Thorin knows they are supposed to be allies now, but he cannot quite bring himself to shake the stifling feeling of anger and betrayal every time he lays eyes on the icy Elvenking.
It’s his own coronation, both a celebration of their victory, and a mourning of those lost during the Battle of Five Armies – and yet, he cannot take his eyes off the long sweep of silvery hair. He had invited Thranduil at Balin’s request (and Bilbo’s insistence), expecting the Elvenking to simply ignore the summons and retreat back into his accursed woods.
It had been a surprise – a most unpleasant one – when the elf had swept into the mountain as if he owned it, straight-backed and smug, acknowledging Thorin with a reluctant dip of a golden head and quirk of a brow, just as Thorin remembers he did with his grandfather one hundred years before. He and his party had sat among the celebrations in relative silence, picking at their food with dainty hands and staring in distain at all those who dared approach them.
And so, instead of enjoying the feast, as he should be – it is after all, his own celebration – he shoots angry glances at the elves from beneath his rapidly emptying goblet.
Thorin’s glare does not go unnoticed. The Elvenking looks up from his wine he’s sipping with almost maddening grace, but does not smirk or snarl as Thorin expects. He merely holds the gaze for a long moment, blue eyes glinting, before turning away, dismissing Thorin with a swift tilt of his head. This only enrages Thorin further; he is a king now, not a lowly blacksmith, and he should command his attention.
Taking in rapid breaths in an attempt to control his anger, as Bilbo had suggested, he decides he’s had enough of formalities. With a gruff goodbye to his company – most of which are already too drunk to care – he slouches off to his chambers to retire for the night, before he accidently on purpose cuffs the Elvenking round the head with an axe. He’s not sure what that would do to elven relations – he still has a lot to learn about his duties as king, manners and politics included – but he suspects it would not be good. The last thing he wants to do is start another war. He has seen enough death already.
His entourage of guards shadow his footsteps, as they have since he became king, until he waves them away at his door with an impatient hand. He wants to be alone; peace is hard to come across as king.
With a sigh at relief at being in the sanctuary of his room, far away from starting an incident, he strips off his armour, cloaks, and jewellery and takes refuge by his roaring fire. He tries to pretend his exit had been a tactical choice, and is ashamed to admit it might only have been a retreat.
Nevertheless, by the time he has bathed, changed, and downed another few goblets of wine, he is starting to feel considerably more relaxed. He still feels uneasy at the Elvenking’s presence in his kingdom, as though waiting for it all to come crumbling down on top of him, but the anger has dulled into a faint paranoia. Although the Battle of Five Armies had helped build bridges – with both elves and men – some things are impossible to forget, and dragon fire would be seared in his mind forever.
Perhaps with time, and growing wisdom, he could forgive and forget – as Bilbo is always telling him a benevolent king should. Perhaps he should start listening to Bilbo’s speeches.
A knock on the door startles him from his reverie.
“My lord,” says the guard, sweeping into the room with a respectful bow, “Sorry to intrude, but the Elvenking is here to see you.”
Thorin almost drops his wine. “The Elvenking?” he asks in astonishment, as though he’s never heard of him before. If only.
“Yes, my lord, he’s waiting outside.”
Thorin feels too surprised to do anything but concede: “Let him in.”
He feels completely caught off guard, startled that the elf would dare approach him in his private quarters, his sanctuary; he barely has time to pull on a robe to hide his relative nakedness, before the elf glides into his chambers, looking like some sort of ghostly apparition – forever haunting his nightmares.
He has shed his royal robes from the feast, and foregone the crown. His hair is a loose golden waterfall down his back, and he’s wearing light robes, with little embellishment. Thorin finds it preferable. He looks softer – not so untouchable, after all.
“My Lord Thranduil,” Thorin greets, with a sweep of his arm, but no bow, barely remembering his manners. He only sounds faintly sarcastic when he adds, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
The elf says nothing for a moment, and if Thorin didn’t know any better, he’d say he was almost uncomfortable. After an appraising glance about the chambers, he stalks to the hearth of Thorin’s fire in no more than two long strides, and gazes into the flames; the light flickers over his features, and despite the smoothness of his skin, the brightness of his eyes, he looks old and very tired.
“I wish for us to put this animosity behind us,” he says, at last, seemingly sensing Thorin’s curious gaze. “If we are to truly be allies, we need to forget the past.”
