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The Elvenking of Mirkwood was almost twice his height, but Thorin would be damned before he felt any intimidation. “I would not trust Thranduil, the great king,” he spat, “to honour his word, should the end of all days be upon us! You lack all honour!”

In an instant, the injustices carried against his people rose within him like an inferno, and Thorin cursed the Elvenking with the foulest profanity he could muster. He was unsure whether the Elf understood his words exactly, but his intent was clear. He expected a cold smugness from Thranduil, but instead, the Elf loomed close, pale cheeks tinged red with anger.

“Do not talk to me of dragon fire!” He spat. “For I know its wrath and ruin: I have faced the great serpents of the North!”

For once, the detached veneer had cracked, and Thranduil’s cheek melted away, exposing the devastating wound left over from some unknown horror in his past. But just as quickly as the scar appeared, Thranduil regained his composure and the mask slipped back on. Thorin blinked in shock, acutely aware of how close their faces were. Before he could help, himself, he flicked a glance down to Thranduil’s lips and back up to his eyes. The pupils were dilated, his clear eyes searching Thorin’s own.

“I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon,” the Elvenking sneered. He drew back to gaze coolly down at the Dwarf. “You are just like him.”

Of all the insults Thranduil might have hurled, this was the one that cut Thorin the deepest. The Elvenking dismissed him with a cold stare, though Thorin was too angry to worry about the potential repercussions. He could still feel Thranduil’s breath ghosting over his cheeks; they had been standing so close. It was humiliating, to have the Elvenking glower at him like he was a piece of filth his guards had brought in. Then to see Thranduil sprawled across his throne in his own kingdom served as a bitter reminder of what he had and his people had lost in the dragon’s inferno. It had been too much; the Dwarf King would rather stay in the Elfish dungeons for a while longer than to barter his birthright just to walk freely. Thorin ignored Balin’s sigh of disappointment, and instead sat in his cell and waited.

And waited.

Bilbo didn’t come. Not yet at least. Perhaps the Halfling was lost in the woods, or else biding his time for a better opportunity. It was difficult to keep track of the hours within the caves, but the sun was surely below the horizon.

“Thorin,” Balin said softly. “We cannot be sure that Bilbo will come.”

“He would not so easily abandon us,” Thorin replied tersely. There was once a time where he did not trust the hobbit to stay with them, but their burglar has proven himself to be loyal and brave. Though, if Thorin was honest with himself, his trust in Bilbo at this moment was partly a cover to hide his stubborn pride.

“That may be, but he could be dead, for all we know,” Dwalin grunted. Thorin couldn’t see him from his position, but the other dwarf didn’t sound more than a couple of cells away. “What can one hobbit do in the midst of Mirkwood?”

At that, Thorin felt a twinge of guilt. The giant spiders had taken them by surprise, and whilst Bilbo had bravely saved them, he couldn’t help but wonder if the hobbit was now left alone to fend for himself.

“Thorin,” Balin tried again. His voice was gentle and placating. “Maybe Bilbo will come. But if he doesn’t, the only way to leave is by order of the Elvenking. You must speak with him!”

The very thought of seeing the smirking bastard again was enough to twist Thorin’s gut with anger and humiliation. But Balin was right. They were unarmed and outnumbered with no escape plan. Degrading as it would be to grovel before Thranduil, Thorin would do it if it meant they could continue on their quest.

“Very well,” Thorin said. He called for a guard, an elf with sharp cheekbones who arched an eyebrow at him. “I wish to speak to the Elvenking.”

“My lord Thranduil has retired to bed,” the guard replied. “You may hold council with him in the morning.”

Thorin lunged forward, gripping the bars of his cell. “Tell him I will discuss his offer.”

The guard narrowed his eyes, but nodded, leaving to relay the message.

“Uncle, you cannot do this!” Fili cried. “He means only to use you for his own gains!”

“Do you think I am unaware?” Thorin snapped. He bit back his tongue, trying not to take out his frustrations on his young nephew. “We don’t have a choice. Every moment we spend here is another hour wasted.”

Fili’s reply was cut off when the guard returned, key in hand.

“Remember Thorin,” Balin reminded him softly. “Keep your temper in check. All we need is one chance to leave.”

The Dwarf King was acutely aware of his company staring at him through the bars of their cells as he walked past. He tried to remember their hopeful faces.

