So here is my contribution to my greatest ship of all time, and somewhere within the very back of my pervert mind, I fear for Tolkien's sanity if he had come across this during his lifetime. I own nothing, though I do fancy Thrandy's face and eyebrows.

This is my first fic outside of the sole fandom that I followed. I hope you enjoy what took me close to an entire day to create. (:


They came with their silver-knit robes and citron hair, reeking of ancient trees and sodden leaf.

The fickle fluorescence of the towering figures assaulted the comfortable dimness that the mighty King Throrin otherwise preferred. They slid through the air like preternatural phantoms, chins leveled high in subtle vanity; eyes like ice, skin like diamond dust.

Thorin painted them with his gaze, and knew immediately that these were the elves he'd never seen.

The fabled, salient ears that slid from their tendrils of taffeta hair told him so. A hiss in his face, the cause of his now-narrowed eyes. If it was narcissism that could conjure itself into solidified rock, the mountain would soon enough cave into its own infinite depths as those creatures walked on.

The Arkenstone shone brightly upon Throrin's golden throne. A stone that demanded all but the praise of those who reveled in royalty, of the powerful. The Dwarf King's greatest treasure, in all of its silenced greed, exuded a sun of its own, a powerful light that fulminated glory and endless wealth upon his head. One that dueled the glow of even the tallest Elf that now stood before them.

A pointed crown sliced the air, fulvid leaves tangled within its needled thorns. Was it silvern wood? The tenuity of tungsten? The tang of flora lingered into Thorin's nose, and it was then that he knew that it was the Elvenking of Mirkwood that stood before the throne.

There was a silence, and within the nearest second, the slightest tilt of the head, long tresses of hair following the elusive action like the thick stream that came from the pouring of champagne.

The Elvenking wore a ghostly leer on his full, colored lips that Thorin knew his grandfather had entirely dismissed, for the Arkenstone had honed the great Dwarf King into something he once wasn't. Thorin seethed as he stood, his eyes now nestled against a glorious shade of ancient blue.

The interval was small, miniscule and missable, but the Elvenking, in all of his flawless, glass-like skin had grinned with his very eyes, a filthy whisper in Thorin's ear that spoke in Elvish Tongue. And it was then that Thorin faltered, he faltered greatly, in all of his ignorant youth and short beard that his spine trembled, that his eyes wavered. That he breathed a breath that he should have never breathed.

When Throrin stood from his rightful throne, to lead towards the Feast Hall, Thorin had immediately followed. His pride lied tested and holed, and the seed of gall took root for the one behind him. For the one who had caused the cluster in his throat, the sweat on his palm, the quickening of his breathing with a single, wretched glance of his cursed, Elven eyes.

O, how the Elvenking reeked of trees and sweet Springs.

He culled the berries that were offered before him with long, white fingers, sliding them slowly into the cavern of his ageless mouth. Throrin ate loudly and unabashedly as a Dwarf King should at every hour of the day, an indicative contrast to the delicate plucking of grapes and of the careful helpings of fish belly. The splintered crown glistened in the candlelight as the Elvenking sipped slowly on his drink with such alien propriety, with such precision and impeccable timing; with such grace.

Thorin swallowed his bread thickly when he found the sense to look away, and that was when the Elf spoke in a voice Thorin knew he wouldn't soon forget.

"A fine heir, King Under the Mountain." A breath of wind in a midnight's sullen breeze, the sway of a tree's branch that lied bedded in budding blossoms. An utterance that could only ever be heard from within the depths of a honeyed flower. "Worthy of great ruling."

Thorin's mouth had lost the ability to chew.

"As all know, Thranduil," said the Dwarf King. "Tell me of your travel to my lands."

Thorin watched the unmoving surface of his plate with great spite as the Elf chuckled softly from within his throat. Thorin dared to turn at this, thieved of his appetite, and saw as the Elvenking smiled dryly from beneath his long, sable lashes.

A beguiling mock of his grandfather; a respite which fueled the smoldering steam in Thorin's veins from 'neath his skin.

Silent rancor glazed his gray eyes, his fists clenching to the rhythm of his grandfather's painful ignorance. Too consumed by his greed to notice, too enamored by the Arkenstone to raise his mighty axe.

The fork in Thorin's hand bent easily when the Elf began to speak in his Elven lisp.

It was when the hour passed that Thorin could take no more and stood abruptly, the clamor of utensils reverberating upon the large table. It was the way in which the Elf would stare shamelessly at him as he sipped into his goblet of purple wine that had cindered the last of Thorin's temperament.

Thranduil whispered lecherous invitations from beneath his lashes, sinful inducements from the haze of his icy eyes. Thranduil knew he had won. Knew that the Dwarf Prince had succumbed to his inescapable charm. That the Dwarf could take no more.

