Author's note: This fic recently received probably the best anonymous review I've ever had.
"Tolkien would turn in his grave. Elves don't torture (there are only a few exceptions and then the victims are orcs - and only orcs). Haven't read a ff that makes me that angry for a while now. And Tolkien only wrote a children's book. Well, I guess "fans" can ruin everything. I'm sorry - your writing style is nice, but I can't stand it when people
pervert the Tolkien universe just so they can write porn. It really hurts. Why can't you write your own stories where canon can't be violated?"
Shit, I guess elves don't murder their relatives, lust after their cousins, trap and coerce women into marrying them, betray their kin to death, throw their traitors off cliffs, or hunt petty dwarves for sport either. OH WAIT THE SILMARILLION EXISTS
Anyway I love that you, O benefactor of the Actual Will of Tolkien who speaks for him beyond the grave, took the time to read a clearly-marked pornfic with (consensual!) torture outright stated in the summary, then to tell me how guilty you feel over having got off to it, and to compliment me on my writing (I must be doing something hell of right man). I guess what I'm trying to say is, you suck real bad, and you have to live the rest of your life knowing this fic exists and made you feel tingly in your ~regions~.
At midnight he is wrested from his cell. Four elves surround him, hoods drawn low to hide their faces; Thorin lets himself be bound, knowing that for all their bad blood Thranduil will not have him truly harmed. He has been a gracious captor, so far; the dwarves are well-fed, bathed and clothed, and if their cells are small they are also comfortable.
But this is different. The elves that lead him through Mirkwood's halls and passages are silent and grave, and there is no other audience in the austere chamber with its tall cavern-ceiling, only Thorin and his guards and the Elvenking upon his gypsum throne.
There have been times when Thorin has seen emotion upon Thranduil's face; familiarity, in speaking with Thorin's grandfather; even humor, as he greeted his dwarven prisoners. Tonight there is no such flaw in the porcelain mask of Thranduil's face. The sight of it puts a shudder in Thorin's belly.
"For as long as there have been dwarves under the mountains," says Thranduil, his honey-dark tones filling the cavern, "we elves have wondered about them. You are longer lived than Men, wiser and fiercer; you have self-control that the younger and wilder races cannot dream of. And yet... rumors reach my ears, Thorin Oakenshield, tales of the limits of dwarven self-control."
The distance in his voice, the cool complacency, is like a white-hot knife under Thorin's skin, flaying him to the bone. Will he be tortured? Does Thranduil intend to see him slain, after all? Thorin opens his mouth to speak, and one of his guards places a hand upon his shoulder, very gently; Thorin closes his mouth again.
"In particular I speak of the violence of your sexual response," says Thranduil, as if his words are not an echoing void whose meaning hovers in the distance, a falling mountain that will utterly crush Thorin when he finally comprehends it. "By all accounts, the sons of Aulë are strong and self-contained, celibate in their passion for craft and war, only deigning to couple when the rare dwarf-daughter chooses a mate. But a few voices speak in hushed tones, and what they say..."
Thorin is frozen from head to toe, encased in ice. The guard's hand still rests upon his shoulder; the thumb moves, absently stroking him, soothing.
Thranduil smiles, the faintest upturn of his delicate mouth. "I offer you a bargain, Thorin, who would be King Under the Mountain. If you can withstand the ministrations of my courtiers, your guards, until dawn breks through the window of my hall; if you can submit yourself to the indignity of fulfilling my curiosity, and prove that dwarves are capable of controlling their flesh; then I will let you and your companions free, with my blessing and aid, and I will consider my curiosity sated."
This is unthinkable, unbearable. Thorin cannot allow himself to be subjected to this. "And if I fail," he prompts, hoarsely.
"There is no consequence for failure," says Thranduil dismissively. "Only that you will be returned to your cell, and that you will await my pleasure there, until you are willing to tell me the truth of your errand and explain your trespasses."
He cannot, he cannot; the dawn is five hours away, and in truth Thorin has been celibate for a very long time, and does not trust his body to answer to his control.