The guards led him through multiple passageways, all of them elegantly carved and clean. Thorin was grudgingly in awe of the architecture, though of course he kept this to himself. They crossed a bridge, which was a long twisted root that led them to a tall wooden door. The oak was engraved with twisting leaves and vines; the hinges made from a solid brass that blended smoothly with the wood. The guard knocked sharply.

“Enter.”

The doors were swung open, leading into a large room. It was sparsely furnished; a round table made from stone and wooden chairs all carved with the same intricate pattern of leaves and vines, a bed and a set of doors that led to somewhere he did not know. Thorin was surprised; this looked like the King’s private quarters, if the bed was anything to go by. It was an imposing piece of furniture; large even for the tall elf King. The four poster bed was supported by solid wooden posts that reached high up to the ceiling where they met in an intricately carved tester, the canopy draped with fine swathes of white silken gauze. It was extravagant and luxurious, just like the Elvenking himself. The very room was carved out from the stone of the cave walls, and though it wasn’t decadently adorned, it exuded awe nonetheless. To the side of the room were a few steps that led to an open terrace that over-looked the Woodland Realm. And there stood Thranduil, gazing out across his kingdom. His long silver robes trailed elegantly behind him, draping gracefully as he turned his face towards Thorin. He had removed his crown of berries and red leaves, though he looked no less regal.

“Leave us,” Thranduil raised his palm in a dismissive motion. The guard bowed respectfully, and closed the doors with a definite click.

The Elf King turned fully, his hair barely moving with the gentle action. Silence stretched between them, until Thranduil finally broke it. “This is quite unexpected, I confess. I did not think you would change your mind.”

“I was not left with much choice,” Thorin growled. Stripped of his sword and his crown, he was left with nothing but a title. The location of their conversation felt strangely intimate, and Thorin found himself wishing himself back in front of the throne. Thranduil’s private quarters felt like a place he should never see, let alone step foot it. It made him feel oddly vulnerable.

Thranduil gazed at him for a moment, and then reached for a glass decanter on the oak table. “Would you care for some wine?”

Thorin hesitated. But Thranduil poured himself a goblet and sipped pointedly. From across the room, Thorin could smell the fragrant sweet liquid, and was suddenly very aware that he hadn’t consumed a drop of water since they’d left the house of Beorn. Begrudgingly, he muttered a voice of agreement and instantly downed the wine that Thranduil held out. It warmed his belly immediately, the comfortable balm easing him somewhat.

“The wine we are drinking is pressed from fruits grown in the Woodland Realm,” Thranduil told him. His eyes seemed to glimmer with amusement, though his face remained almost expressionless. “It is made to be savoured.”

“I have no care for the etiquettes of elves,” Thorin replied. In truth, the wine was delicious, far more delicate and aromatic than the yeasty beers favoured by his own kind. Still, he would choose a hearty pint over the wine any day.

“No, I suppose not,” Thranduil sat down, gesturing for Thorin to join him on the adjacent chair. “But you are in the house of my people and depending on how carefully you choose your words, you may be here for an eternity.” The Elvenking smiled, though it was devoid of any warmth. However, he leaned forward and refilled Thorin’s goblet. “My guard told me you had reconsidered my offer.”

“I will give you the jewels you desire,” Thorin told him, though the words felt like venom spilling from his lips. “But you must let us go. All of us. Unharmed and carrying all the possessions we had when we entered.”

Thranduil took a moment to consider his words. He sipped his wine, gazing down at Thorin over the rim of his goblet. “And if I let you go, you will return with my jewels once the mountain is reclaimed?”

“Yes,” Thorin spat. The Elvenking’s way of drawing out every nerve in his body was testing; he did not know how much longer he could sit and pretend to care about the white gems laying in the mountain.

“I am not sure if I believe you,” Thranduil mused. “How will know if you will return what is mine? After all, if I release you and your company, that may be the very last I ever see of you.”

And good riddance, Thorin thought to himself. There was no way for Thranduil to prove that this was Thorin’s exact plan, but if the dwarves were not released, he would never see the jewels. They were at an impasse, and Thorin relished in gaining back some leverage in their conversation.

“You have my word,” he said instead. At this, Thranduil gave a small scoff. Thorin was reminded of their earlier conversation, where he had brazenly insulted the Elvenking on his definition of a promise.

“Your word,” Thranduil repeated. He swept to his feet, and for a moment, Thorin wondered if he would slay him right there. Instead, Thranduil stepped away, allowing his silver robe to slip off his shoulders before he hung it carefully at the side of his bed. “Late is the hour in which you make your offer, Dwarf King.”