Thorin thundered to his chambers, an earth-shattering pulse of the mountain informing the lands of the far West that the Prince of Erebor had slammed his door in a snarling rage that night.

Throrin plead the excuse of his youthful grandson that evening, ordering the finest guest chambers in all of the Mountain to be let open and warmed for the Elvenking and his clergy.

Thranduil had bowed his head in gratitude before being lead through grand corridors.


It was as if the dragon had been called forth by Thorin's rage on the morrow.

There were screams of agony that swelled the air into bleeding, the smell of burning flesh and the sobbing of children churning Thorin's blood into black desperation. The beast was gargantuan, ten towers over and more capped in devil horns and impenetrable hide. Its castle-sized claws crushed the bones of great warriors whom Thorin had come to know the names of.

Erebor was lost and so was the mountain. They ran. But as Thorin gave way to the wailing women and terrified youths, he saw in the large cliff's horizon that there was a xanthic-clad battalion of armored soldiers just beyond its ridge, and leading them, the Elvenking.

Thorin's eyes widened, his hair swaying from the snarling of the beast that crumbled his homeland to petty remnants. And in that moment of sheer despair, surrounded by the screams of babes and desecration of his people and elders, Thorin roared his voice for all that it would go and used his arms as flags in the air, frantic and crazed.

A great howl of plea. A supplication laced with the promise of endless reward and precious stone, of alliance.

It was help that his people so hellishly needed, it was help that never came.

Thorin watched with shattered shock as Thranduil looked into his very eyes from beneath those wretched, Elven lashes, and with a lull of the Elvenking's head, his hand had raised in dismissal towards his own people as if to inform them that there was nothing for them beneath that cliff.

As if Thorin hadn't thundered the very pulse of his heart through his throat for the call of precious aid.

So the Elvenking had gone and disappeared from behind that great drop, mounted on his deplorable, antlered animal, and it was then that Thorin welled and brimmed with boiling ire, a scorn and choler pulsing within his veins that would take more than the power of time to ever quell into that of mere anger. He turned, towards the terrified faces of his women, and of the tears of all his children, and to the brave fear of his men, and there was a choke upon his heart that would forever mark him.


Thorin spun on his heel, cursing the Elf. Cursing all that the Elf governed. From his every crook and stretch of wicked wood and tree, to every one of his breathing kin and those that were to come. And to all of Mirkwood, Thorin cursed the knife-eared snakes.

The flames took it all.

And through the dampness of broken earth, Thorin lead what was left of his people to the towns and mercy of Men.


With years (dreadful, long years, an eon overneath another), Thorin regained it all.

With much sweat, loss of many dear friends, and with the death of one of his beloved nephews, and even of his own blood shed, Thorin reclaimed his name of King Under the Mountain.

And that he was, when he sat on his throne and a single, tall figure was brought before him in all of its reluctance and flail. Tumbled words echoed from within the great stone walls, Dwalin easily overpowering the figure into loth stillness a mere five paces away from where the mighty Dwarf King sat.

Thorin's eyes narrowed in interest.

"An outsider, jus' outside the border," said Dwalin. "Jus' out huntin', it said."

"Remove the tarp from his head. We are no brutes, nor the kindred of Orcs."

With a sharp hiss and writhe, Thorin foresaw eyes with a dreary shade of blue; large, ebon pupils, skin as smooth as petal. It breathed deeply as if flustered, its hair like a tussled web from the nuzzle of the hood that once hid its face. It was when Thorin had caught the contour of pointed ears that his brow furrowed deeply and his hand tensed upon the arm of his throne.

An Elf.

A single Elf in his kingdom. Those of which he resented for so many dire years.

A heavy breath caught hold in Thorin's gullet when his gaze traced the length of the Elf's hair, the xanthous color of it, clad in gilded embroidery, silver linen, and brown leggings. The face was watertight and honed in sinful symmetry, a face which brought wretched memories of splintered coronals and pronounced brows. Of the horned beast among the cliff, of the tall, pale snake with leaves within its crown which mounted it.

"What is your business on my borders, Elf?" said Thorin in a voice that made even the mightiest Dwarfs tremble at the spine.

The Elf, however, in all of its unwavering sureness spoke in tangible smoothness. "None. I have never shed even a glance at your borders. I wish your people no harm-"

Dwalin pushed the Elf hard on the back when he felt the outsider had said too much without enough arduous regard of the King. Thorin raised his hand in dismissal, his gray eyes focused on the blue ones before him in a scrutiny that only the strong-willed could remain under.

"Force is what has me here," the Elf pulls his arm away, yielding on one knee before the Dwarf King. "Kidnapped by your men from my own-"

"You will not impeach my people, Elf, nor refer to them so lowly with such insolent accusations."

