Sex, Love, Hobbit Holes
Mead, Need and Thorinduil
Thorin Oakenshield sighed with exasperation. "No Filur, not like that. If you try and hammer the metal like that, you'll take your fingers off," he explained carefully. Still the forge was not ideal, and the sinister trees still put him off, even after all these years. No evil dwelt in Mirkwood, but the wood was not a happy place. The notable exception to this rule, of course, was Thranduil's palace. When he had first come here, it had been as a prisoner filled with hate. But when he returned, it was as a free dwarf, with butterflies the size of dogs. And the third time, it was with love in his heart, and an adopted son from the Shire. He was lost in the reminiscence as his son dejectedly hammered away at a piece of scrap metal. "Daddy, I'm booooooored. Can I go and see Than- Thin- Frand- other daddy?" Thorin, startled, nodded his agreement. It pained him to see his son, whom he loved dearly, refusing to follow his example, preferring instead Thranduil's non-stop partying lifestyle. Which was thoroughly unsuitable, thought Thorin, for a young Hobbit.
Thranduil tossed back his fourth mug of elvish ale, and threw it to the table. A great roar went up, as the rest of the hall raised their mugs, and drank. Hearths blazing, the room fell silent except for the flow of ale down gullets. Unnoticed, a small hobbit slipped onto the end of a table, poured some ale into an eggcup, and drank. Around him, the glugging of the intoxicated elves continued, but the previously foreign taste of alcohol seared Filur's throat, and he choked and spluttered, spraying mead on the elf opposite him. Luckily, his little faux pas went unnoticed in the roar of the elves slamming their mugs down, and the silent minstrels resuming their merry song. Filur saw his chance and stood up, weaving through the alarmingly tall, extraordinarily intoxicated wood elves. Thranduil saw his adopted son trying to sneak up on him, but feigned ignorance. When his diminutive child pounced on him with punch-drunk glee, hugging him tightly, Thranduil brushed aside his curly brown hair and kissed his forehead, squeezing his son into his broad chest. "How do you like the party, Filur?" enquired the barely-composed Thranduil. "It's great, daddy. Much more fun than hitting stupid metal with Fowin." he slurred. Although he had had only an eggcup's worth of mead, elvish eggcups were of a substantial size, and Filur was not, being only eight years old. "Daddy, can I have some more mead?" Filur badgered. "Only if you have some food first" admonished Thranduil, his maternal side showing through the barrels worth of ale he had consumed "Try the peasant" he instructed, pausing to giggle at his malapropism. "Ha, peasant!" he cackled, holding his mug to a server. When he turned back, he saw Filur demolishing a glistening plate of butter-drenched roast potatoes, with his eyes set on a succulent braised pheasant as a main course. "That's my boy" he whispered to himself, in a moment of pride and sobriety. He felt a warmth within himself, far beyond anything the alcohol could produce. The warmth of a loving husband, and the joy of having a young child again.
Thorin however, was in no such mood. Frustrated by his young son's preference for the company of elves, he went about his smithing in a sullen funk, his hammer strikes heavier than was absolutely necessary. He told himself it was okay, that it was his son's choice to make, that Thranduil was more maternalistic anyway. He told himself a thousand things, but somehow it still didn't feel right. It didn't feel right letting an eight year old hobbit go to an elvish feast, and it CERTAINLY didn't feel right trusting him not to get blind drunk. As he beat the hot, hard shaft of steel, he resolved to go and see Thranduil, and to check up on Filur. It was now just a matter of working up the confidence.
But he wouldn't have to. Thranduil, while he was enjoying himself immensely at the feast, noticed Thorin's absence. And Filur's sudden appearance spoke volumes that none of them would ever express. He drunkenly excused himself, ruffled Filur's hair, and went to find his moping husband. Filur, of course, took no notice, being deeply engaged in a particular apple and cinnamon pie. Thranduil eventually found the exit (Although he was able to hold his drink better than most elves, he had enjoyed a substantial amount), and disappeared into the warm night.
After some time, Thranduil came upon Thorin, still hammering away at the steel rod. He drew Thorin into his warm, sweet-smelling embrace, and kissed his forehead. He lowered himself, and made to peck Thorin on the lips, but Thorin withdrew. "Love, what is it?" enquired Thranduil, though he already knew. "It's just... I… Filur. He… He prefers you. And I feel like I'm not going to be able to teach him anything useful. He just frolics in the woods all day. And at night he just cooks. But he looks so happy, and he's such a good cook, and I.." Thorin sobbed, barely choking out the last words. "I realise he's a hobbit, and not a dwarf, but… It hurts to see, nonetheless." He couldn't speak any more, cheeks slick with tears that reflected the soft light from the dying embers of the forge. Behind them, the feast continued into the night.