Thorin bristles, unable to stop the sharp stab of anger from rising in his gut. He knows he shouldn’t – knows he should back away, not get involved in such an old argument, but he can’t. He wants to let it go. He wants to be at peace. But he can’t.
“You would say that,” he exclaims, old wounds resurfacing, and weeping with pain. He has wanted to confront the Elvenking for years over his treachery – but aside from his imprisonment in Mirkwood, he’s never had the chance. Now the elf has given him the opening he’s always wanted. “Your people were not the ones left broken and desolate by betrayal.”
The Elvenking turns on a heel, no longer serene, but struck with anger – just a glimpse of the deadly warrior Thorin had seen on the battlefield. He is like a thunderstorm; calmness proceeded by flashes of light and explosions of power. Thorin cannot look away.
“Betrayal?” the Elvenking echoes in disbelief. His expression is twisting through a myriad of emotions, and Thorin is surprised to realise he even has any; the king had been so detached and unfeeling before, as though beyond such messy sentiment. Anger, sadness and even a hint of guilt flit through his eyes, so quickly Thorin is unsure whether he’s imagined it.
“I did not betray you,” the Elvenking snarls, recovering himself quickly, “I did what was best for my people. What would have facing the dragon achieved? Nothing but death.”
Thorin is tired of hearing such excuses. He knows, logically, that the Elvenking’s words are true. But they will not bring back the friends or family he lost. “Cowardice!” he insists, with a roar.
There’s voice that sounds suspiciously like Bilbo, whispering, urging him to calm down. He cannot have the elves wage another war upon the mountain because Thorin assaulted their king. But the wounds are gaping open now, and he’s haemorrhaging.
Thranduil is looking at him, as though contemplating whether to cut his losses and leave, but the Elvenking is not one for retreat. There might even be a glimmer of sadness in his eyes. That or it’s a reflection of the fire.
“You used to look upon me with desire,” the Elvenking says idly, “now you look upon me with hatred.”
Thorin has nothing to say to that. He feels an embarrassed flush descend down his throat and hopes his beard is covering it – he doesn’t want to give away the truth of the statement. He settles for glaring instead.
Thranduil laughs, but the sound is cold, chilling. “What is it that you want from me, King Under the Mountain?” he asks, as though genuinely bewildered by Thorin’s animosity. “You want revenge, is that it? You wish to see me suffer?
Thorin isn’t sure. He doesn’t know what he wants – or what he feels anymore. It’s all twisted – desire tainted by anger, and he doesn’t know how to get rid of it.
“For a long time I wished to see you brought low,” he replies honestly, for he had dreamed of it, “like me and my people.”
“Go on then,” Thranduil taunts, his words thick with hidden meaning, “Bring me low. Have your revenge, I won’t stop you!”
Realising the conversation is quickly spiralling outside of his control, but unable to help himself, Thorin jerks forward as though by an invisible force, and fists his hand in the Elvenking’s silvery hair. He doesn’t know why – to shut him up maybe, or to test whether his words are truth – but he feels a sharp stab of satisfaction as the Elvenking winces, but makes no move to pull away. Thorin’s tug has brought their faces very close together and he can feel the elf’s hot, uneven breath upon his face. Up close, the elf is even more radiant – Thorin can see each individual eyelash, fluttering before the ice blue of his eyes.
Thorin had wanted once – wanted so much. He had dreamed, back when he was a naïve young Princeling, of what it would be like to take the proud Elvenking to his bed. He had envisioned touching the silky strands of his hair (which are indeed, as soft as he had imagined); he had envisioned pressing his lips to the creamy expanses of skin – across his face, down the collar of his long neck, and into the most private places obscured by swaths of robes.
Now he curses himself for being such a fool. The Elvenking had never shown him any interest beyond disdain. Sometimes there would be flinted smiles, and a mocking cock of a brow, and although they had excited Thorin then, he feels insulted by them now. The Elvenking had always read his intentions, knew his desires, and had merely been taunting him. It stings the already gaping wounds left by his abandonment of Erebor against the dragon.
“You’re enjoying this,” breathes the Elvenking, startling Thorin from his darkened thoughts. His eyes – always all-seeing – are flickering with interest across the plains of Thorin’s face. “You want to touch me.”
Thorin jerks, as though he’s been slapped, and growls, “I want to punch your pretty face in.” Which is only partly the truth.