"I wouldn't dream to, nor would I lie." His voice was steady, heed in his every word. This Elf knew of regard to those who were powerful. "I am not so much brash as my father in his detachment, for I speak to you truly. If my steed were to be returned to me, I could-"

At this, the Dwarf King's eyes widened. At this, Thorin knew.

There would be only one other Elf who would resemble this one so impeccably. Only one other this one could be speaking of. Immediate anger overcomes Thorin's expression.

Thranduil would know loss. Thranduil would have a taste.

"Take him away from my sight."

Thorin's demand is unquestionable, and Dwalin instantly cusps the Elf's wrists within his iron clasp.

The Elf looked at Thorin with great disbelief, his chest heaving with reluctance and his mouth moving rapidly to shout formal pleads as he was taken away from the visage of the throne. The echos resounded the stone halls even after the clamor of footsteps faded from Thorin's earshot.

It had been Legolas who had stood before him. Wide-eyed and frenzied as he flailed helplessly.

Yes, it had been the fabled Prince of Mirkwood.

The Elvenking's sole and precious son.


Thorin was no tactless tyrant, nor cruel.

Gifts were often brought to him upon small, woven baskets from tender, beardless youths, those who often begged to thread their tiny fingers through his mighty beard; and Thorin would allow it if he were there to personally accept the tributes of smooth pebbles. Roses were offered at his mountain's doors from beautiful Dwarf women when the sun lied the brightest. Men who bowed deeply before him as he strolled his eminent lands, and Thorin who would tilt his own head in regard.

The Dwarf King was not crude to the Prince of Mirkwood, having housed him in one of his most respectable chambers with plenty of food and drink. Neither, however, did Thorin allow Legolas his freedom for the whole of Autumn.

It was on a day of heavy storm in which the Dwarf King was interrupted from an evening's spar with his remaining nephew, Fili.

Bofur had walked in with the peculiar news with a bow of his head. "One of Mirkwood awaits at the mountain gates."

At this, Thorin lowered his sword, and smirked. He smirked without the tang of shame or regret. He smirked proudly, an amusement creased against the corners of his mouth. Fili, having not seen his uncle so bemused in such a long while, gave a broad smile of his own, chuckling for a reason he wasn't quite aware of. For not so long, however, as Thorin immediately regained his composure and gave his young nephew a stern look.

"One?" Thorin inquired, approaching Bofur.


So, the Elvenking hadn't even the insolence to bring a clergy.

The Elf had come to know wild worry; desperation, all deliciously reflected in Thranduil's solitary venture across the vast miles that separated his wood from The Lonely Mountain. Thorin's veins pooled and exulted with triumph at the thought, carefully placing his weapon against the wall.

"Allow the Elvenking before my throne," said Thorin. "Rid him of anything sharp, of any.. trinkets."

Bofur nodded and left promptly.


He came with that very same crown.

Wetted, but splintered high, its thorns gilded in small, white flowers and auburn leaves. Thorin glared, his gaze tracing every glide the Elvenking made across his stone ground until he stood but four paces away from the throne.

If resentment could burst into black flame and melt flesh away, Thranduil would be a pile of smoldering bone dust on the cold floor.

The Elf yielded and bowed his head properly, deeply, unlike that time so many years ago. Thorin narrowed his eyes in contempt, painting that sinfully polished face with his very spite.

The Elvenking was an unearthly pillar of silver-clad beauty and refined limbs. Flaxen hair caped his shoulders nearly to the waist, eyes so infernally colored that it glinted frost deep within their bowers. Pronounced, dark brows brought forth an unworldly pallid complexion upon his face. High cheek bones graced him, but it was his firm and masculine jaw that told Thorin that he was no languid ruler. That he was, indeed, an ancient. One who had seen so much blood and so much death. So much war, and so much of the barbarous doings of the living.

But Thorin was no different.

There was an arch on Thranduil's brow that spoke to Thorin. The Elf King knew that somewhere within this elysian mountain, lied his son. His only son. His treasured son. His little Prince.

Thorin was the first to speak.

"What is your business in my land, Elvenking of Mirkwood?" he inquired in a voice that was grandeur in itself. "I imagine your travel must have been.. perilous, with only yourself to bring you here." He paused, not yet finished. "To leave your wood desolate of its leader should give you most critical reason."

Thranduil's gaze faltered for just one, brief, delicious moment, and Thorin basked in its sweetness like a wild bee who had obtained its ultimate goal against the most marvelous flower. The Elf had no room for arrogance, nor the slightest chance for the vain tilt of his utterly hairless chin.

"My son, King Under the Mountain," Thranduil began, looking deeply into Thorin's platinum eyes, "I've ordered my men all across the wood and beyond with naught a trace of him. Legolas is an able warrior, an entire legion lies within his bow. He is not dead." So the Elf liked to brag. Thorin's lip ached to arch. "My son would never leave his home without my blessing, nor without his most favored steed who fled into the wood and into my brace."

Aye, Thorin had ordered the release of the white horse.

