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Thranduil has ordered him to be bathed before his audience. The steaming water is a sublime temptation after so long on the road, but the thought of being ordered to bathe- like a disobedient lad- makes Thorin so angry that he scarcely enjoys it. At least the elves who guard him make no pretense of getting involved in his bath; once it becomes clear that he does, indeed, know how to use soap, they ignore him entirely, conversing in their lisping tongue while he sluices away weeks of road-filth and spiderweb.

When he is clean, he insists that the guards wait while he braids and adorns his beard, for he must have some signifier that he is a king; his travel-clothes have been taken away for cleaning, and he has been given a soft gray robe with the hems and sleeves ripped to his length. It smells of elves; there is not a bead or a stitch of embroidery on it. He suspects it is someone's nightshirt.

The audience is not in Thranduil's great hall. The sun has gone down (not that one can tell, in the dour shade of Mirkwood) and there is already feasting in the hall, so Thorin finds himself led down twisting passages to a small room near the Elvenking's quarters, where the guards deposit him and then depart.

Is he unguarded? Their footsteps are silent, and Thorin is no elf-tracker; for the sake of his companions, he dares not risk the run. Instead he examines the chamber, which is comfortable in the style of elves: small, perhaps ten paces across, with cushions strewn upon a low dais, a stand for a wine pitcher, and an open fireplace with a woven rug before it.

He is examining the wine-pitcher when there is a faint sound behind him, the closing of a latch, and he discovers that his host has appeared: tall elven-shape, starlit fall of silver hair, rich sculpture of palest stone. Thranduil, Elvenking of Mirkwood, looks upon him with such arch apathy that it seems nearly amusement.

"Back-biting snake," says Thorin, though he had meant to be diplomatic before; there is such hatred in his own voice that he shudders. "False friend of my father. What can you mean by this unjust imprisonment?"

Thranduil allows one corner of his mouth to tilt, almost imperceptibly; he crosses the room in perfect ease, untouched by Thorin's venom. He raises a hand, and under his graceful fingers one of the carved panels on the wall opens and becomes a cupboard, from which he extracts two silver goblets. "May I offer you wine," he says, "or will you only dash it in my face like a spoiled child?"

"Surely you understand that my spite will be so easily discharged," snarls Thorin, but Thranduil pours the wine anyway, and settles himself upon the pillowed dais with unnerving grace, offering up one goblet as he sips from the other. After a moment Thorin gives in and lowers himself, with considerably less grace, onto a cushion just close enough to let him reach the proffered wine.

For nearly an hour they converse, Thorin unswerving in his demands and Thranduil unflinching in his icy detachment; the loathing in Thorin's voice is almost undisguised by the time they finish the wine. Thranduil defends his right to pen up trespassers, and cites in his defense the increased activity of the Necromancer, and all the while he is perfect in his poise, half-lying among the cushions, propped in perfect silhouette upon one elbow with his long legs sinuous in repose.

The wine has not touched Thranduil, it seems, but Thorin finds himself staring, and more than he hates Thranduil for the old enmity of dwarves and elves, for this imprisonment when Durin's Day looms so close, for the turning of his back on Smaug's black day (though Thorin knows, when he is honest, that the forty-man envoy of Mirkwood could not have prevailed, could only have died with Thorin's kin)- more than all of these things he hates Thranduil for his beauty, for his thousands of years unchanging as steel and lovely as opal in moonlight.

But this is not to say that Thorin does not hate Thranduil for all of these things. Thranduil has unlatched the door and ordered that more wine be brought, and Thorin watches him with such black spite that when Thranduil returns and takes his seat Thorin leans toward him and growls: "You should put an end to this charade, elf, and have me put to death before I regain my freedom. At this moment if you gave me my liberty only the promise of Erebor could dissuade me from burning every branch and dell of Mirkwood to the bare earth."

"You bargain like a true prince of dwarves," scoffs Thranduil, raising one brow in amusement. "Always in the knowledge of your own inferiority, the hopelessness of your demands."

