FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [Part 3]nolikereallyDecember 23 2012, 23:32:53 UTC
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 very attractive, 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."
FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [Part 4]nolikereallyDecember 24 2012, 17:44:12 UTC
"Take you? 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 notice your 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 whorish dwarf may slink into one's ancestral home."
"Fuck you," 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.
FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [Part 5, COMPLETE]nolikereallyDecember 24 2012, 18:26:28 UTC
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.
FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [EPILOGUE]nolikereallyDecember 24 2012, 18:30:31 UTC
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.
Re: FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [EPILOGUE]blacknoiseDecember 24 2012, 22:25:18 UTC
I DIED AT "IN THE FASHION OF GONDOR", FOR THE RECORD.
And.
Bilbo.
HOW DO YOU DO THIS. You have me shipping this grudgefuck hatesex Thorin and Thranduil stuff hard. You write the most visceral, gritty sex, and still manage to have this potent eroticism going on. It's like rich, dark wine, I swear. Almost too intense, almost too complex, and it only ends up being delicious.
Re: FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [EPILOGUE]chaossassyDecember 24 2012, 23:21:16 UTC
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.
This paragraph shows perfectly how you manage to keep the typical tone of the whole LotR-verse and put a little porn in it to spice it up, without making Tolkiens work look ridiculous or offending it, it just.. works and it works damn well. I've never actually read respectful porn - does this even exist? Or make sense? Whatever, you invented it. And I fucking love it.
Re: FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [EPILOGUE]nolikereallyDecember 25 2012, 00:02:26 UTC
Thank you so much for putting this into words! I kept trying to pinpoint out what I loved so much about the writing style (besides the incredibly erotic porn, of course) and I think it's something to do with how well the characters - and the situations, for that matter - fit into the lore. Just... lovely. In every sense of the word.
Re: FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [EPILOGUE]nolikereallyJanuary 7 2013, 22:44:26 UTC
I agree completely with the things above. The porn was far hotter because it's so well-grounded in the lore and backstory, and not just gratuitous in-and-out of interchangable body parts.
And surprise!Bilbo made everything even better. *slain* I can just see his little Hobbit eyes grow larger and larger while he stands and squirms and is horribly embarrassed by wandering in on such a scene...
Re: FILL: For Spite - Thorin/Thranduil, NC17 [EPILOGUE]nolikereallyDecember 25 2012, 01:28:15 UTC
Oh my goddddd I am so glad you enjoyed it... when I wrote that paragraph I was just like, somebody is going to roll their eyes so hard at my fruity little lore-nugget that they're going to sprain something, I need to calm the hell down with the stories of ancient Sinda.
But you know what? I regret nothing. If you guys don't mind that I am totally dead gone on Tolkein's lyricism, I don't mind putting dicks all up in it whichever way they will go.
"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 very attractive, 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."
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"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 notice your 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 whorish dwarf may slink into one's ancestral home."
"Fuck you," 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.
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"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.
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--there is revealed a hobbit, who carries in his hand a golden ring.
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And.
Bilbo.
HOW DO YOU DO THIS. You have me shipping this grudgefuck hatesex Thorin and Thranduil stuff hard. You write the most visceral, gritty sex, and still manage to have this potent eroticism going on. It's like rich, dark wine, I swear. Almost too intense, almost too complex, and it only ends up being delicious.
Bravo.
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(And you KNOW Gondor has some crazy-ass buttsex going on 100% of the time always.)
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This paragraph shows perfectly how you manage to keep the typical tone of the whole LotR-verse and put a little porn in it to spice it up, without making Tolkiens work look ridiculous or offending it, it just.. works and it works damn well. I've never actually read respectful porn - does this even exist? Or make sense? Whatever, you invented it. And I fucking love it.
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And surprise!Bilbo made everything even better. *slain* I can just see his little Hobbit eyes grow larger and larger while he stands and squirms and is horribly embarrassed by wandering in on such a scene...
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But you know what? I regret nothing. If you guys don't mind that I am totally dead gone on Tolkein's lyricism, I don't mind putting dicks all up in it whichever way they will go.
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This is a glorious piece of work and if I ever reassemble my shattered, smoking brain I will try for more specific feedback.
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You are really good at this. Thanks for this great Christmas present. I ship your Thorin/Thranduil rivalmance so hard.
And Bilbo, you little creep! :D
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