And yet Durin's Day approaches, ever sooner, and his cell is strong.
"I accept," says Thorin, and all he can hear is the thunder of his own heart and the ragged tide of his own breath, as the guards lead him forward to a cushioned bench at the foot of the dais and gently, implacably compel him to kneel.
They are deferent in stripping him, peeling away his tunic and his breechclout with respectful fingers, no fondling or prodding. He is, after all, an honored prisoner, and the descendent of an old ally; they may be preparing to assail his flesh, but they seem to see no need to be rude.
Thorin cranes his neck to see what he can of their hooded faces, but they hide their identities well; two are dark-haired, one with a full grim mouth that Thorin glimpses for a moment, and one is blond, with thin articulate lips. Of the fourth, he can only say that she has strong hands.
Those strong hands spread across his back, at his shoulderblades, pressing him forward until he thinks he will fall; but the blond elf catches him, kneeling before him, and takes the weight of him against his body, resting his chin upon Thorin's shoulder. The strong hands upon his back slide down, smoothing across his buttocks and down his thighs, rubbing his calves, until they reach his feet; there she works the flesh of his soles with expert hands, massaging away his tension.
A foot-rub. Thorin begins to feel that he may survive this.
They touch him like this for perhaps half an hour, knuckles digging into his muscles, and all the while the strangeness of resting against this silver-tressed elf, as if they are embracing. Thranduil watches, rapt.
And then their touches begin to wander; they nudge his knees apart, which he resists, but they are implacable, and the taller of the brunets kneels beside him and strokes the insides of his thighs. The other kneels opposite and slips his hands between Thorin and his bearer, broad palm-strokes across his abdomen and sinking lower, never quite brushing his cock- which, to his relief, continues to hang limp.
Until a trickle of warm oil strikes his lower back, and he jumps, and his hands fly up reflexively to push himself back upright against the lever of his bearer's body; then the elves at his sides catch his arms, looking to Thranduil for guidance, and Thranduil never falters that stony gaze, responding: "Bind him."
Which they do, forearms behind his back, wrists touching elbows; and then the oil returns, trickling down the crack of his arse, almost too hot to bear as it drips across sensitive flesh. Two of his guards draw back, now, the shorter brunet and the strong-handed lady; the remaining two handle him gracefully, adding a higher bench for him to lean his chest against, a thin slat of padded wood that crosses him at the breastbone, leaving his nipples exposed.
The blond elf thumbs them, thoughtlessly, dispassionately, until they stand up; then he puts two of his fingers into Thorin's mouth and opens his jaw, examining his teeth and tongue, then stepping to one side so that Thranduil can lean forward and look as well. Thorin's pulse speeds, though he cannot imagine why; and then there is a single slim finger following the cascade of oil down from the divots above his buttocks until it brushes against his twitching arsehole, and he jerks.
It is all strange, still too strange to arouse him; his cock dangles, still flaccid, in midair, and the finger at his opening is too light to feel like much of anything.
"He is ready," says the blond elf, and Thorin realizes that this was all preparation, and he draws his breath in to ask some meaningless question when all the alien coolness disappears and there is hot breath against his cock and two fingers probing forcefully at his opening and a hand in his hair, pulling his head back, craning his neck until his mouth opens from the stress. Someone gags him with a silken cloth that has been drenched in wine. If he strains his eyes, Thorin can see that Thranduil is now sitting back on his throne, a faint smile playing around his mouth; and then he is breached and engulfed at once, fingers stretching him with awful force while a wet mouth closes around his cock- and when did he get hard? Because he is rigid now- and he realizes that he is in terrible danger and he will rot in Thranduil's dungeon until he dies.
The fingers withdraw soon, and in their place is a cold ceramic shape, smooth-glazed, which presses into Thorin mercilessly; it is almost too much, it stretches him just too far, and then it narrows again and he sobs with relief. He suspects it's not very large. It's been a very long time.