“What would you have me do?” Thorin narrowed his eyes. Thranduil has his back turned, and briefly, Thorin considered a more violent option. But there were no weapons in this room other than his bare fists, and it would be foolish to try anything that could worsen their situation.

Thranduil paused for a moment, before turning his face very slightly towards Thorin. He continued with undressing quite calmly, as if Thorin was not there at all. Soon, he was in nothing but a white robe, and though its design was simpler than his previous layers, the material was interwoven with a shimmering thread of gold that bloomed in laced patterns at the hems. Moonlight streamed in from the open balcony, highlighting the sharp angles of the king’s face. Like all elves, he was beautiful, but his beauty held none of the daintiness found in others of his kind. Thranduil was a glimmering sword; well-crafted and easily admired, but one wrong move and Thorin would find himself bleeding. He was dangerous.

Thorin hesitated. He had been prepared for an argument; to grovel in humiliation and bargain for their release. But having the Elf King stand in front of him in nothing but night-wear was something he never would have expected. It was incongruous to the conversation they were having: Thranduil looked oddly exposed, and yet, this was his kingdom where he held all the power.

Thranduil turned back to him, his face completely devoid of any expression. He was made of cold, cold ice, but something in his eyes seemed to shimmer with a heat that Thorin didn’t quite understand.

“I would require a guarantee,” the Elvenking told him. “A deposit of sorts.”

“What could we possibly give you?” Thorin said harshly. “You took everything we carried! If you want more gold, we would need to reach the mountain first.”

“I do not wish for dwarfish gold!” Thranduil rushed forward in anger. It was the most emotion Thorin had seen on his face thus far.

“Then what do you want?” Thorin growled. He realised that in the split second in which the Elvenking had crossed the room, he had stood up, ready to defend himself. They had come full circle; Thranduil loomed over him, bent down to meet his eyes. It was the same pose they had found themselves when they had tried to negotiate earlier.

With deliberation, Thranduil straightened up, glaring down at the dwarf. “In return for the release of your company, I will have the Dwarf King give me payment.”

Perhaps it was Thorin’s imagination, but there was a faint pink tinge to Thranduil’s cheeks.

“What are you talking about?” Thorin asked. His tone was severe, but he felt bewildered. “Did you not hear me? You already took all we own! I have nothing but the clothes on my back!”

There was a pause, and then Thranduil said, very carefully: “Then I will accept that as your payment.”

For a long moment, Thorin wondered if he had misheard. Or that he fainted and was hallucinating. Perhaps there had been something in the wine, after all.

“What?” He asked. He wasn’t imagining it this time- there was a definite flush on the cheeks of the Elvenking.

Thranduil cleared his throat. “I will not repeat myself. If you wish for your release, then I want reassurance that your word is good.”

“And… you want-” Thorin found himself lost for words. Then suddenly, he realised what Thranduil seemed to be demanding. “You utter filth!” Thorin roared, furious. “As if we were not already your prisoners, you would have the Dwarf King crawl at your feet naked as a worm!” He shouted several more insults in his own tongue. “Have you no shame?” Thorin spat.

At the sound of his raised voice, the guard burst into the room.

“Leave us,” Thranduil said immediately, but his eyes remained fixed on Thorin.

“My lord Thranduil-” the guard said, uncertain.

“I said leave,” Thranduil repeated. The guard hesitated for another moment before obediently shutting the door behind him. “You misunderstand me, Thorin.” It was the first time he had used his name.

“I understand you perfectly,” Thorin snapped. Driven by his rage, he tore at his humble clothing, pulling his dirtied outer-shirt off and flinging it to the ground with force.

“Is this the payment you demand of me?” Thorin shouted, slamming a fist against his chest. The Elf King looked lost for words for the first time. His eye widened in surprise, his jaw slack.

“Is this enough?” Thorin continued, voice low. He pulled his tunic off, balling the garment up and flinging it away. The bare skin on his chest felt heated. “Is this enough humiliation or would you have me paraded as well?”

“Stop,” Thranduil snapped, having seemingly recovered from his shock. “This is not what I meant.”

Thorin scoffed.

“Truly, Thorin, you mistook my words,” Thranduil said. He narrowed his eyes, but his face was tinged with colour. “I have no desire to humiliate you.”