"I am not your inferior," spits Thorin, his hatred boiling over.

"And yet you remain my prisoner," says Thranduil lightly. "You labor under the delusion that I might have prevailed against Smaug, where you could not; is that not your own inferiority? You cannot even hold your wine." Now his tone is mocking, cutting. "Or do I mistake your lingering eyes?"

Thorin burns at this, aggression racking his muscles tight, preparing to spring upon his languid foe. "I am not the gracious hostwho summons his prisoner to a boudoir, to lie in cushions and drink wine while his friends lie in chains. Do you mean to bargain our freedom for my body?"

"As if your body might tempt me," says Thranduil, and there is a sneer in his tone that disdains Thorin's proximity, his fury; it is a goad beyond bearing, and Thorin launches himself at his foe. He is a powerful dwarf, massive with brawn and sinew, who has strangled great-orcs with his bare hands and laid hammer to steel with unswerving precision for a thousand strikes in a row; he slams into Thranduil with such force that he is for a moment enveloped in a veil of falling silver hair. Thranduil falls beneath him in silent shock, his hands rising to grasp the air as Thorin's fingers dig into his shoulders like steel bands, as he is driven back into the cushions as though plummeting from a great height.

Lying half on top of Thranduil, Thorin snarls his defiance, feeling the muscles between his ribs tighten, feeling the heft of Thranduil's panicked breath as it swells his breast. The flawless mask is shattered; Thranduil's lips part with his intake of air, his pupils dilate, his brows rise in confusion, and Thorin kisses him- kisses him without a pretense of tenderness, all teeth, all lips shaped in curses and tongue that stabs like a spear. Thranduil's mouth is not yielding, scarcely responsive, but though his jaw tightens he does not clench his teeth, and his tongue goes rigid in his mouth.

When Thorin pulls back, panting in triumph, knowing that he has given unforgivable insult, he cannot summon even a whisper of regret. Thranduil has not yet put on the armor of wrath, and lies stunned beneath him, heaving for breath with his tongue darting to lick his upper lip; his hands grasp at Thorin's biceps. He does not seem to understand what has just happened.

"Tell me," hisses Thorin, "how you are not tempted," and before Thranduil can respond he kisses him again, just as forceful and as commanding as before, but Thranduil responds beneath him this time- he is kissing back, and as he regains control of himself the kiss is poisoned with outrage and dominance. Thorin half expects the sharp pain of a bite, the flood of iron from a split lip, but instead he feels Thranduil's fingers sinking into his arms through the thin robe, feels the body beneath him work in convulsive motion as Thranduil struggles to right himself and strike back without breaking the intoxicating hunger of that kiss.

Still Thorin holds him pinned, pinioned, and when Thranduil pulls back gasping from the kiss his eyes are narrowed with anger. "So like your ancestors," he says, "you will seize whatever bright thing you see, whether it belongs to you or not."

"I see," says Thorin, "you would prefer to argue about Silmarils," and Thranduil grasps him by the hair at the back of his head and pulls hard. It is a fight now, a wrestling match, Thranduil grappling at him with shockingly powerful hands and lithe slipping legs, Thorin gripping and rolling with all the force and traction of his steadfast body, pillows and cushions scattering as they writhe and kick their way across the dais. Only it is a fight with an unfamiliar dimension, as Thorin is not content to throw his opponent unless he can lie atop him in crushing chest-to-chest ownership, and Thranduil's thigh and calf curl around his leg to hold him tightly close, belly pressed to belly.

When Thorin finally wrestles his opponent flat, Thranduil's face contorts in beautiful wrath, and Thorin laughs at him with ferocious abandon. A secret is revealed between them, the stiff and heavy pressure of arousal mirrored. From the look on Thranduil's face, no dwarven insult has ever been as bitter as this revelation, and Thorin rocks his hips against his enemy, taking leisurely pleasure in both the friction of skin against soft robes against skin and in the grudging tension that creases between Thranduil's brows as his mouth falls open in response.