Not that it's easy to focus on the feeling of fullness in his ass when his cock is buried in a wet, hungry throat. Fortunately there isn't much motion, or suction, and while tremors run through Thorin's body he can hold himself still enough to avoid immediate humiliation.
Thranduil watches this with rapt attention; but no blush rises to his cheeks, no eagerness causes him to squirm in his seat. He observes Thorin's deliberate breathing, the sweat that beads on his skin, as if he is watching a marvelous dance, or observing the technique of a master craftsman. His beautiful face is untroubled, still as a glacier; he is very upright upon his throne, in perfect decorum even as Thorin learns that whenever his arsehole clenches it drives the... the thing inside him against some inner point of pleasure.
Now the elf's tongue is moving against his cock, in small delicate flutters that tease more than torment, and he feels a rope drape across his shoulders and jerks with alarm; the movement sets off a lingering convulsive shudder as the penetrating object rolls in him. He gasps, and though panic rises in him as elven hands twine the rope about his arms and bind him to the padded cross-piece, he cannot bring himself to move again, lest that awful pressure return.
Thranduil nods, and with no further warning the bench he's knelt upon is pulled out from under him. He manages to stagger to his feet, but his chest and arms are bound to the cross-piece, and the twist and contraction of his abdominal muscles makes the thing inside him into a living cock, which is fucking him with his own strength. He ends up bent over, legs splayed, cock still gently held in his tormentor's mouth (only elves can move so fluidly and gracefully, and he curses them for it), struggling to will his body to stillness and to calm his gut, which is rhythmically contracting around its invader, paradoxically trying to draw it up within him.
Before he can regain control, slim elven fingers grasp the object at its base and slide it free, and he sags against the cross-piece gratefully; a second later unbearable suction and friction assail him. Thorin staggers at the shock of it, at the dispassionate power and skill of that mouth, at the hint of greed in the heavy breaths of his torturer.
The pressure at his entrance returns, and he is breached again, still struggling to hold himself steady against the onslaught of the elf's mouth. This time the sensation of being opened, of being stretched, is at once greater and intolerably more pleasurable. The plug, the ceramic cock, is much larger this time, and challenges his sensitive muscle almost past bearing; but once it lies in place, filling him with its cool smooth length, the devouring of his cock eases, and though he thinks he may die of the violation he begins to hope that he can last-
-and then someone takes hold of the false cock inside him and rocks it, and his entire world shatters, and he knows he is on the verge of losing his bet even before the thing truly begins to thrust in him.
At first each long stroke within him is carefully directed, slow enough to work him without rhythm, and this is all that saves him; this, and perhaps the mercy of the elf whose mouth surrounds him, who seems to understand how close he trembles to the edge. Thorin could imagine, as he gasps for air (the gag pushes away slowly under his tongue), as his knees tremble and threaten to buckle, that the starlight tresses of the kneeling elf- which spill now freely over his shoulders, the same hue as Thranduil's own- are truly the Elvenking's, and that Thranduil himself is debased and kneeling for his pleasure.
He expects the thought to sustain him with a rush of rage and righteous satisfaction; instead it knocks the breath out of him with furious lust, with dreadful truth, an opened door behind which lies ruin. Now, having seen this, he cannot banish the image; but strong comprehending elvish hands brace his trembling thighs, and the teasing tongue relaxes and lies still, and Thorin knows that his assailant wants him to succeed.
At least for now.
Slowly, with a burning ache that spreads through his body, Thorin draws himself back from the brink; he is pathetically grateful for the slow pace of his defiling, for the moments of precious relief between each drawn-out thrust. Sweat drips from his brow and spatters on the tiled floor, spots the green hood that covers the blond elf's head- the blood is hot and strong in Thorin's face, and Thranduil laughs at him, low knells of liquid sound that leave his eyes untroubled.
"I would like to see you do as well," gasps Thorin, "with a cock in your arse."