Thranduil had taken an extra step towards the throne at that point, and Thorin's eyes flared with an intensity so coercive that it left that very step faltering right back. The Elvenking seemed flustered, a shallow crease of his brow denoting his grim dependence on the situation.

Dependence. On a grim situation. Thorin's blood began to seer.

"So you come to beg-"

"I come, for my son," Thranduil shot sharply, his voice a slithering hiss that pierced the very air.

"Legolas, the Prince of Mirkwood, has been given the finest food that my kitchens have to offer," said Thorin. "Not a scratch on him. A sturdy roof above his head with the warmth of fur blankets upon his bed; the cleanest of water inside his chalice." A small respite filled the silence. "Though, the same cannot be said for my people. Years ago."

It was then that Thranduil choked on his own air and inclined his chin into the air in detached poise.

Thorin hadn't forgotten. Thorin never forgave.

"My youngest nephew lies beneath the ground, Elvenking. Many of my dearest friends fell in battle with no fur blankets to catch their fall. No antlered beast to mount on, nor the safety of a hollow tree from somewhere in the wood to stick their heads in. Our land was lost to Smaug, and no help came from the elves as they watched it all cinder into the ground like a celebration of lights from above the refuge of a cliff."

Thranduil's jaw clenched, Thorin could see, and those icy, blue eyes narrowed slowly.

"It was no matter of cowardice, King Under the Mountain," said Thranduil, "For my kind are gallant in both war and fealty. I couldn't hardly lead fifty of my men to their assured deaths to fight against a blasted dragon."

"And I could watch my own being crushed from 'neath its barbs?"

"All the same, you and I would have met the same fate, and your mountain doomed to be consecrated by a foul beast for all of its eternity." Thranduil's skin raised a scant in color, and the frustration in his voice was all but conspicuous.

The two kings glared. The two kings seethed.

"Though a difference it could have made for my people. For my nephew. For my friends."

Thranduil's tongue lied tied, his intake of breath apparent through his chest. He took a step forward, never wavering in his gaze.

"What is it that you desire, then? What is it that keeps you from releasing my son?"

"Equity. A balance."

Thranduil's brows almost furrowed, but his gelid expression prevailed. "How?"

Thorin's scrutiny daggered deep into those beryl-blue eyes that lied so heavily fringed. Skin like soft cream, hair like a stream of silver gilt. Thorin remembered all too well how the Elvenking had once looked at him from beneath the pretense of his goblet, of his sipping.

It'd been an insidious invitation.

Curse the creature for all of its effeminate beauty. Curse it for all of its twining curves and long, slender legs. Curse those eyes; those beautiful, Elven eyes. Curse its pink lips that were surely made for a different, more lascivious use entirely.

"You will feel my shame from the very seconds that I dared to trust you, Thranduil, whilst you lied mounted on your miserable animal." Thorin's voice was laced in such malevolence, in such gall that even the eyes of the Elvenking entailed to widen without his knowing.

"You will undress yourself."

Thranduil's jaw slackened, his mouth parting at a pace quicker than the pulse of a heartbeat, only to close again just as quickly.

"I could.. I could never concur to such a distasteful thing. That is no Elven way to-"

"Or would you prefer an audience, Elvenking?" Thorin leered, bringing his hand to caress casually on his beard. "Legolas, perhaps, to watch his father strip before me?"

Thranduil's eyes narrowed dangerously at this, his chin tilting high so that his wry smile curtained itself beneath his long, black lashes. He took another step forward, so close to the Dwarf King that his icy breath caught warmth 'neath the thick, rippled mane of Thorin's hair.

He spoke in wintry whispers, voice low and cunning. "Your eyes have been shining hungrily upon me for a long while now, Thorin." Thranduil smiled softly once more before his hands fell atop the collar of his long, bejeweled robe, undoing the initial seams to uncover a pearly neck from underneath its thin surface. "Or could it be that you are perceiving to rape me?"

At this, Thorin snatched Thranduil by the back of the hair so close to his snarling glare that the great Elvenking was forced to lean down, sharing his air. Thorin's eyes were fierce, hissing wordless curses onto the cheek of the Elf before roughly releasing his hold. Thranduil stepped back in venomous spite, an expression of disdain blanketing his flawless complexion.

"You flatter yourself greatly," said Thorin. "But it was you who craved your legs be spread upon my sheets many moons ago. Must I inform Legolas of this, as well?"

Thranduil said nothing, his hands falling to the seams of his robe in unison to the mention of his son. He looked into Thorin's eyes as he undid them in gracious pattern, his long, elegant fingers toying with the threads. Soon, the velour fell to the floor, revealing a hairless chest with naught a scathe nor mark. His waist arched into subtle curves, arms lithe and white. Long tresses of hair caressed the Elf's shoulders, ending only at the hips. Thorin's gaze fell to Thranduil's wrists, wrists which seemed as though they'd shatter under any strain of force.