The Elvenking still does not pull away. The confession does not seem to have startled him. “Go on then,” he goads, and suddenly Thorin wonders if he has a death wish; what does he want from him? “I’m all yours, King Under the Mountain – do as you like with me. Hurt me, if that means forgiveness.”
Thorin stares at him in complete astonishment for a long moment, his iron grip on the golden hair loosening. He moves, automatically, without any consent of his brain, and Thranduil stiffens, bracing himself for an assault. But it does not come.
Instead, Thorin presses his hands against the Thranduil’s hard chest, and pushes him firmly backwards, until his back hits his bed.
The Elvenking lets out a small cry of surprise, but does not resist, bouncing slightly with the momentum. He’s blinking up at Thorin through unreadable eyes, his hair splayed out like a golden river over the warm furs, and his robe parting slightly to reveal a glorious glimpse of pale leg. Thorin knows he’s staring, but he finds he doesn’t care. The anger is dimming; instead he feels the pull of desire twisting in his gut. He doesn’t know what kind of strange magic the Elvenking weaves, but he finds himself bewitched by it.
He places a hot and sweaty hand on the coolness of Thranduil’s thigh, and the Elvenking jumps, not quite as composed as his expression would suggest; his breathing is short and erratic, and Thorin wonders whether beneath that haughty exterior, he is genuinely afraid. Surprisingly, the thought does not please him.
Still, the Elvenking makes no move to stop him - although Thorin knows that he could - and so he continues, parting the robe further, and stroking the soft skin with a childlike curiosity. The elf’s limbs are long and lithe, smooth white in the flickering firelight, and almost entirely hairless – Thorin can feel only faint sprinkling of fair hair. He draws closer, leaning over the bed and gripping the Elvenking’s legs. He stretches one to his mouth, amazed by it’s long length, and presses a kiss into the dainty bone of his ankle, simply because he can.
The Elvenking inhales a lungful of air, and now stares in complete astonishment, as Thorin touches him with unexpected tenderness.
“What trickery is this?” he breathes, suspicion plain in his tone, “If you want revenge, take it. Do not play games with me.”
Thorin sighs, trying to hold onto his feelings of bitterness, but with Thranduil unnerved below him (although of course, the Elvenking would never admit it), he feels it trickling away. He remembers people looking upon him with fear before: Bilbo, Dwalin, even his own nephews. He does not wish anyone to look at him like that again.
“Despite the anger I feel towards you, I am not cruel,” he growls. With only brief hesitation, he concedes, in a softer tone, “I don’t – I don’t actually want to hurt you.”
It’s difficult to admit, having dreamed about it for so long, but with the Elvenking stretched out before him, open and vulnerable, he has no appetite to hurt him.
This seems to genuinely surprise the elf; thick eyebrows are ascending into his hairline. He looks confused for a moment, unsure of how to continue, before asking, as though genuinely bewildered, “Then what do you want?”
Thorin wants a lot of things. It’s an open-ended question to which he has endless replies. Only, in that moment, stood over Thranduil’s sprawled body, he knows what his answer is. Some feelings never change, despite everything. Even his rage at the Elvenking’s abandonment of Erebor cannot erase old desires; he wants the Elvenking to want him.
He bends over the bed, until he is rested between Thranduil’s bare legs, and presses his lips against a pointed ear. The Elvenking is frozen, like a startled animal, and Thorin places a soothing hand in his hair – stroking the silvery waterfall gently. “I want to have you,” he growls, and he’s surprised to hear how throaty his voice sounds – low and thick, pulsing with need. Everything he had imagined, back when he was a Princeling, comes bubbling over the surface, and the words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them. “I want to spread your legs upon my bed. I want to lick every crevice of your body. I want to fill you to the brim with my seed.”
His words seem to have alarmed the Elvenking more than any of his actions so far; there’s a fiery blush spreading across his pale cheeks and into his ears. Thorin expects him to push him away – he expects him to laugh, mock his foolish desires, and disappear through the door is a flash of fair hair. But he doesn’t. He clenches Thorin’s cloak in powerful hands, and whispers the words Thorin never expected to hear, in a commanding tone: “Do it.”
Thorin needs no more encouragement than that. Feeling as though he’s landed in a dream, he turns his head to Thranduil’s, and places a breathy kiss on the pink bow of his lips. It’s strangely soft and a little bit wet, and as though awakened with an unquenchable thirst, he descends again and again, mouthing the Elvenking’s lips until they are red, swollen and panting. The small parting of lips is all he needs, and suddenly he’s tasting the inside of the Elvenking’s slick mouth; it’s sweeter than he expected, rich like wine, and he feels drunk by the taste already.