“You will forgive me if I cannot believe you,” Thorin growled. He breathed harshly. Thranduil regarded him quietly, then his slim fingers lifted to unclasp his robe. “What are you-”

The white robe fell, pooling at Thranduil’s feet. Bathed in moonlight, the Elvenking stood before him in nothing but a ring on his finger. Stunned, Thorin gaped, too shocked to feel embarrassment.

“Is this suffice to prove my word?” Thranduil asked. His words were spoken softly, like a wisp of smoke lifted on a breeze.

“You- you meant,” Thorin stammered. Now that some of his surprise had faded, the dwarf wasn’t quite sure where to look- and yet, he could not tear his eyes away.

“Payment from the Dwarf King,” Thranduil told him quietly.

There were a thousand questions Thorin wanted to ask, but the only one that came out was: “Why?”

“It is clear there are qualms between our people, much less their kings,” Thranduil said. He stepped closer. “We don’t trust each other, but perhaps we can learn to.”

Thorin was utterly speechless. The silence stretched for so long that Thranduil snatched his robe up and turned away.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” the Elvenking hissed, face burning.

“No.”

It wasn’t not until he saw Thranduil still his movements that Thorin realised he had spoken.

“No,” he repeated again. His mouth suddenly felt very dry, and he parted his lips, tongue darting out to moisten them. “I… I would be happy to give you the payment you seek.”

Thranduil’s lips parted but he didn’t seem able to find the words to speak.

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Do you treat all your prisoners in this way?”

“Of course not,” Thranduil snapped.

“Then,” Thorin replied softly. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

Thranduil sat back onto his mattress, wary, as Thorin stepped closer. There was still a chance to stop here, but they allowed the opportunity to dwindle. With an admirably steady hand, Thorin reached forward and unclasped Thranduil’s gown, leaving his chest bare. The Elvenking had beautiful pale skin which was perfectly unblemished. It looked cool as marble, but Thranduil was hot to the touch, almost burning Thorin’s hand, though his fingers remain uncharred. His dusky nipples were erect, pebbling in the cool air. Experimentally, Thorin gave them a little pinch, pleased when the other king gasped. Thranduil uttered a small growl, as if covering his unexpected sigh of pleasure. In retaliation, he lifted his hand and palmed Thorin through the fabric of his trousers until he hardened under his touch. Thorin could scarcely believe his current predicament. He had recognised, of course, the spark that had been catalyst of their shared attraction- it was hard not to. But he never would have imagined acting upon it as they were now.

He slid his hand over Thranduil’s chest and let it rest over his heart. Thranduil’s pulse was steady, though rapid. His own heart, in comparison, hammered a staccato beat against his ribcage, mirroring the same disbelief and anticipation. The Elvenking was right- perhaps they weren’t so different after all. Thranduil lifted his head as Thorin loomed over him, his breath coming quick as the space between them inched smaller.

And finally, finally, Thorin brought his lips against the Elf’s. Neither of them closed their eyes, not because of distrust but in sheer incredulity of their reality. Thranduil parted his lips carefully, as Thorin pushed in his tongue, exploring. It was odd: Thranduil was warm, his smooth lips sliding slickly over Thorin’s, his slender hands lightly stroking over Thorin’s skin. He was hesitant, almost allowing the dwarf to set the pace.

Thorin drew back, slightly breathless. “Is this- have you done this before?”

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “I have a son, as you may well be aware.”

“I meant with a man,” Thorin scowled. He had suspected the lineage of Legolas, of course, considering the long blond hair, but somehow it was still a little unexpected.

“It has been some time since I last…” Thranduil trailed off, looking reserved. “With anyone.”

Thorin nodded. “And I, the same.” He paused, then begrudgingly added: “I suppose we have something in common.”

Thranduil observed him for a moment, his immaculate eyebrows arched. “Are you always so verbose with the ones you take to bed?”

Thorin glared. It was obvious that the Elf was goading him. Very well- if he wanted a reaction, then so be it. He lunged forward, crushing his lips against Thranduil’s mouth. There was nothing sweet about it; Thorin growled as he nipped at Thranduil’s lips; the Elvenking responded with just as much heat, enough to bruise his mouth. It was as if a dam had broken; their desire crashed through them like a flood, and there was no way to fight it but be swept along until it was satisfied.

Thorin groaned, pushing Thranduil roughly against the mattress. Thranduil hissed in annoyance, hand snaking behind his head to grip at the nape of his neck. In retaliation, he pushed Thorin down, until his lips brushed against the fabric of the robe, pushed up by his straining cock. Impatiently, Thorin batted away the white robe, eager for a taste. Thranduil’s cock was weeping already, a bead of pre-come threatening to spill. He smelt like hot musk, and Thorin darted his tongue out experimentally, lapping up the pre-come and letting the bitter-sweet taste wash over his tongue.