And the friction is very good. Thranduil does not even strive to get away as Thorin rides him, thrusting against his belly in long sure strokes, trapping his cock between them; instead he curses, and flushes red in the throat, and twists his head in the tangled silk of his hair without once breaking the gaze between them. "So you have proven," gasps Thranduil when he regains his breath, "that you find me veryattractive, and that if I were a maiden you would beg me to let you take me."

"On the contrary," said Thorin, with a vicious smile, "I have proven that I need not be a maiden for you to beg to take me."

"Takeyou? In the fashion of Gondor, do you mean?" Thranduil's lip twists, but his wide black pupils give up the lie, and Thorin can see nothing but lust in his face. "Dwarf, you could not survive what I would give you, if I cared to."

"Oh, certainly," smirks Thorin. "You are, naturally, repulsed and horrified?" He grinds down against Thranduil's hard length, earning a gasp and a glare. "Do you think I would even noticeyour cock in me?"

Thranduil curses him, with such malice in his voice as Thorin has never imagined from the lips of an elf, and he seizes the oil-lamp from a near alcove and smashes it, unblinking, against the floor of the dais. The flame smothers in the potsherds, and blood springs up on Thranduil's hand, but with two his two first fingers he sweeps up the hot oil- candle-warm, fragrant with the scent of olives- and with his other hand, while Thorin crouches over him still shocked by the sound and the boldness of Thranduil's movement, he rucks up Thorin's nightshirt-robe as best he can.

Thorin fights him, of course, as he must; but Thranduil seizes the collar of the nightshirt in both hands, smearing almost-too-hot oil across his collarbones and the muscle and rib beneath them, and tears it to the base of Thorin's belly in one rip. Thorin snarls at him, lifts him half off the dais by his fine grey robes; carved buttons pop loose from the placket, and Thorin dives forward to bite at Thranduil's throat, exposed white and strong with lines that plunge to the divot above his breastbone, where Thorin's teeth and tongue score red marks that bruise deep as Thranduil tears his robe from him entirely and works his two fingers relentlessly into Thorin's body.

Long, graceful, powerful fingers, to match the unearthly tallness of the rest of him; fingers that scissor and twist within him, stretching mercilessly, skilled and experienced.

"Did you practice this upon your own body," gasps Thorin into his enemy's throat, letting his forehead rest overwhelmed against Thranduil's blade-sharp jaw as the deep and hungry burn of penetration spreads through him. "I would not have thought to find you so skilled in the... ways of Gondor, did you say?"

"I have all manner of skills," says Thranduil, smug and spiteful. "One never knows when a particularly whorishdwarf may slink into one's ancestral home."

"Fuckyou," spits Thorin; it is all he can think to say, as Thranduil's fingers release him and are replaced with all haste by the spreading thickness of the Elvenking's cock. He was not boasting, Thorin realizes, as he is stretched far beyond the preparation of two fingers, as the stretch continues until he is crying out, half groaning and half keening. He wants to struggle away from the massive, invading pressure; but if he does Thranduil will mock him (he can already hear it, hot vicious triumphant laughter).

So he takes it, and he takes it, and when he is utterly full and shivering all over his skin and so sickeningly stretched that even the angle of his own straining cock is affected, he allows himself the space of a breath to realize that he is being fucked by Thranduil, that the enormous cock throbbing in his gut is the Elvenking's and that every twitch and spasm of his aching hole only bring that silver-haired bastard pleasure-

Thranduil lies under him, lips parted and eyes glassy, shallow sobs racking him as he struggles for control. He must have practiced those elegant fingers upon himself, Thorin exults, in his borrowed debauchery imagining himself ready for this exchange. Thranduil's hands fist on the cushions; he is utterly overwhelmed.

Thorin leans forward experimentally, savoring the burn and pounding pulse of his defilement, to see if Thranduil can bear it; and Thranduil grasps his thighs in desperation, trying to prevent that motion, neck arching back and eyes unfocusing. This is a war past any words, now.