Thranduil considers this and dismisses it, tilting his head gravely. "I shall consider that, if ever I see fit to trespass in your realm and creep about filthy and sneaking in the shadows."
Thorin bites back a curse, but already Thranduil has perceived that he is beginning to accommodate his discomfort, and a single line creases his brow. "Though I daresay my fellows are treating you rather too well," he says, and leans forward, raising one arm.
"Like this," instructs Thranduil, and demonstrates with his outstretched hand and arm the motion with which the brown-haired elf is to fuck Thorin open; and after a moment the rhythms match, a fast punishing pace that finds its mark with agonizing precision, and Thorin can both feel the silent impact within his flesh and see, with eyes that can hardly focus for his anguish, the easy ruthlessness with which Thranduil directs each blow. Thranduil is fucking him, without even touching him, without risking the pleasure of his own body; and after a moment Thranduil sits back on his throne, a faint flush rising on his cheeks, and Thorin sees the outline against his robes that Thranduil has begun to stir at the sight of him- is not truly hard, for is that not beneath an elf king? but swollen in shape, beginning to take an interest.
A boiling surge rises within Thorin at the sight, a pulling in his ballocks, a hot shudder deep in his loins; he is lost, and he prepares himself for defeat, his brow knotted and his mouth sagging open as the first shocks of orgasm roll through him.
The blond elf closes his fingers tight around the shaft of Thorin's cock, a ring pinching him at the base, and though it does not truly diminish the agony of climax there is a new dimension, pressure and threadlike pain and wrongness, as the elf pulls away to address Thranduil and Thorin's cock leaps helpless in throes of dry orgasm, unattended, unnoticed by the king.
"He is on the verge of defeat," says the blond elf to Thranduil, with shocking familiarity. "Would it not be a pity to let him spend so soon?"
Thranduil's eyes narrow. "If he cannot reserve his strength, shall we coddle him in his weakness?"
"Perhaps he will learn something," says the blond elf, lightly, as if the king's reprimand does not concern him overmuch. "I would bind him with thongs; I hear they are effective, but can be... overcome, with effort." With this he releases his grip, and a single thwarted droplet beads at the slit of Thorin's cock, seed mimicking its own mimic. The pressure in Thorin's ballocks is unbearable.
Nor does his erection flag, even when the corner of Thranduil's mouth tilts up, even when he repeats: effort, in tones of cruel satisfaction, even when he nods and motions to the elves who stand aside, and they bring leather thongs and drape them over the cross-piece to which Thorin is bound.
The blond elf's hands are sure and his gauge of tension perfect, as only a bowman can know the tension of a string; he binds the thongs about Thorin's shaft and around his sack, above his ballocks, a torment of roughness and friction that leaves Thorin gasping and his cock flushed nearly purple, hard but bound down, his ballocks stretched away from his body. Thus bound, Thorin feels himself contracting and spasming once again, denied any resolution for his arousal; the ceramic cock withdraws once again, and is replaced by another still larger, one with a wicked curve to it that stretches him until he feels its weight in his belly.
A low, wretched groan resonates through the chamber, and Thorin understands that this is him, that he is beyond words and can only plead with guttural animal tones. Thranduil spares him no time to accommodate, once again gesturing the pace and force with which he wished Thorin fucked; and as Thorin nearly loses his footing, regains it, loses it again, and sags against the cross in tears of desperation, feeling his abdomen seize in thoughtless reflex against the intrusion, Thranduil adds:
"Now suck him again, and none of your soft-hearted antics; we will see how good your binding hand is, L- lad. I want to see this 'effort' you speak of, and how much he requires to overcome his bindings." And with a moment's more thought: "And put the gag back, with more wine; his wailing will wake others."
The gag, unnoticed, has fallen on the floor; an elf darts in, picks it up, and soaks it in more wine before stuffing it into Thorin's mouth. He groans around it, choked, feeling the bulk on his tongue, feeling a sick pleasure uncoil in him from it.