Indeed, the Elf's body was the epitome of deceit.

For Thranduil, Thorin knew, was gravely lethal and far from that of a dainty nymph.

The frigid air of the mountain did not affect the Elvenking as he bent to remove his boots, leaving his feet bare to the cold, stone ground. Thorin's eyes reflected nothing as he watched in utter silence. A layer of thin fabric fell to the ground, followed by another until the Elvenking of Mirkwood lied bare in all of his nudity before the Dwarf King's throne, fine velvet cloth pooled at his feet.

Only the splintered crown remained. And four silver rings.

Thorin's breath was helpless in its defense, having been visibly caught somewhere in his throat. This had not gone unnoticed. Thranduil's lips arched very so faintly, arms falling gently to their sides.

Such skin could never exist in all of Middle Earth. Such legs could not be of such a powerful man, nor could those licentious hips that promised such hellish fulfillment. So wicked that body was, that it left the mighty Dwarf King's blood heating to the rhythm of ungodly lust.

May Durin forgive such filthy treachery, for that Elf was the serpent of Temptation.

The Elvenking approached after a long minute of respite, his naked feet sliding graciously on the cold ground in a ghostly glide. At this, Thorin regained all that he had lost in that one, vicious minute. His eyes narrowed fiercely at Thranduil's daring action. It only took great arrogance, great pride to have approached a Dwarf King so shamelessly without license or beckon.

"You will stay where you stand," said Thorin in a powerful tongue. "You will kneel on both your knees, but not before taking six paces away from my throne."

So the Elvenking did, he did with so much vain in his eyes. With so much confidence in his backward stride that it was almost sickening to look at for too long. Thorin watched with a blatant smirk as Thranduil knelt in all that was grace and dexterity, knowing all too well that the great Elvenking would not leave Erebor with his cherished son without a profound, defiling scar deep within his self-love.

And that scar started promptly when Thorin's gaze casually fell to the impressive, hardened limb lifting proudly in between Thranduil's legs. It was the Dwarf King's turn to tilt his chin upwards, his eyes giving a grin of their own.

"So you enjoy the feel of my mountain against your knees, Elvenking?" he said. "So pleasurable is my stone against your flesh that your body reveals your eagerness to please me so shamelessly?"

Thranduil said nothing, conceit in those alluring, indigo eyes as a single brow rose in all of its vanity.

"You will crawl."

And at that, that very brow dropped, and those smooth, Elven lips parted and closed in sheer disbelief.

"That.." Thranduil almost choked, "Cannot.. That is not, that is no-"

Thorin watched in great amusement, his own brow now risen high.

"Such callousness could only be told forth by one who is all but a brute-"

"Crawl or leave my mountain with nothing but your bare skin to warm you through the storm, Thranduil," spoke Thorin. "But I am not so much cruel. I would return to you your son. Though pity it would be as he would lend to you his cloak for the sake of your shame, for there would be those who would see you as you are before you left my gates."

So with a great draw of his breath, and with great obedience, Thranduil's palms met the smooth stone beneath him, balancing his weight in a feline position that was so hellishly erotic, that it hitched Thorin's breath away entirely. Thranduil then began to crawl towards the Dwarf King's golden throne in a seductive pace, ceasing only when he faced Thorin's very feet.

Thorin's powerful hand reached to tangle itself in the back of the Elvenking's hair, pulling fiercely until Thranduil winced in delicious discomfort. Thorin did not miss the rosy shade of the Elvenking's now throbbing cock as it twitched wildly the moment their eyes finally met. Thranduil lied flushed at the cheeks, lips swollen red from carnal arousal. His blue eyes whispered many sinful needs, stories of long-contained desire and alacrity right into the Dwarf King's ears.

Truly beautiful the creature was that Thorin sealed the Elvenking in a violent kiss. The response was immediate. The response was expected. Thorin's hand dug deeper into that long, silken hair as Thranduil's tongue begged for entry. Thorin hadn't yet bestowed even as that very tongue tempted him with many licks and sodden caresses against his lips, suggestive noises thrown about the throne room as Thranduil shamelessly hummed his arousal from within his throat.

Pale hands reached for the Dwarf King's ebony mane, threading thin fingers between its many waves and thick tresses. Thorin allowed this and rewarded it, having allowed that eager tongue to finally taste him. Thranduil's body reacted immediately in excitement, having straightened his back into a slight arch so that his head tilted with the unison of his long hair, ravenous for Thorin's belated reaction.

Thorin did nothing. His eyes still fully open and looking forward as if no one at all who was impossibly beautiful pried and begged for his attention.