Thorin will make his enemy come.

It is no mean feat to move, transfixed as he is so that his body longs to curl into itself and simply convulse around Thranduil's cock. Indeed, the Elvenking seems to find a reserve of self-control, biting his lip in a fury of determination, and finds enough purchase with his heels to manage a quick, snapping roll of his hips- but then he shudders all over and tenses until Thorin is certain that he will feel the hot flood of Thranduil's climax at any moment, finally drawing himself back from the brink to lie sobbing for breath.

"Is all elven flesh so weak?" Thorin rises a few inches, taunting, and as he sinks back down Thranduil pushes helplessly at his chest with both hands, trying to fend away the descent of his own pleasure. His expression is a world away from its usual mask-stillness, tormented with distress and arousal and betrayal and still that spiteful rage. His face is a painting from an elven tale, from the old stories of the elf-king held spellbound by the beauty of the Maiar, exquisite agony.

It occurs to Thorin that when Thingol met his bride, Thranduil was already walking upon Arda, learning the crafts of war and lore and kingship and counsel. This beautiful heartless creature, this tall ancient ageless body that now lies reduced to reflex and synapse beneath and within Thorin, is himself older than the oldest of Thorin's ancestors that he can recall to memory. In all his thousands of years, Thorin exults, Thranduil has never been ridden as Thorin now rides him; has never been worked as Thorin is about to work him.

All thoughts of pain or of his own restraint evaporate. Thorin impales himself, rises and sinks, accepts and embraces the torment of his own body and the leaking of his purple-hard cock upon the Elvenking's belly and the bolts of unbearable sensation each time that great cock sweeps forward into his most vulnerable flesh; his thighs ache and burn, the muscle of his belly ache, and he can already feel himself inexorably drawn toward orgasm, but none of this matters if only he can utterly ruin Thranduil in his own plummet toward ruin.

Thranduil begs him, curses him, threatens him; grips his arms and his thighs in an effort to immobilize him, claws at his chest in desperation, arches his back in a paroxysm of ecstasy, scrapes his heels along the floor; dark blood colors his lips and cheeks from within and creeps down his throat; his hips rock and thrust, treacherous, even as he strives to still them; and still Thorin does not afford him a moment's rest, riding him with delighted ferocity until Thranduil's eyes turn to panic and surrender and hopeless pleasure, and Thorin feels the flutter and throb and the warm sling of the Elvenking coming inside him, jerking his hips in helpless sobbing thrusts even after the crushing defeat of orgasm has begun to ebb.

Thorin controls himself with supreme effort throughout that avalanche of sensation and victory, exulting in the hardness of his cock and the beating his own body has taken as he watches Thranduil fail and fall and be consumed by his own lust; but when Thranduil's eyes clear and he realizes the immensity of his humiliation, raising one hand to wipe the dew-sweat from his trembling face and to hide his eyes from the gloating of his enemy; now Thorin is overcome, and his glory too much to bear, and sinking down one final time upon the still-hard length of Thranduil's cock he feels himself overcome. His climax is a torment, racking him with cramps and with burning heat; but his seed paints Thranduil's chest and even stripes his chin.

When he rolls off of Thranduil to lie panting in the ruin they've made of the dais- the broken pottery, the torn clothing, the oil smeared across disarrayed and torn cushions, the wine jug somehow fallen and shattered across the floor- Thorin reflects that it will be very difficult, now, to bargain for his freedom; and he smiles in bitter triumph.

The room is empty now, silent elven servants having born away the bulk of the mess. They will return shortly to clean until no trace of debauchery remains; but for now, in the corner closest to the fire, space and light bend themselves, and there is revealed- sweating, perhaps from the heat of the fire, and glassy-eyed perhaps with the nearness of the servants whose robes have nearly brushed him, and with his face in confusion and tentative contemplation and with the heel of his hand digging into the front of his trousers as if to force some unruly inhabitant to quiescence-

-there is revealed a hobbit, who carries in his hand a golden ring.