The Elvenking, after moments of uncertainty, is moaning against him, the soft sounds swallowed by Thorin’s tongue. He licks over the ridges inside his mouth, flicking against sharp teeth, and duels the Elvenking’s tongue in fierce, wet battle.
His hand, moving entirely of it’s own accord, goes from gripping the Elvenking’s sharp jaw, to fiddling with the buttons of his robe. He flicks open the buttons, one by one, and is very aware of the pointed throbbing of his cock as every new patch of silky skin is revealed. With great difficulty, he pulls himself away from the sweetness of the Elvenking’s mouth, to admire the sight, panting, as an elegant collarbone is exposed – then a pink nipple, then the sharp muscles of his abdomen. He places a single kiss on every plain of muscle and bone, silently promising to return again, to explore every crevice, slow and thorough.
He reaches the Elvenking’s navel, and places a breathy kiss upon the skin, fingers trembling with the last of the catches as he makes to part the silky robes. He freezes, upon their removal, as he gazes upon endless amounts of glossy white skin.
Thorin inhales a lungful of air, feeling as though his head has exploded, and his brain is now trickling out his ear. He hears himself say, rather dimly, in plain disbelief, “You didn’t wear anything underneath?”
To his surprise, the Elvenking flushes, looking almost uncomfortable. But his words are defensive when he exclaims, “It’s night time! I despise the heaviness of court robes, I could not wait to be free of them.”
Thorin is still staring. His hands ghost the ridges of the delicate hipbones, before gripping the fleshly insides of the Elvenking’s thighs. Without any further warning, he pushes the long legs apart, as far as they will go, spreading them wide upon his bed as he promised he would. The Elvenking flails slightly in surprise, but does not resist, as his most intimate area is exposed to the cold night air.
Thorin’s cock gives a painful throb in his breaches, and he wonders if he can come on sight alone. He is fairly sure is he drooling, but as the Elvenking is too busy trying to look unaffected while squirming in his own embarrassment, he finds he does not care. For years he had envisioned what lied beneath the modesty of the Elvenking’s robes, and well, now he knows. Now he will never forget.
He places a thumb upon the Elvenking’s chin to tilt his head back towards him, looking him directly in the eye, as he breathes, sincerely, “You are exquisite.”
Thranduil’s eyes widen, but he does not look away. He gives Thorin what might even be a ghost of a smile – a small quirk of the lips in thanks. He does not look so icy and unfeeling anymore; his body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, an aroused flush is creating splotchy pink patches across his skin, and he is utterly exposed to Thorin’s lustful gaze.
Letting a long leg hang over his shoulder, Thorin leans down, to press a firm finger against the twitching ring of muscle that is beckoning to him. Thranduil lets out a cry at the touch, legs jolting, trying to close themselves instinctively, and thrashes his head against the furs.
Thorin feels like he’s hunting: trying to coax a magnificent stag towards him, afraid that it will startle, and be lost to him forever.
“Shh,” Thorin whispers, surprising himself with his tenderness. He strokes a calming hand against the twitching insides of Thranduil’s thighs; the Elvenking stills for a moment, relaxing, and the muscle opens slightly, allowing the tip of a finger to slip inside.
Resisting the urge to simply push it all the way in, into the suckling heat, he withdraws, circling the rim gently, before dipping swiftly back inside. He groans at the sight, at the contracting of the muscle, and wonders what it would feel like fluttering around his cock. He wants more than anything to find out.
Thranduil is watching him through hooded eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly, fingers clenched in the furs in a way that is not only desire – but apprehension as well.
Suddenly Thorin realises something. “Have you ever been like this with anyone before?” he blurts, and curses himself for such a complete lack of finesse.
The Elvenking looks unsure for a moment about whether to answer him. Finally, he concedes, “No. I did not believe it fitting of a king.”
Thorin stares at his finger, impaled inside him, and asks, in complete bewilderment, “Then why now?”
The Elvenking squirms slightly, whether in pleasure or discomfort, Thorin isn’t sure, but the movement sucks his finger further inside. He gulps, and his cock jumps in excitement. It’s so tight and hot.
“Are you not a king as well?” Thranduil asks, although it seems to be a rhetorical question. Thorin is glad – he fears he has lost his ability to form words. “A king will only bow to another king.”
