Prompt Post 4
Prompt post 4
Welcome to the Hobbit Kink Meme! Here you can post prompts for anything related to the Hobbit!
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Welcome to the Hobbit Kink Meme! Here you can post prompts for anything related to the Hobbit!
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The whole rescue thing in the Goblin King's city doesn't happen.
Thorin gets singled out and tortured and when Azog arrives, he's in pretty bad shape.
And Azog sees this bleeding and feverish, but still so very defiant foe of his before him, forced to kneel by like, a goblin hanging on each arm, and he suddenly realises, that a quick death wouldn't be the least satisfying.
He wants to hunt the one who cut him down himself, but that means he'll have to nurse him back to something resembling health first. And so he takes Thorin and while he, none too gently, cleans his wounds and feeds him and dunks him in a river once or twice, he begins to realise...other desires he has for Durin's heir.
And, I don't kow, there's lots of bad touch and Azog being in turns 'I want to kill him' and 'He's mine, he cannot die' and Thorin is always trying to escape, which he sort of manages, at one point, broken as he is, and he gets swarmed by orcs and it's pretty obvious where that's going to lead to, and suddenly there's a roar and orcs are flying around and the last thing Thorin sees is a clawhand ripping an orc's throat out.
And after that Azog tells his warg to guard Thorin, because Thorin is HIS and his alone, and there's what amounts to Stockholm-Syndrome in Thorin and rough claiming sex and stuff.
Don't judge me. *shifty eyes*
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i third this, because of reasons.
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So yes, someone, PLZ?
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This may or may not tear itself from my fingers in the next few days. I have never filled a prompt before, so don't hold your breath for quality, but it may happen. >__>
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If I can figure out LJ HTML, then italics will indicate anything spoken in Orcish, while normal text will be anything in Westron.
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When word on his bounty comes from Goblin Town, of all places, Azog cannot decide if he is pleased or enraged. As he grips the scrawny rat of a messenger by the throat with all the care he might show a soiled rag, he thinks through the red haze the name Durin brings to his heart that the so-called Great Goblin will never let him hear the end of this. The fat, slovenly worm is crafty and sly, never one to pass up an opportunity for profit - and a craven sort of filth, true, but his goblin horde far outnumbers any pack the Pale Orc could bring under the Misty Mountains at such short notice, and he knows that the Goblin King will not be wont to hand his prize over anywhere but on his home turf.
He swiftly guts the miniscule goblin struggling between his fingers, tosses the stinking remains to the wargs, and orders twice his declared bounty prepared - he will not give it unless pressed, but he knows the Great Goblin will stinge when he knows so well of Azog's desire for this prize, and he will not risk the last king of Erebor slipping between his fingers again. He will pay the coward king's price, and perhaps one day, with all the Gundabad tribes at his back, he will storm Goblin Town in recompense for the humiliation and send the little maggots squealing into the daylight. A savage grin splits his face at the thought, but that is a daydream to be savored on a later day - for now...for now he has a boon much longer desired waiting at the end of the miles ahead.
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The ride is long, but their wargs are swift, and none of his retinue dare to wail or moan when he does not let them rest, driving their mounts on through exhaustion and strain with jabs from cruel iron boots and wicked Orcish blades. His is a singular mind, burning hotter the farther they range into the Misty Mountains, the face of Thorin Oakenshield branded into his mind's eye with the potency of pure hatred, and a grudge long-nurtured. He had waited a very long time as the princeling dwarf hid within the settlements of men, always growing stronger, gathering more tribes to his cause - but never, never forgetting that hated name, even as he waged war on distant fronts.
And now he has shown himself, rumors flying on fickle winds of ravens returning to the Lonely Mountain, of a King drawn back to his throne - portents that pose a lure his enemy could not resist. The heir of Durin had been drawn from the woodwork like a termite to his long-forgotten gold - and like hounds after the fox flushed from hiding, Azog the Defiler and his orc pack pursued. And now the fox was cornered, snared, and his death would not be long in coming.
The stench and clamor of Goblin Town was no less detestable than he remembered it, and the rats' feeble wooden bridges creak and moan under the massive weight of great wargs and their heavily-armored riders, threatening to give way like the goblins who scatter at his approach, screeching like dying things as they skitter up and out of his reach. He snarls - right they were to fear, pathetic mockeries of their kind that the strength of the orcs so often had the misfortune of being compared to. There was a reason these dogs cowered from the sun underneath their mountain while he led his warbands to glory and victory in the world above.
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"Bones will be shattered!
Necks will be wrung!
Beaten and battered,
From racks you'll be hung!
You'll die down here and never be found,
Down in the deep of Goblin Town!"