At that, Thranduil groaned, his grip on Thorin’s hair tightening a fraction. Thorin looked up, surprised to see the wash of red of the Elf’s face. His mouth was parted, eyes glazed with desire. He looked beautiful.

Thorin shook his head, forcing Thranduil to release his tight grip on his hair. He paused for a moment to observe the elf spread out beneath him like a feast. Thranduil shifted, impatient as Thorin lightly drew a hand down his chest. He dipped his head, holding Thranduil’s gaze as he lightly sucked the crown of his cock into his mouth. He tasted exquisite, just like the fine wine they had consumed moments before. Thranduil bucked his hips instinctively, searching for more stimulation. It suddenly occurred to Thorin that he had quite a bit of power here; Thranduil’s pleasure was entirely his to dictate. Playful, he grazed his teeth, smirking when the Elf’s eyes widened.

“Do not think, Dwarven King,” Thranduil hissed. “That an invitation into my bed holds leverage against me. You are still my prisoner.”

Thorin ignored him, instead, relaxing his jaw and swallowing down as many inches as he could take. Thranduil gasped, fists balling up the sheets beneath them. Thorin moaned around his length, nostrils flaring at the musky scent. He released Thranduil for a moment, a trail of saliva connected from his lip to Thranduil’s cock. It was utterly filthy, and he shuddered, the sight of it making his cock twitch in excitement. Regaining his breath, Thorin laved at Thranduil’s cock, pleased when the elf cried out, slapping a hand over his mouth as if the sound had escaped without his intention.

“Enough,” Thranduil panted. He pulled away, and Thorin found himself trying to chase him with his mouth until Thranduil put out a shaky hand to stop him.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a vial of oil beside my bed,” Thranduil told him. He looked embarrassed. “Bring it over.”

Thorin was too curious to feel irritated at the order. He stood for a moment, acutely aware of the throbbing hardness between his legs that was far too neglected. He retrieved the oil easily, noting drily that even this small glass vial was beautifully carved with delicate weaving patterns. Thranduil waited with his hand outstretched. He had pulled completely free of his robes, pale skin glowing in the starlight. Thorin watched in a curious silence as Thranduil dribbled oil over his fingers. In one elegant movement, he leaned back against the numerous cushions and pillows, leg lifted and fingers probing. Thorin stared in shock at the sight: Thranduil was slowly, carefully working himself open, his head lolling back and sighs of pleasure escaping his lips.

“Come here, Thorin,” Thranduil demanded, his eyes glittering with amusement at dwarf’s reaction.

“You mean- you want-” Thorin stammered, suddenly unsure. It was obvious what the elf wanted, but he had to know. He had to be sure.

“Thorin,” Thranduil repeated, quiet. “Come here.”

Thorin scrambled on the bed, unfastening the rest of his clothes and tossing it impatiently to the floor. At last they were both naked as the day they were born, fully unveiled to one another. But rather than feeling exposed, it’s strangely comforting to know that there are no other layers. At last, Thorin felt somewhat like an equal, although that wasn’t quite true. He fisted a hand over his cock slowly, eyes greedily drinking in the sight of Thranduil working in two fingers. The elf was intriguing to say the least. For a long time, Thorin had held nothing but hatred against him, never forgetting the horror of realising that Thranduil would not help them the day Smaug had taken Erebor. But for the first time, Thorin wondered what he would have done had their roles been reversed. Would he really have risked the lives of hundreds of dwarves for a battle they would surely lose? He honestly could not think of an answer, even in his private thoughts.

“What is it?” Thranduil had pulled his fingers away, and reached for Thorin to come closer.

“Nothing,” Thorin replied, trying to bring himself back to the present. Thranduil frowned.

“Your eyes are so distant,” he commented, even as Thorin dribbled more oil over his slick length. “Do you wish to stop?”

“No,” Thorin blurted, far more quickly than he’d intended to. “I just-” he hesitated. “I can’t quite believe we’re doing this.”

“This is merely a deposit, no more,” Thranduil told him. His voice had hardened, his face beginning to return to the cold veneer he usually had.

“It’s not, though, is it?” Thorin said suddenly. “Why me? You’re the king; you could have anyone you wanted. But I’m just a king with no crown and no power, and a dwarf no less.”