Thranduil's eyes lied closed in a burning passion as he continued to kiss the stoic Dwarf King, long, ringed fingers caressing fervently at Thorin's jaw and neck, and then to his gallant beard. The Elvenking lapped what he could from within that mouth that tasted so much like power and something sweet, grazing sharp teeth, swallowing loudly when the taste overwhelmed him the most. Thorin's casual gaze shifted to look at Thranduil's perfect face, so much need written on its every milky crevice.

Thorin unlatched Thranduil from his mouth from the back of the hair, forcing the Elf's lustrous eyes to open in all of their dreamy reluctance.

"You've no shame," said Thorin, "to have denied your truest desire of me."

Thranduil panted softly from beneath his lidded gaze, fingers still tracing lightly against the firm contours of Thorin's handsome face. The Elvenking had gone so far as to lean in again before Thorin could finish, eager for all that he could take from the delectable mouth of the mighty Dwarf King. Before their lips could connect, however, Thorin gave that silver hair a stiff pull that nearly left Thranduil on the edge of whimpering.

"Turn," Thorin said. "Turn and place your knees on the arms of my throne. Balance whatever is left of you on your arms, on the stone, 'neath my feet."

At this, Thranduil's eyes widened in incredulity, showcasing all of the seven seas from within their colored bowers. Thorin grinned as the Elvenking blushed as a virgin would on her day of consummation.

"That.. That is most foul in all regards," the Elf whispered. "You could, you could not mean.. You couldn't ask that of me." Thorin's grin grew to the cyclicity of the Elvenking's inglorious stutter. "Surely you're.. you're not so mad as to.. do that of which.."

"Of which what?" said Thorin as a single brow rose in dark delight.

"Of which.. would disgrace me so utterly."

"My doors lie readied for your leave, then. Allow me to command the release of your son-"

"No," Thranduil nearly plead, an anxious whisper against Thorin's lips as he cupped the Dwarf King's face with the warmth of his palms. "I will.. I shall do as you say."

And so the Elvenking rose to his feet, balancing each knee on the arms of the throne and what was left of his lithe weight on his forearms against the stone floor. He shivered, heavens did he shiver, his eyes tightly closing as he felt the coolness of Thorin's every breath against the schism of his ass. His long hair cascaded onto the floor in a pool of sparkling wine, the solidified length of his ivory cock lewdly defying all of what was gravity.

Thorin wasted no time to grasp onto those maddening, pale hips, bringing forth the erotic warmth that stemmed from the Elvenking's most virgin region. His tongue met with the pucker that beckoned him so greatly, wet sin tracing itself all along the cleft, tasting salacious flesh that no other had ever touched or seen. Thranduil quivered in his helpless position, panting louder than he ever had before as Thorin encircled that tight ring of pulsing muscle with the very tip of his tongue.

Thranduil's lips parted immediately at the action, brows creased and lifting in filthy pleasure as the blue in his eyes rolled into the very back of his head. A whimper escaped him, a whimper that only encouraged the Dwarf King even further. Thorin pulled Thranduil in by the hips until his mouth lied hidden behind those parted cheeks, tongue tracing and painting from the thick stem of Thranduil's sacs to the very end of that mouth-watering gash that lead to a chiseled, trembling spine.

The Elvenking mewled, hot breath exhaled carefully through his wide open mouth.

This caused Thorin to become utterly relentless. His tongue circled the other's hole one last time before using the nick of force to taste that of which lied inside. Thranduil moaned loudly at this, spine arching beautifully as his eyes retreated once more into his skull. Thorin basked in the sound of it as he twirled and twisted from far within the other's velvety canal. The taste was exquisite, recherche, leaving even the drop of honey against one's tongue undesirable.

Leaf and oak. The breeze of fresh trees marred and overwhelmed the entirety of Thorin's tongue. The Elf was otherworldly, the Elf was the impossibility that facts denied, that facts disallowed. For such flesh to exist within that of a living creature should be forbidden in every stretch of land. From every wave of the sea, from every grain of sand.

Ravenous for more of this somatic dream, Thorin lapped greedily against the cramping hole of the other only to slip inside once more in rapid, patterned intervals. He opened the Elvenking's ivory buttocks until they would open no more, until there was no need for force, for the pink hole now lied wetted and gaped with need. Thranduil had long lost the ability to speak or breathe regularly, garbling nonsense from 'neath his breath as Thorin took him with his tongue again and again.

Insatiable in all manners of the Elf's taste, Thorin rubbed his open mouth against Thranduil's demanding hole to create a tuft of delicious, noisy friction that nearly caused the pale, slender body of the Elvenking to collapse clean into the ground. Thorin, however, held the Elf in place with his powerful hands as he opened his eyes to take in the sight of flawless, blushing skin and of the pucker that plead in all of its pulsating calamity to be taken and filled until it lied choked with nothing but white seed leaking from its pillaged cavity.