But now the blond elf's mouth is upon him again, and though his cock is tied so that it cannot be swallowed as deeply as before, it remains so sensitive from the binding and from Thorin's earlier, thwarted orgasm that even the pressure and motion of lips about its head is too much, and with the pounding open of his arse and the swirling tongue and the deft fingers that stroke about his ballocks and the cleft of his thighs, Thorin feels himself approaching climax almost instantly-
-only to be held back, twisting in torment, his ballocks struggling to rise and throbbing with the heat of a forge in the grip of the thongs. Each vicious stroke of the false cock is torture, punishment beyond bearing, and Thorin would gladly concede the bet and spend himself in raw humiliation on the tiles below if only he could have spoken, if his mouth were not forced open and filled to stretching with silk.
"Harder," says Thranduil, and the working in Thorin's inmost flesh becomes a hammer-blow even as the blond elf's mouth becomes a furnace of suction and lashing rough tongue. The pain of it, the dissonance held far beyond the point of resolution; Thorin rocks, kicks, wishes to die. The blond elf's knuckle presses hard behind his ballocks, only increasing the pressure of the fucking inside him; his cock wants to grow harder, but is bound in its leather cage, unable to recede in defeat or to allow him any release.
The sensation becomes needle-sharp, piercing him until his voice rises in shrieks through the gag; under it wells a flooding heat that washes through his limbs, a dull desperate pulse that cannot be denied. Thranduil leans forward in his throne, and wonder of wonders, he rests the heel of his hand firmly against the crux of his thighs, a gesture as obscene and blatant from him as any lascivious gesture Thorin has seen in a century of working among ill-bred Men. "Ah yes," says Thranduil, his voice low and throaty: "oh, expend your effort, beardling prince, let me see you overcome your bonds."
And against all his hopes and his distress, Thorin feels himself coming, pain that overwhelms him to weeping even as he spends a second time; and this time as well, he is blocked, the thongs constricting too tightly to allow him release, even as he shudders his way through a second climax that feels like knives and bludgeons in his belly, that pours unabated for so long that dark spots appear before his eyes, throbbing in time with the relentless fucking of that false cock in his gut.
After this Thorin falls out of mind and time, and hovers in a humming ecstasy of torment, hanging from his cross and watching the floor tiles spin and gray before his eyes. He is scarcely aware that his torturers have changed the pace and angle of their thrusts, so that he is no longer spurred by jolts of horrifying pressure, but rather is spitted upon the ceramic shaft to sickening fullness. The unrelenting pain in his cock and ballocks binds him quaking to reality, and he knows that captors of lesser skill would have bound him tighter and made him numb; he will bear no lasting damage from this, if he survives the night.
Outside the high windows, a gray stain spreads across the black; his time as Thranduil's toy is nearly complete. Thorin cannot find joy in this, or regret, or any emotion; he is a husk, a shell in which dwells an enormous porcelain cock, a beast born to pain.
But now Thranduil rises from his throne and descends the low dais, graceful as a queen and terrible as the grinning moon, and the light in his eyes is an undisguised doom falling over Thorin. "You are very strong indeed," he says, serene mask over unholy delight, "in your leather armor of straps, with your weapon held high for you even when your own power falters. I regret now that I listened to the council of my kinsman here, and bound you, for I would have a true contest of wills, and not this farce."
Gently he touches Thorin's face, and the coolness of his touch- perhaps there is some elf-magic in it- brings Thorin gasping back to his senses, groaning in his dismay. Thranduil is very close to him, the oak-scent of his hair a sharp contrast with the sweat and fear and adrenaline that pours from Thorin's skin; his fingers dip between Thorin's lips, cold and sweet as water, and draw out the gag that holds back all Thorin's curses.
He should spit in Thranduil's face; he should bite at those fingers, fling his rage in poisonous words, demand to be freed-
-but all that comes from his lips is a ragged chorus of pleas, and Thranduil's lips curve into a faint smile. "I would unbind your armor, dwarf," he says, in a voice that is nearly a whisper, so close that his words fall upon Thorin's lips as if they are his own; "but I fear you have already taken a mortal wound beneath it, and if we unbind your straps and withdraw the spear your lifeblood will gush forth."