Thorin does not feel it is the time to point out that Thranduil had blatantly refused to bow to his grandfather, when he was King Under the Mountain, or to him, earlier that day, when he arrived at the coronation; he is afraid Thranduil will pull away from him and that glorious heat will be lost.
Nevertheless, he understands the point; he knows that Elvenking would never allow anybody else to see him like this: open, vulnerable, and panting in desire like a common whore.
He presses a wet kiss to an open thigh (Thranduil’s thighs are just magnificent, in every translation of the word), and runs a hand up his sweaty flank. “Will you turn over for me?” he asks.
The Elvenking blinks, his first instinct a refusal, before biting down on a swollen lip. He meets Thorin’s eyes, seemingly looking for something – maybe a previous flash of anger, or a hint of deceit – but seems to find nothing but genuine desire. With a small jerk of a head, he turns, dislodging Thorin’s finger; elegant limbs rearrange themselves, until he is braced on his hands and legs, his long curtain of hair glittering down the beautiful arch of his back. His legs are spread again, towards where Thorin is still braced on the bed, and dwarf finds that his mouth is now thick with spit.
He wishes he had a painting of this sight; he is sure there is nothing more beautiful in all of Arda.
He feels short, thick and clumsy in comparison.
“Wait,” he croaks, scrambling to his feet in an effort to remove his clothing as quickly as possible. He fumbles with the catches, and is very glad the Elvenking can no longer see him, as he stumbles out of his robes. He groans in relief when his cock is finally free; it’s already bobbing against his stomach, almost painful, leaking at the tip.
The Elvenking peers back, over a pearly white shoulder, and mutters, “I don’t like to be kept waiting, King Under the Mountain.”
His eyes widen then, noticing the other’s nakedness, and Thorin sees the small uncertain clench of his thighs. He lets out a ragged breath. “Thorin,” he says, and the imposing tone is gone; Thorin’s name sounds strangely small and intimate from the Elvenking’s lips, “How is that going to - ?”
Thorin approaches the bed, vaguely aware that he is trembling with need, and caresses his rough hands down the Elvenking’s spine. The skin there is now slick with sweat. “Don’t worry,” he says, although he’s not exactly an expert at this either, “It will fit.”
He produces a vial of oil from his stores, and rubs the slippery substance between his fingers. Warming it in his hands, he spreads the Elvenking’s cheeks, revealing the trembling arse entirely, and strokes his fingers over the rim. It glistens with oil, jumping at every touch of his hands, and the Elvenking hangs his head, hair curtaining his reddened face, mewling in desire. His cock is hanging on the bed, red and throbbing, and Thorin is glad he’s not the only one affected.
He pushes a finger forward, and lets out a shaking breath, when the muscle swallows it with ease, the oil making the entrance slicker – easier to breach.
“Ahhh!” cries the Elvenking, wriggling backwards, into Thorin’s hand with a swift and sinful rock of the hips. “T – Thorin, more.”
Automatically obeying the king, Thorin adds another finger, although it’s harder this time, the muscle stretching to accommodate the girth. It’s so tight inside; the muscles are contracting, trying to push him out, but Thranduil is now rolling his hips unashamedly, trying to press him further in. He presses his fingers, in – out, in – out, watching in a dim fascination as the muscle opens for him. He bends forwards, craving something, and runs the flat over his tongue over the puckered skin - it tastes earthy, like Thorin would expect of an elf, and instead of being repulsed, he finds he wants more. He scissors his fingers, spreading the Elvenking open, and licks inside eagerly, twisting, fingering and sucking. Thranduil jerks so far forward he nearly topples off the bed, held back only by the grip of Thorin’s hands; he’s trembling, keening into the bed, his beautiful hair now damp and tangled down his back.
Thorin’s face is now smeared with his now spit, and oil, and his beard is leaving prickled red skin on the roundness of the Elvenking’s arse. The sounds his tongue makes, lapping, is obscene, and he brands it is his mind forever. With a last gentle lick, and a fluttering kiss upon the now gaping ring, he withdraws, removing his fingers with a quiet pop. The muscle is open now, red from his ministrations and gleaming with wetness.
His removal seems to rouse Thranduil, who is now almost facedown on the bed; his head snaps up in alarm, and he stares at Thorin over his shoulder with hazy eyes.