Thranduil sat up, legs drawn together. In the back of his mind, Thorin wanted to scream at himself for possibly ruining his chance to truly bed the elf. But, still, he had questions; this wasn’t a cheap fuck at the end of a drunken evening, this was negotiation with someone he had considered his enemy only hours ago.

“You ask many questions, Thorin,” Thranduil said coolly. But there was still a soft tone to his voice, and Thorin pressed on, determined.

“Why?”

Thranduil observed him for a moment. He was clearly uncomfortable. “You remember that day when the serpent claimed Erebor?”

“Of course,” Thorin felt a rising anger at the dragon just thinking back to that accursed day.

“I turned away from you because I could not risk so many of my kind for a battle we would not win,” Thranduil said. “And I had been angered by your grandfather days before.”

“The gems,” Thorin thought back. “Why are they so important to you?”

“I had them commissioned for the one I loved most,” Thranduil said. His voice was soft, and Thorin knew, that despite how old this story was, the hurt was still there. “Your grandfather wished to humiliate me.”

“So you allowed our suffering over a mere dispute?” Thorin snapped, feeling angry again.

“What I did was weigh the cost of elvish blood against the dragon,” Thranduil told him coldly. “Call me heartless if you will, but I did what was best for my people. Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same!”

Thorin couldn’t.

“I knew my actions would cost your people much pain and suffering,” Thranduil continued. “But I will not apologise for carrying out my duty as a king.”

“So what is this then?” Thorin gestured between them. “You would take me to your bed out of pity?”

“As I told you, it is a deposit and nothing more,” Thranduil said. Even naked on his bed, there was still the regal aura he could not shake off. “I do not wish to court you.”

“Nor I,” Thorin spat back. His pride was bruised, but he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment. “Our people would disown us,” he added with a snort. At this, Thranduil smiled wryly.

 “Do you have the answers you seek, Master Dwarf?” Thranduil asked.

“Some of them,” Thorin replied begrudgingly. “I will not say I can ever forgive you for what you did that day,” he started.

“I don’t expect you to,” Thranduil said softly. For the first time, he looked regretful. Perhaps he really was.

“But I can say I understand why you chose to turn away,” he added. It was humbling to say it out loud, but at last he felt more at rest with the past. He could never forget his anger or hurt, but in the quiet space of the Elvenking’s bedroom, he would offer whatever peace he could.

“Thank you,” Thranduil replied, wide-eyed. Thorin’s peace had been accepted. “Perhaps there is still hope for a relationship between our people.”

Thorin nodded. “Perhaps.”

Thranduil began to draw his robe around him, but Thorin reached out to stop him. “Do not cover yourself, Thranduil.”

The elf eyed him in surprise. “You do not wish to leave?”

“I promised you a deposit, did I not?” Thorin tugged the robe until it fell away again, eyes roaming over the other king’s body.

“If you wish,” Thranduil started warily, “you could leave and I will still release you and your company when the sun rises.”

They had reached a strange level of trust; Thorin acknowledged it. Now it was time for him to show his grudging respect as well.

“I could,” he mused out loud. “But I would rather we finish what we started.” With firm movements, his gripped the Elf by his ankles and spread his legs, rubbing his cock lightly against the sensitised rim.

Thranduil gasped, the sound slowly evolving into a moan of arousal. “More oil,” he panted, hand blindly wandering over the silk for the vial. He coated his fingers again, pushing them slickly into himself.

“Let me,” Thorin murmured. He dipped his fingers into the oil, pushing one in slowly as Thranduil gripped himself by the back of his knees.

The Elf let out a guttural moan, jaw clenched tightly. Thorin could guess why; his fingers were much thicker than the elf’s slender ones. He went slowly, mindful of the other king’s reactions. His own cock twitched with anticipation, but Thorin ignored it- he would be damned before anyone described him as a selfish lover.

“Enough,” Thranduil gasped. He gripped Thorin behind the waist, pulling him closer. Thorin groaned as he pushed in the crown of his cock into the tight, slick heat.

“Yes,” he gasped, fighting the urge to plunge in and give in to his base desires. “You feel so good around me.”

Thranduil let out a small whine, his head tipped back to expose the smooth column of his neck. The height difference between them made things a little difficult, but with Thranduil laid back against the pillows, Thorin was able to lean forward, his cock sheathed completely as he bit down on the knot between Thranduil’s neck and shoulder.