"Please," chokes Thorin.
"Oh yes," Thranduil soothes him, "you have pleased me very much indeed, and with only a little more work you will satisfy my curiosity entirely. For I cannot unbind you, not without ruining the bet; and neither do I wish to lose the bet entirely." His fingers follow the lines of Thorin's beard downward, like an artist testing a sculpture, trailing Thorin's sweat across hair and flesh; his thumb crosses Thorin's nipple, then returns to flick across it in a mockery of a caress, and his other hand rises to cup Thorin's aching, burning shaft where it strains in its bonds, smooth elven palm against red dwarven flesh. Thorin feels the bonds creak, and feels himself upon the precipice of another disastrous orgasm, and knows that the suppression of this, the burning back-rush of futile ejaculation, will kill him entirely.
Thranduil's hands are twining, a predicament, a trap from which Thorin's flesh shies everywhere they touch. "Therefore I bid you," murmurs Thranduil in his ear, superior, unaffected by the close presence of his kinsmen or by the suffering of the heir of Erebor before him, "Thorin, my prisoner: overcome your bonds and spill your coarse completion, make me your conqueror and I shall set you free."
With this his arm encircles Thorin, a wicked parody of a lover's embrace, and as Thorin breathes in the scent of him and chokes on it, as the elves who before tormented him now gently, consolingly stroke his hands and murmur with sympathy, Thranduil takes the handle of the false cock buried in Thorin's flesh and wrenches it.
Thorin wants to gasp, to draw in some last breath before he is destroyed, but all the air is full of Thranduil and all his body is full of the thrust and rhythm of Thranduil's own hands, of the immense toy that now works within him at the Elvenking's personal direction, riding against the hidden point of pleasure within him as if Thranduil can see it burning in his belly and aim with unerring accuracy; and Thranduil's other hand, the hand whose heel so recently pressed against the Elvenking's own arousal, cups and rubs and strokes where the leather thongs bind Thorin's skin.
"Spill for me," Thranduil tells him, as if he is telling a secret. "I am only curious; I only want to see."
"I cannot," groans Thorin. "The bindings- when I come- I can only scream-"
Thranduil smiles, a true and genuine smile, a proud craftsman examining his work, and no one can see it; only Thorin can feel it, curling against his ear. "Then scream for me," he says, and scream Thorin does, as orgasm rips through his body like dragon's flame, searing and scorching and withering him as it goes.
The bindings, though, have loosened, creaking under Thranduil's ministrations; and there is only a hair's-breadth of difference, but it is just enough, and Thorin sobs in shameless relief as his seed finally finally rushes forth and spurts across Thranduil's fingers, as the pent-up pain unfurling in his groin leaves echoes of utter bliss shuddering through his limbs. It hurts; and the pain is sweeter than death.
This time the humming dark overtakes him entirely, and before his orgasm even begins to ebb Thorin falls into a stupor, nearly unconscious; when he regains his breath a moment later, Thranduil is standing before him, face once again unreadable, no part of himself mussed or even touched by the disaster that has befallen Thorin.
Thranduil raises his hand, and it seems to Thorin for a moment that he is standing in some unreachable high far place; and he tastes the white seed that Thorin has painted his fingers with, and tilts his head in search of memory or comprehension, and as he turns away Thorin glimpses such burning sorrow in his face, such regret for things lost.
Thorin remembers, as the elves cut his bonds and chafe feeling back into his arms and legs, as his body twitches against the withdrawal of the false cock; remembers that elves marry but once, and lie only with whom they wed, and that Thranduil has a son but no living wife; and perhaps he understands, as he is borne back to his cell in defeat and exhaustion to lie shaking in the dark, what curiosity must have blazed in Thranduil's breast, what great gifts Mahal has given his sons, what a hollow joy must be the foundation of Mirkwood's throne.