It takes Thorin only a moment to realise why he’s so distressed: although they’d reached somewhat of a truce, the Elvenking still seems to doubt his affection is real. He still believes that it might be a trick, that Thorin might be messing with him to exact his revenge. The dwarf is still angry, bitter, over the Elvenking’s abandonment, but he would never be so cruel as to fake such intimacy.
He pats the elf on the leg pointedly. “I just want you to turn around,” he explains, tongue heavy in his mouth, “I wish to look upon your face.”
To his amazement, the Elvenking does as he asks without complaint, lying on his back and spreading his legs as before. Thorin can now see clearly what his ministrations have accomplished; webs of silvery hair are stuck to a shining damp face, and Thranduil’s cock is leaking desperately on his stomach, begging to be touched.
But instead, Thranduil reaches for the dwarf, stroking curious fingers down the broadness of his chest, and into the hair trailing from his stomach to his cock. He hesitates for only a moment, before his slender hand wraps around the base, and gives it an experimental tug. Thorin groans, and for one terrifying moment, thinks he’s about to empty himself in the Elvenking’s hand with a single touch.
“You were right,” Thorin finds himself saying, into the silence only penetrated with pants and groans. He wants there to be no misunderstanding. “What you said earlier. I did want you – when you were here visiting my grandfather. I want you still.”
Thranduil cocks a head, and smiles, that knowing smirk that used to invoke both rage and desire; he looks comfortable now, softer than Thorin has ever seen him, still haughty, still proud, but surrendering himself willingly. He beckons Thorin forward, and like a common servant, the King Under the Mountain goes; for how could he possibly resist such temptation?
Long legs drape themselves around the dwarf’s waist, pulling him in, until Thorin is settled astride him, his cock sinfully close to the swell of his arse. Thranduil’s chest is shuddering against his, and his breath is panting hot and hard against his mouth; it feels almost overwhelmingly intense, and strangely intimate.
“I knew you wanted me,” the Elvenking confesses, and it is a soft voice – not the commanding tone Thorin is used to. He pauses for a moment, as though deciding whether to continue, before admitting, with a strange cock of the brow, “I desired you also.”
That, Thorin had not been expecting. He finds his full attention drawn back to the conversation from the sinful swell of Thranduil’s hips. He’s fairly sure his grip is now leaving bruises on the inside of the Elvenking’s thighs.
“What?” he croaks, because the words make no sense to him. The Elvenking had never been anything but aloof to the Princeling, and Thorin had far too much pride (and too little courage, he quietly admits) to attempt a courtship himself. “Then why didn’t you -?”
“Many creatures desire me,” says the Elvenking, although the words are not prideful – only flat and dispirited. “Especially younglings who have never seen my kind before. I was not going to bare myself merely satisfy a dwarrow’s curiosity.”
“It was not merely curiosity. Nor is it now.”
Thranduil smiles faintly, but it does not look as though he believes him.
With nothing left to say, feeling his words inadequate, he brings a hand to his cock and lines himself at the Elvenking’s entrance; the muscle twitches at his touch, and Thranduil gasps against his ear. He draws in a long breath, preparing himself, and pushes forwards, until the tip of his cock is sucked inside sweltering heat. He pauses, if not for Thanduil’s sake then his own, because he’s very close to emptying himself embarrassingly early; that would be something the Elvenking would never let him forget.
Once he’s taken a hold of himself, he presses in further, inch by inch, until his hips are sticking to the skin of the Elvenking’s arse and he is sheathed fully inside. Thranduil groans, wriggling, as though trying to dislodge the intrusion. Although the Elvenking looks calm on the outside (having donned an ice-like mask Thorin is very familiar with), the dwarf can feel the muscles inside fluttering madly in alarm.
“Calm down,” Thorin breathes, against the bow of his lips. Thanduil’s brows unfurrow, and his eyes flicker up to look at him, wide and unblinking – Thorin wonders if it is a strange time to notice that they really are very blue. “You’re ok.”
Thranduil huffs out a mocking laugh, which vibrates parts Thorin can feel, and he is defensive when he says, “I know.” But despite his defiance, he relaxes, settling himself in Thorin’s arms and wrapping hands around tightly around his waist. Thorin can feel his passage ease, and experimentally, he gives his hips a gentle rock.
It’s pressure and heat like he’s never felt before, and he feels like he’s become almost woozy with pleasure. He wonders if it’s part of the Elvenking’s power, such potent magic, bewitching the body and mind, but finds he does not care.