Thranduil found himself sobering up at the sight of Thorin crying. He was usually so strong, so steadfast. "I'll talk to him tomorrow, don't worry" he assured Thorin, wiping away the tear-stains. He used this gesture as an excuse to pull Thorin in and gently kiss him. It was a long kiss, and one filled with anticipation. They parted, but only for a moment. Thorin grasped Thranduil's flowing hair and pulled him closer, so quickly he almost stumbled. They giggled about it as they kissed, and the giggles became something else entirely as hands explored. They stole away into the night like horny teenagers, fumbling for the cords that tied the other's clothing. Thranduil's tunic came away first, Thorin's sober fingers easily working through the knotted cord. His own tunic came not long after, falling softly at his feet. Thranduil's trousers proved more difficult to remove, but only because there was a giant bulge holding them up. When they finally fell to the wooded floor, his manhood bared to his husband and the wild, Thorin was captivated. He grasped hungrily at the thick shaft, but Thrandul held him down and worked his pants off. Equally captivated by Throin's other hot, hard shaft, and given the advantage of physical size, Thranduil lowered his soft, elvish mouth around the head of Thorin's desperately throbbing cock, silken tongue teasing the very tip, as his mouth swallowed up the rest of it, not touching it at all, until he reached the base. His thin lips tightened around the shaft, tongue snaking out, playfully teasing his sweaty underside. Slowly at first, but gradually intenisfying, he slid up and down on the shaft, tongue still caressing the tip at random intervals. Thorin moaned and moaned, losing control and thrusting himself into Thranduil so far he gagged. But he didn't stop. The impossibly soft interior of his mouth, sliding up and down his pulsing shaft. Thorin knew it wasn't to last, but by god was he going to enjoy it while it did.
Thranduil teased the head of his cock, gently licking it for a while, then thrusting himself down on it, and he loved Thorin's exclamations of pleasure as he did so, and the way his hips ricked back and forth in ecstasy. He felt Thorin stiffen in his mouth, and knew he was going to come soon. So he sucked gently on Thorin's cock, still shifting up and down the shaft with his supple lips, tongue occasionally teasing the tip. Thorin's cry of joy split the night, as his salty come sprayed into Thranduil's waiting mouth. Thranduil, of course, swallowed it all. After all, he was still immensley horny. He flipped the out-of-breath Thorin over, spat into his palm and smothered his raging erection in his spittle, and almost without hesitation, buried it in Thorin with a loud moan.
It hurt Thorin, but it was such a good pain. He could feel his husband's balls slapping against his thighs with every thrust, and he felt every centimeter of the huge elvish cock driving into him.
Thranduil, exhilerated by Thorin's moans, fucked him faster than was probably wise, but he didn't care. Seeing the head of his dick disappear time after time into Thorin was the best feeling, and a gigantic turn on. He knew Thorin wanted him to fill him up, and he certainly obliged. Thranduil didn't take long to finish, and as he yelled with pleasure, he was filling Thorin with his warm, sticky come. After he finished, he still pumped slowly a few times, before falling in an exhausted, endorphin-filled heap next to Thorin.
Neither of them remembered how they got there, but they woke up in Thranduil's bed the next morning. Thorin moved his legs and moaned, extremely sore from the pounding Thranduil had given him the last night. Thranduil noticed, and laughed. Not a mocking laugh, but a loving one. The laugh of someone who is overjoyed to wake up next to you in the morning. Thorin reached for Thranduil's leg but found something else. "Wow," he exclaimed "I see why they made you king of the wood elves" he giggled. Ultimately, however, it amounted to nothing, which was just as well. Ten or so minutes later, Filur came bursting into the room, and jumped up on the bed, childish grin a dead giveaway he was hiding something. "Daddys! I made you both something!"
From behind his back, he produced a pair of rings. They were certainly of no dwarvish or elvish make. Crudely hammered from scrap iron, they weren't quite round. They were dented, damaged. Wordlessly, Thranduil took one. He removed his ring of power, and set it on the bedside table, replacing it with the iron ring his son had made him. "This is all the magic I need" he said, overcome with love. He took the other one, and slid it onto Throin's waiting ring finger. "And today," he said, "the eighth dwarvish king got his ring." Much to his son's surprise, Thorin started crying. He pulled Filur close, almost squashing him in the tightest hug he had ever given. His son had made him a ring!
Thorin and Thranduil never wore traditional wedding rings. But in thousands of years, when the elves were gone from middle earth, there were still rumours of a elf who lingered in Mirkwood, who bore a crude iron ring, and wept by a gravestone.