Thorin reached for the hot cock that overflowed with fluids from beneath, sending Thranduil into a soul-numbing climax that left him heaving dry air with the mere grace of two, long strokes. A thick mass of white splatter soiled the stone below Thorin's feet in the span of several seconds, leaving sporadic trails of seed as Thranduil sobbed with fatigue and completion with the utterance of all Elvish curses that were meant to never befall the lips of a king.

Thorin gave a final, loud suck to the reddened muscles of the Elvenking's ass before letting go of those perspiring hips, causing Thranduil to collapse into a tangle of alabaster limbs and long, silvern hair on the soiled stone of the ground. The Elf panted loudly, eyes lidded into sublimity as he turned to face the very man who had shown him all that he'd never known in all of his ancient years of roaming Middle Earth. His lips lied tumid in scarlet color as he foresaw Thorin's own lustful and maddened expression. Blue, hazed eyes that had seen more than antediluvian tomes could ever describe traced the image of Thorin's tongue licking hungrily against his lips, and it was then that the Dwarf King spoke in his voice of great intimidating quality.

"Come and taste yourself on your knees, O Great Elvenking of Mirkwood," he said, "Come, for I cannot rob you of this delicacy."

And as if he'd no need to speak or beckon another word, Thranduil obeyed in all of his remaining grace as he kissed the Dwarf King in shameless thirst. And even now, Thorin merely parted his lips and left his eyes casually opened as the Elvenking lapped and sucked and tasted his own flesh from Thorin's very tongue. Rough hands pulled the slender figure of the Elvenking forwards, like that of an invaluable possession, threading strong fingers into the fluid laces of Elven hair, that of which so very few knew the texture of. Thranduil hissed nothings into Thorin's tongue as he caressed the Dwarf King's face with both his hands, utmost care and tenderness in his ministrations as though he were handling but the most precious gems and stones that Mirkwood had hidden in its deepest, most insidious bowers.

Thorin allowed this intimacy for a short while until he again unlatched the Elvenking from his frenetic kiss. Thranduil panted in reluctance as he watched Thorin from beneath hooded eyes, lips wet and marked with saliva.

"Beg me," he said, "Beg for precious aid as I once did when I dared to trust an Elf. Plead for what it is you so desperately need. Speak to me in all the filth that your Elven tongue allows your kind. Tell me what it is that you thought of all of these long years whilst you spent your seed on the canvas of your sheets."

Thranduil whispered from beneath his lashes, brows clustered in a knot of swollen arousal as he looked deeply into the platinum eyes of the Dwarf King. "Take me," he said, "Fuck me until I feel nothing. Plunder me until I may die without even a sword pierced through my body. Show me death, King Under the Mountain. Fill me until I may shatter from within your embrace."

Thorin grinned hellishly at this. "So be it."

And is of on cue, Thranduil's ringed, effeminate hands were already frantic on Thorin's belt. His blue eyes shone lecherously with great eagerness laced against his lips. Thorin watched carefully, caressing a tendril of fine, flaxen hair from within his sword-calloused fingers.

It was when Thorin's rock-hard cock sprang free from within much threaded cloth that Thranduil's eyes widened in palpable shock.

A girth and length like no other. A pole of tempered flesh that stood proudly in all of its obscene glory, leaving even the Elvenking of Mirkwood to some extent of shame. Thranduil's lips parted, his eyes darting to those of Thorin's, a hint of a whisper being uttered into the silence.

"It wouldn't.." he began, "I couldn't possibly.." an inhale of disbelief, "There is no earthly way-"

"But there is," said Thorin, "And you will know this firsthand."

And with a heedless assault, Thranduil's back met the stone ground of the throne room, immediately warming it with his own flesh. Thorin was merciless in the handling of the Elvenking, having forced Thranduil's legs so far up against his body that his very knees met the warm skin of his shoulders. His long hair spilled like a river of cider from the ridge of the throne room's stone-way, countless of its tresses dangling into the innumerable amount of of gold and precious stones that rested beneath the deadly fall. Thranduil nearly panicked at the realization of his definite vulnerability. If the great Dwarf King deemed it so on a single whim, the Elvenking would fall to his eminent death and into the Dwarven treasure he'd always envied so deeply.

Thorin, however, positioned the Elf safely and 'neath his own weight, the blunt of his shaft being pressed firmly against Thranduil's still-wetted hole. The Elf gasped, his icy eyes staring profoundly into Thorin's fierce gaze, and when his long, slender hand reached to rest upon Thorin's cheek, the Dwarf King began to push inside. Thranduil's knees stabbed at his shoulders from sheer force of the action, dreading in toothsome excitement what was to happen next.

"You would bend to no man, nor woman," said Thorin, his lips inches away from the Elf's panting mouth. "I would be the first to fill you from the inside," the clamped pucker was then breached with a shameful, audible sound, "And the last."

Thranduil's eyes retreated slowly to the back of his skull when the thick head of Thorin's cock slipped into his heat.