The Elvenking cried out with pleasure, his hands brought up to hold Thorin closer. They kept the pace slow at first, adjusting to each other. When he finally felt Thranduil relax, Thorin rocked his hips faster, groaning loudly at the sensation. It was addictive; to pull out almost the whole way only to slam back in, just to hear the Elvenking cry out. He gripped Thranduil by the hips, fascinated when the elf wrapped a hand around his cock, tugging himself quickly to bring himself closer to the edge. It’s a beautiful sight, but Thorin wanted him to himself.

“I’ll do that,” he growled, batting Thranduil’s hand away.

“You are otherwise pre-occupied,” Thranduil managed to grit out, even as Thorin hit that sweet spot inside him that made him cry out. “Ah-!”

“I want to touch you,” Thorin insisted, though part of him was distracted by the realisation that he had found that sensitive bundle of nerves inside the elf. It made him proud in a smug way, somehow.

“Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves,” Thranduil growled, but Thorin hit his prostate again, and his back arched in pleasure. “Oh- Thorin, right there!”

“Move your hand,” Thorin bargained. He kept his thrusts teasingly shallow, merely brushing against the spot where Thranduil wanted him the most. “I’ll make it good for you,” he rumbled in a low voice, pleased when Thranduil shuddered.

A litany of elvish tongue spilled from Thranduil’s lips. No doubt some of them were curses, but even they sounded elegant. Thranduil glared at him, but Thorin rolled his hips lightly, cock grazing against his prostate. With a whine of frustration, Thranduil let his hand go limp, choosing to grip Thorin round his neck. He brought the dwarf closer for an intoxicating kiss, lips swollen and slick from Thorin’s exploration.

“Good,” Thorin whispered, snaking his hand between their heated bodies and wrapping a hand around Thranduil’s length. It’s not long before Thranduil’s cries increased, his breath coming hot and heavy against Thorin’s open mouth. His hips thrashed upwards, desperately seeking climax. Thorin moved faster, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Thorin-!” Thranduil gasped out loud. “I- I need to-!”

“Yes,” Thorin groaned, stroking his thumbs over Thranduil’s hipbones in encouragement. “Come, come, let me see.”

With a shout, Thranduil went rigid as he started to come. Hot seed spurted out between Thorin’s fingers, his head thrown back in a wanton display of pleasure. The sight of it alone was enough to send Thorin over the edge, and he grunted out a moan in a messy kiss against Thranduil’s lips. Thranduil sighed, sated; Thorin filled him up with his hot release, hips rocking slowly. For a moment, they kissed heatedly through the afterglow of orgasm, before separating. Thorin flopped down beside the elf King, his long dark locks tangled with the elf’s light hair.

Starlight streamed in through the open balcony, though there was a warm tinge to it now, indicative of the approaching dawn. Thorin sat up slowly. It was time to leave, but for some reason, he didn’t want to.

“Are you alright?” he asked the elf instead. He reached out, stroking Thranduil’s smooth skin along the length of his side.

Thranduil shivered at the touch. “Yes. Are you?”

“I feel,” Thorin started. He wasn’t sure how he felt, really. “I’m fine,” he replied. Something like awkwardness seemed to slip between them, now that they had recovered from their high.

“I will arrange for the release of you and your company when dawn breaks,” Thranduil said quietly. He sat up as well, facial expression unreadable. It wasn’t the cold, detached expression Thorin had first encountered, but it was difficult to read nonetheless. In silence, the elf reached for a clean cloth for Thorin to wipe himself.

“Thank you,” Thorin replied. He hesitated, even as they slowly, reluctantly, pulled their clothing on again. “I’m not only referring to the cloth,” he added, uncertain if Thranduil had caught his meaning.

“I know,” Thranduil replied. His lips quirked in a small smile, and Thorin found himself smiling hesitantly back.

A strange mutual agreement had emerged between them. They were perhaps no longer enemies, but Thorin couldn’t place a name on the fragile pact they had just forged either.

“Will I see you again?” Thorin blurted.

Thranduil paused. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Thorin didn’t understand why, but he knew what his heart desired.

Thranduil smiled. “Then we will meet again, I don’t doubt.”

“Then,” Thorin started reluctantly. “I shall big you farewell.” Thranduil dipped his head gracefully.

“Thorin,” he said softly. The Dwarf looked up, heartbeat quickening. The elf leaned down and pressed his lips against his gently. It’s a sweet thing, and Thorin savoured it, knowing it would be a long time before he could experience it again. Thranduil pulled back. His eyes were downcast. He looked… upset.

