, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain grants an audience to you, Thranduil, King of Mirkwood," before spinning on his heels and pushing the doors open. The dwarf stepped aside and with a formal bow gestured for him to go ahead. Taking a deep breath, Thranduil ran his hands down the front of his robes and slightly extended middle. Once he felt himself more composed, he straightened his stance and with all the confidence of a king, walked into the throne room.
R&R