*** He's supposed to be dead; she's not even in the story. But when they get together... FIREWORKS! ***
Don't Piss Off the Missus
She was on the warpath. Azog winced, knowing by the thundering of her feet on the stone walkway above that he was in for it in a major way.
It was just a frickin' dwarf was no longer the shrugging excuse he thought it would be.
Glaring at his son, who stupidly let it slip in the first place, Azog contemplated once more the wisdom of making heirs. 'Easily discarded and replaced when they screw up' came briefly to mind as he paced in agitation, awaiting the storm. It didn't seem that making a replacement would be happening after this.
"Her handmaiden's a looker," Bolg offered by way of an excuse.
"Always running your mouth," Azog snapped. "All you need is a pretty face and you babble like a fool! If you think I'm taking the fall for this, you're nuts. I will so throw you under the horse cart, boy!"
"Like it was my fault!" his son barked defensively. "Off on one of your damn errands. How was I supposed to know the little runt had a 'can't touch this' sign on?"
"Did you bother looking? Or was your head up a skirt?"
Puffing up indignantly, Bolg growled, "Not when I'm on the job, dad."
"Don't get fresh with me," Azog warned, leveling a finger in Bolg's face. "You damn well better not sit there and smirk when she gets down here." His son folded his arms over his chest and muttered sullenly under his breath.
Azog's gaze rose to the vaulted ceiling. He could follow her progress down the open stairs curving around the ruins of Dol Guldur's main tower: roughly shoved Orcs flew off the steps and plummeted screaming to the floor frequently as she passed.
Dammit, Azog thought with an internal whimper.
When she finally arrived in all her glory on the ground floor, Azog steeled himself. He did not appreciate the stealthy slide Bolg executed to put himself behind his father and out of the line of fire.
"My love," Azog greeted her, spreading his arms out welcomingly. "It's been days. How do you fare?"
Knocking his barbed hand out of the way, Tauriel snapped, "I asked you one favor! Just one! Am I talking to myself? Is that what's going on here? I'm talking to myself?"
"Dearest...," he protested ineffectually as her grey eyes fell on Bolg.
"You!" she hissed. "I see you hiding behind him! I might have known. Which one of you did it, huh? Which one? Whose ass am I going to have to kick?"
The Orcs, father and son, stood frozen for a moment, weighing the survivability of her wrath. Both simultaneously pointed a finger at the other.
"That's how it is, then?" Tauriel growled, folding her arms over her chest. "All I wanted was a little bit of fun. Just a little. And you cheap bastards couldn't set aside your petty grudges and let me have it." Turning on Azog, she snarled, "You are on the couch until the Fourth Age, Mister!"
"Ah, come on!" Azog moaned. "I wasn't even there!" Grabbing Bolg by the collar, he yanked the younger Orc to the front. "This little bedsore's the one who killed him!" Shoving Bolg to the side hard enough to send him sprawling, Azog went on, "And look at this. It's not like he'll ever really leave you. I've got him right here, in a place of honor." He gestured to the freshly sewn Dwarven face decorating the front of his kilt like a sporran.
Giving the Orc leader a withering look, Tauriel snapped haughtily, "Like that's a satisfactory substitute. And you only put him there so you could hump the back of his head! That was not for my benefit!"
"Well... this might cheer you up," Azog offered, maneuvering his penis through the open mouth. Waggling his eyebrows, he said, "Eh? Looks like fun, right? Give him a big kiss?"
Softening a bit, she shifted her stance to slightly less hostile. "That's not at all funny."
"How about this: Bolg, come and show her how you look in the beard."