And that is when he sees him. The company of dwarf-scum his late lieutenant had failed to corner on the plains gagged and forced to their knees before a great wooden contraption that could only be of goblin make, and strapped upon it the very dwarf he has hunted since the siege at Moria, now a battered, broken thing, sweat streaming in the torchlight as he tries with all his (grudgingly admirable) will not to scream. For all that he has wanted to see Thorin Oakenshield suffer, a pit of rage opens in his stomach at the sight of him, and the roar that rips through the Goblin King's song sends the entire throne room spiraling into silence in the wake of its echo, none daring to so much as breathe when under the searing gaze of the Pale Orc. Alive, he had said - he wanted the would-be king alive, and though his heart obviously still beat, the Durin brat did not look alive to him. Merely breathing, still existing through sheer stubborness and nothing more - not the fire that had been his downfall so long ago.
The dwarf lifts his head, though it obviously pains him, and their eyes meet across the cavern, blue into blue - and Azog sees something in the exiled king rekindle, if weakly, and then crumble again. Rage, grief and incredulity mixing into one.
"Azog..." The word is strangled and low, but in the grand cavern it echoes far, and the pain in that single utterance is exhilarating. "It-it cannot be..."
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and so fast!
This is awesome. Sooooo awesome. Let me worship you. Here, have an unicorn.
Anything you want, but please don't stop! *clings to you*
Your Azog-voice is perfect, I'm amazed. Your first fill? I can't believe it.
Wonderful. Just- moooore. Please.
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And yes, fast. x.x I cannot stop now what even am I doing. More to come shortly. Probably a lot more.
All in all, I can think of worse ways to spend a Saturday night than writing Orc/Dwarf rape.
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I have a row of seating reserved for all of us in the special hell. I'll be waiting with popcorn.
Anything spoken in Orcish is italicized.
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"Oh, but it is!" The Great Goblin croons, the slippery cunning in those beady eyes drawing Azog's lips back over his jagged teeth, his desire to gut the lowly sow outweighed only by his need to see the last of Durin's blood drain onto the stone. "Though perhaps a little more short-handed than you remember, hmm? You could say surviving nearly cost him an arm and a leg!" The wretch shrieks with laughter, and Azog bristles at his gall, his warg snapping viciously at a goblin foolishly emboldened by its leader's mockery. He clicks his tongue, and the beast lunges, crunching the goblin's skull between savage jaws - a sharp grunt, and his pack is streaming from behind him to surround the platform, wantonly shoving goblins into the crevasse below, savaging them with maces and blades, earning the enraged shrieks of the whelps who cling to the rickety balconies all up and down the great cavern walls.
It is before the Goblin King that he halts, and the tip of his blade brushes the wattle at the fiend's neck, so very close, and an understanding passes between them, an expression of Orcish politics that no Dwarf or Man could ever truly understand. He could kill the Great Goblin in a moment, his pack decimating many dozens of his subjects, but they would not reach the surface again before being overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers and slain themselves - a stalemate that was not a stalemate, then, but in fact a truce. Either they both left this exchange alive and far the richer for it, or neither of them did, and with those options before them, their vicious natures could be restrained to something resembling civility. A strange, wicked diplomacy, as complex and deeply ingrained as the inane to-and-fros of Human courts.
"Is it that my riders were unclear in their message, Great Goblin, or are you so content to speak the tongue of Men that our own language escapes you?" He purrs, smooth and dangerously quiet. "The dwarf scum is, and has always been my kill to make. And yet you dare to lay hands upon him?" For a moment the Goblin King looks cowed, but it is scarcely more than a moment before that slick intellect is back in his gaze, his rotting smirk defying the blade at his throat.
"The brave little thing volunteered, O' War Chief." He cooed, the too-smooth slide of Westron petulantly grating at Azog's ears. "We goblins are not so picky in our meals, you know. The youngest first, we thought, the sweetest meat upon the rack - but dear Thorin, why, he nearly impaled himself upon our blades, begging to be taken instead. Forgive an old Goblin his sentimentality, but how could I bring myself to refuse such a noble plea?" And for once, Azog was inclined to believe him; he remembered that spirit, that sickening willingness to sacrifice, and it drew a grin across his face unbidden, the thought that there might yet be something left in Oakenshield for him to grind beneath his boot.
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(This character limit really is annoying, damnit.))
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"Can you smell it?" He looked over his shoulder to his pack as the heir of Durin was dropped unceremoniously from the torture rack, and gripped by either arm by a skittish, chittering goblin. "The smell of fear?" He gently stroked the tip of his wicked, clawed prosthesis over his warg's hackles, watching all eyes draw to it with a slow, knife-edged smile. "I remember your father reeked of it, Thorin, son of Thrain..."
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