Prompt Post 4

[bettiebloodshed]

Prompt post 4

Welcome to the Hobbit Kink Meme! Here you can post prompts for anything related to the Hobbit!
                                               

Comments

Re: [Fill] Azog/Thorin AU, Stockholm-Syndrome, DUB/NON-CON (3a/?)

[ajlittle]

"Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!" The dwarf king roars, and there is a phrase he knows - there is the ferocity he craves to extinguish. Thorin struggles so valiantly, but joints dislocated upon the rack prove useless and weak, his wounds deep and many, and the howl of pain he cannot fully muffle is like music, filling him with the pleasure of war drums in the night and a strong weapon in his hand, the satisfaction of steel rending flesh. It is a beautiful thing, and he dismounts smoothly, caressing his snow-white warg as he draws near, crouches to the fallen monarch's height.

"You may try, little prince - just as I spat upon the corpse of your grandfather at the mouth of his conquered hall." He reached out, slowly, to run the claws of his false arm along the side of the dwarf's bruised and bloodied face, cocking his head toward his mount, who bares garishly-stained fangs, awaiting its master's command. "She hungers, Dwarf. Shall I feed her?" This, whispered in his enemy's ear, feeling the heat of his sweat as he trembled in his agony. "Perhaps...this?" Azog grips one dislocated arm in his single hand, twisting with all the cruelty he possesses in his wild heart, and blood trickles from Thorin's mouth as he bites his tongue against a scream. "A scar to match my own, princeling. A taste for my loyal beast, before I give her what remains. Will you beg, like the rest of your line before you? Will you scream as she devours you?" Thorin Oakenshield looks up at him in silence, and the defiance he finds there is such as he has never seen, a burn like the powder-fires of the men of the far east, only growing stronger as it is doused. And then he who would be King Under the Mountain does just what he threatened, and spits in the face of the The Defiler.

"Wretched whelp!" He bellows, and his great claw comes around in a vicious backhand, splitting the ripe flesh over the dwarf's cheek and sending him tumbling to the ground, coughing blood against the stone. There is a scuffle behind him, a muffled shout and the squeal of goblins, and he turns, metal clashing against metal as his claw meets a hastily-snatched goblin blade, a fair young dwarf with scarcely a beard to his name howling at him through his gag. His hands are bound, and his second swing is just as clumsy as the first - Azog swats it aside as he might a fly, knee coming up to crunch into heaving ribs, and his enormous hand clamps around the dwarfling's skull, lifting him with the effort he might have spared a kitten. The screams and struggles of the rest of his foe's ragged company go unheeded, held fast beneath a renewed surge of goblins and the drawn arrows and blades of his mounted pack, and he looks at the struggling creature in his grasp with fascination.

"To have sunk so low, and still command such loyalty..." He purrs, looking down at the boy's fallen king with a savage smirk. "Will he die for you, Great King?" Thorin screams in protest as Azog brings his strength to bear and dashes the young dwarf's head against the stone, tossing him aside like a broken doll. If the little thing lives yet, he cannot bring himself to care; there is only one dwarf in this cavern that matters to him, and if he knows the Great Goblin, none of the rest will outlive the night, torn apart to feed the fiend's unending gluttony. A fair-haired dwarrowling shrieks and struggles so violently that a mace must be brought to bear to silence him - children, and had his foe truly become so desperate, was his following truly so completely diminished? - but their goblin captors were wising to any tricks, and the pathetic assault is the only one managed. He looks down at the exiled king, as if to ask if this is all he can conjure, and there is a look about him that he does not expect. Grief, fury, agony - but also just the barest hint of resignation, a suicidal welcoming in the edge of his rage.