Tight walls, velvety detrition. Thorin could hardly push himself halfway inside, the sheer girth of his cock having been far too heavy for the Elvenking to be able to take in all of his unworldly anatomy. The sheer magnitude of force, however, allowed Thorin to dress his cock with Thranduil's creamy insides, rolling his hips in such an emphatic manner that the Elf was left drooling from the left side of his flawless mouth.

Thorin's ballocks pressed erotically against the crack of Thranduil's sturdily cushioned backside as the Elf's fine feet flailed messily and helplessly in mid-air. Thorin's brow furrowed heavily in impossible satisfaction at this, watching as the Elvenking's once cold and frigid face twisted and contorted into that of many eliciting and unkingly ways. The Elf moaned loudly as Thorin began to slowly pull out from that fondling furnace, a thin sheen of moisture covering the freshly-exposed flesh of his aching cock.

Thranduil's eyes retreated lifelessly from within their lids, mouth parted wide and neck arched at an angle of soul-consuming pleasure. His tall, consummate body was that of a doll's against Thorin's growing pace, the helpless compressions of his asshole clenching wildly against the other's thick prick in attempt to rid of the bottomless intrusion.

Taken, and driven by his darkest, most spiteful desires, Thorin began to hammer himself against the ivory-silken figure of the Elvenking, tearing the furnace of his walls far apart to widths that were just not meant for the body of an Elf to endure. Fine hands clawed desperately into the stone ground, the onslaught of the Dwarf King's unforgiving fucking making it impossible to catch air inside his lungs.

Thranduil gasped loudly, spreading his legs so far open that it hurt the very tendons of his hips. This allowed Thorin to bruise him by the waist, pulling him in, viciously, until Thranduil's asshole lied insensible, repeatedly breached and deflowered by Thorin's monstrous intrusion. The Elvenking fell entirely motionless against Thorin's perpetual ramming, his pace accelerating into that of utter myth as he slammed in and out of the Elf's milking hole in thunderous waves.

Thranduil was left a shameless, mewling mess whilst he babbled absurdities in the guise of Elvish tongue. Thorin stared hungrily at the Elf's loosened hole which braced and clenched against him in a carnal vice. He held those slender hips in all of which edged on savage and inhuman, watching the Elvenking reach his peak a second time without even but a brush against his swollen prick. His Elven spent marred the tract of his flushing chest, and it was then that Thranduil's ass brimmed and leaked with ungodly fluids, his limbs all but motionless against the stone ground of the great mountain.

Thorin's brows furrowed tightly moments later, a last, clamorous echo of flesh against flesh prepping him to pull out carelessly from Thranduil's plundered cavity. A sturdy, rough hand reached for the beautiful long hair of the Elvenking, bringing the Elf to his knees in a daze of languid dementia.

"Look at me," demanded Thorin.

And so Thranduil did. A glint of longing and fulfillment glazed against the glacial exterior of his sorcerous, Elven eyes.

That look, that very look that denoted all of which was beauty and submission. All of which was most ancient and paramount, debauched and seamed with every sin, drenched in fluid and red-lipped in all of its ageless, porcelain nudity was enough for Thorin's cock to convulse uncontrollably within his palm.

The Dwarf King pulled the Elf in by the back of the hair, a single, hard stroke along the entirety of his cock as he looked into those blue eyes, and it was only then that Thorin found his release, milking the vesuvian amount of his essence that had splattered from his volcanic, soul-numbing peak all across Thranduil's flawless complexion.

The ecstasy faded with each profound breath that Thorin took, and when it dispersed into the nihility of cinders, he had loosened his iron hold on Thranduil's hair.

The Dwarf King leant then, a single, faint caress of his lip against that of the Elf's.

Hardly there, hardly real, but enough for Thranduil's very bones to melt from far within his flesh.

"You will leave Erebor with the Prince of Mirkwood," said Thorin, "You will leave Erebor with my fealty, and with the blessing of all my people. You will leave Erebor and return to me on the third of a Midsummer's moon. You have found in me my forgiveness, and I, your sincerity."

"Fae," whispered Thranduil. "Now and eternal."


Winter died fast, and so had the storms.

And the King Under the Mountain, with his fierce eyes and virility, had left the Elvenking longing for the seasons that were yet to come from within the solitude of his chambers.

Though reunited with his son as was promised, a void emptiness grew that only Thorin could ever come to fill again.

So Thandruil drank and reveld with his people in silent, fawning patience, watching as the moons gloomed at dusk, and as the suns rose for the dawn from within the ancient trees of Mirkwood; from 'neath his lashed eyes.

And when Thranduil's tongue slipped from between his fine lips, he tasted the dew of Elven wine, quietly lusting for the stone of Erebor's throne hall.

Stone of which awaited the weight of his kneeling.