He twists his hips, pressing harder, and Thranduil lets out a strangled moan, arching upwards to meet him.
“You are not what I expected,” Thranduil admits with a gasp. His hands, so pale, so slender, are gripping at Thorin’s back – powerful, like vices, pulling him in deeper. “It seems I have misjudged you.”
Thorin buries a hand in the wet hair framing the Elvenking’s head, and tugs lightly; it feels like silk at his fingertips. “Unsurprisingly,” he replies, with a grunt, pistoning harder, faster – he needs more. He hopes the Elvenking can see the playful quirk of his lips. “You are wrong about a lot of things.”
Thranduil laughs, the sound so bright and unexpected that Thorin fumbles, only for a moment – but that’s the opening the Elvenking needs.
Before Thorin is quite sure what happened, he finds himself flat on his back on his bed, with Thranduil astride him. His cock slips loose in the movement, and he can see it gleaming with wetness in the candlelight, almost purple with need, before Thranduil grips the base in white fingers, and impales himself with a groan. Thorin bucks so hard at the sensation – at been encased by the now slippery heat – that he almost throws Thranduil to the floor.
But the Elvenking is not easily dissuaded – he grips at Thorin’s hips, and grinds himself down, bouncing himself upon the cock now profusely leaking pre-come. Thorin can hear the obscene squelching sounds as Thranduil lowers himself, and knows he will not last much longer. The sight on the Elvenking on top of him, back arched, hair flying, and expression slack with pleasure, is enough to bring him to the edge on it’s own.
Feeling himself spiralling into the abyss, and quickly, he reaches forward and encloses the Elvenking’s cock in trembling fingers. It only takes a few rough swipes before Thranduil is going rigid on top of him, shuddering in pleasure, and coming hard in his hand. His whole body is contracting and Thorin can feel it – muscles are clenching on his cock, milking, and he grasps Thranduil’s hips and brings him down hard on top of him, thrusting deep, coming inside with a guttural howl he barely recognises.
Once he comes back to himself (it could be minutes, hours or perhaps even days), the white light of pleasure fading from his eyes, he sees Thranduil, slumped against his chest, his long curtain of hair stuck to a slick combination of sweat and come. He’s panting heavily, his whole body trembling, and Thorin cannot see his face. He feels a pang of worry then, because what should happen if the Elvenking is full of regret? Wars have been started for less. He should know.
Thorin loosens his grip he still has upon Thranduil’s waist, noticing the indents of his fingers, and wonders if he’s hurt him. He did not think such a thing was possible, to injure the great Elvenking – he’s lived thousands of years, fought hundreds of battles, and yet always seems to remain perfectly unscathed. That is, aside from the dragon fire and the wounds upon his face, Thorin remembers with an unpleasant jolt. He supposes Thranduil must hurt sometimes too; only he possesses more skill at hiding it.
Running his hands over the bruises in what he hopes is a soothing manner, he wraps an arm around Thranduil’s waist, and lifts him gently off his lap. Thranduil goes without complaint, soft and pliant in Thorin’s hands. His now flaccid cock slips from the heat of Thranduil’s body, and Thorin glimpses his come dripping between the Elvenking’s thighs. His own cock gives a valiant jerk of interest at the sight.
He places Thranduil’s next to him on the bed, a reasonable distance away, to give him some space, but the Elvenking only rolls back towards him, tucking his chin against Thorin’s sweaty shoulder. Letting out a loud sigh of relief that the Elvenking is not angry with him, he brushes the tangled gold hair from Thranduil’s face, only to realise the elf is staring at him – blue eyes grim and unblinking.
“Are you ok?” he finds himself asking, before he can stop himself. He’s not really sure why he cares, but he does.
Thranduil’s eyes flicker away, only for a moment, before he steels himself, and meets his gaze once more. “I’m sorry,” he confesses, voice soft, as though sharing a secret.
Thorin is so astonished it takes several moments for the words to register. “About what?”
“For your people.”
Thorin says nothing. He’s not sure what to say. He never imagined he would receive an apology for the destruction of Erebor – Thranduil had always been defiant of his actions in the past.
With a thankful nod, because he’s happy to hear the words, to know that the Elvenking had not acted out of malice, some of the anger – which although buried, had burned hot in his stomach for years – begins to melt away. He’s not sure it will ever be gone completely. But it’s a start.
He wants to look at Thranduil with only desire, no more betrayal.