“What is it?” Thorin asked.

“All those years ago I did not risk the lives of hundreds of elves against one dragon,” the Elvenking said. “But you would risk the lives of thirteen against the foul beast. It will be a dangerous deed.”

“We know the peril,” Thorin replied. “But Erebor is our home, and I am their king.”

“I understand,” Thranduil said. “Thorin… please be careful.”

His voice was tender, and for once Thorin did not doubt him. Instead, he nodded, wishing he had more time to kiss the other king. “Thank you,” he repeated.

For a while, they paused, staring at one another, then Thranduil called for the guard, breaking the spell. “Release the prisoners at dawn,” Thranduil instructed the guard. “Escort the dwarf back to his cell.” Any vulnerable affection he had shown before was completely gone now; the cold, dismissive Elvenking had returned.

“Yes, my Lord,” the guard replied. He shoved at Thorin with a sneer of disgust.

Thorin ignored him, eyes searching out the Elvenking’s as he left. His face was expressionless, and Thorin felt a stab of disappointment as he walked back to his cell. It wasn’t as if he had expected the elf to sob and wave goodbye, after all.

Before he has much time to ponder this, the rest of his company spotted his approach, standing at their bars expectantly.

Bombur let out a cry of surprise, knocking over his bowl of food in his haste.

“Uncle!” Kili shouted. “What took you so long?”

“We were beginning to fear the worst,” Fili’s brows creased in worry. “Did they harm you?”

“We will be released at dawn,” Thorin called to them, even as the guard shoved him into his cell with little care. His company shouted in elation.

“What did you say to him, laddie?” Balin asked from the cell beside him. Thorin was glad no one could see him, for who would believe him if he told them the Elvenking had taken him to bed?

“We… discussed our predicament and came to an agreement,” Thorin said eventually.

“I don’t like it,” Dwalin growled. “I don’t trust that prissy woodland sprite!”

“It won’t be long ‘til dawn,” Bofur called out from somewhere above him. “But I’d wager it’s a good few hours away still.”

“We’re never going to reach the mountain, are we?” Ori asked in a small voice.

“Not stuck in here, you won’t,” a voice said from outside his cell bars.

Thorin jerked his head up in surprise. The Halfling!

“Bilbo!” he said. The Hobbit grinned, jangling a set of keys from his fingers. Swiftly, he unlocked Thorin from his cell, shushing the over-excited dwarves around him.

“Quiet! They’ll hear us!”

Thorin rounded up his company swiftly. For a moment he debated staying until dawn. After all, Thranduil had promised their release, and if they were caught sneaking out, they would find themselves back in the cells once more. But he can’t resist the sneaking sense of mischief, not to mention his own pride. If they made it out this way, dwarves would forever talk of how they had slipped out of Elvish cells right under the nose of the king! He could only imagine the reaction of Thranduil when he realised that they had escaped.

“This way!” Bilbo whispered, leading them further down through the hallways. Thorin reluctantly ordered his company into the barrels, deciding to trust the Halfling. After all, Bilbo had long proved his worth. In the distance, he could hear a cacophony that grew louder.

“Where is the keeper of the keys?” Thranduil’s booming voice was unmistakeable.

“Hold your breath!” Bilbo hissed. With a firm pull of a lever, the floor beneath them gave way. The dwarves shouted in surprise as the barrels splashed into the river beneath them.

“Well done, Master Baggins,” Thorin told the Hobbit. His heart pounded with excitement, as he guided his company down the currents. He could see armed Elves emerging from their kingdom. Thranduil was amongst them, his face a mixture of anger and amusement.

“After them!” Thranduil shouted, his soldiers immediately moving to action. Thorin spotted the young blond elf- Legolas- running alongside the tree branches beside the river bank.

“Hurry!” Thorin shouted. He spun in his barrel, searching for Thranduil. As their eyes met, Thranduil glared in anger, but a reluctant smile broke out over his face. With a smirk, Thorin waved at him.

“I will return!” he roared in his own tongue. “I swear it!”

Thranduil didn’t reply. Instead, he lifted a hand: a goodbye. Thorin burned the image into his memories; the small sign of mutual respect between them, and the promise he had made to return to the Elvenking someday. Not as a prisoner nor an enemy, but at last, an equal. With a shout, Thorin turned away from Thranduil, and followed his company down the river and onwards to Erebor.