For savageseraph: In the Cavern of the King (Thorin/Thranduil,

[caras-galadhon.livejournal.com]

Title: In the Cavern of the King
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Pairing: Thorin/Thranduil, Thorin/? [Highlight for Spoilery Pairing: Thorin/Mirkwood Spider]
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I have a vivid fantasy life, but I do not pretend to be JRR Tolkien, nor do I pretend to own his characters.
Summary: Imprisoned by Mirkwood Elves and having just rejected Thranduil's insulting offer of "help," Thorin awakens to a new, even more perilous danger.
Warning: Contains content that may distress readers possessing a common phobia. Highlight for specifics: Non-con, Sex with Sentient Animal, Arachnophobia Warning. Depiction is not endorsement.
Notes: Written for savageseraph for lotr_sesa. As you're always up for something disturbing, and you asked for Thorin and darkfic, I hope this fits the bill! (I suppose it fits the "power struggle" part of your request too!) Happy Holidays, madame! May they be as creepily wonderful as you desire!

Also, many, many thanks to empy for reassuring me that I hadn't quite gone off the deep end with this one, and once again to savageseraph for being the kind of person where, when I woke up post-writing thinking, "Oh god, what have I done?" I suddenly realized I must be on the right track. Thank you, ladies! You're worth your weight in dragon's gold.

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In the Cavern of the King
By Galadriel

---

Thorin groaned, coming back to awareness slowly. Too slowly. The last thing he remembered after rejecting that insulting "offer" from King Thranduil to trade their lives for gems of starlight -- gems that belonged to him as master of the mountain -- was being taken back to his cell where he slaked his growing thirst with a pittance of water. He should have realized then that the Elves were untrustworthy in all ways, so dishonourable that they would just as easily stoop to poisoning as they were to face an enemy and fight.

He should have realized that dehydration and possible death were the safer options.

Thorin opened his eyes, squinting as the insistent throb of his temples washed over him. Whatever they had drugged him with had hit him like a hammer against an anvil, echoes still ringing through his head, making it difficult to focus. Not that it mattered much anyway, because all he could see was the artificial blackness of cloth binding his eyes to the dark. He could feel a cool breeze against his skin, ruffling his beard, and as he shifted to better get a sense of the space around him, he noticed the rough scrape of rope around his ankles and wrists. As he rolled onto his side, the wide stone floor pressing insistently against his flesh, he realized that the cool breeze was reaching far more nooks and crannies than it should had, had he been clothed.

So it was to be humiliation. The favoured tool of the weak and cowardly.

Thorin shifted, struggling to gain purchase, managing to lever himself up enough to kneel. If he had been near a wall or furnishings of any kind, he might have been able to make it to his feet, bound ankles and all, but without such aids, he was forced to make do with an only slightly less subservient pose.

"Thranduil!" he bellowed, automatically gauging the size and shape of the room from the way his voice echoed off stone. "Surely such a great Elven King would not stoop so low as to strip his guests of their dignity!" He twisted his head, listening for any hint of reaction from any quarter. As expected, there was not a whisper to be heard, but Thorin was sure he could feel eyes on him, tracking his every movement.

He twisted, sliding off his knees to bring his legs around in front of himself. It took a little fiddling, but as his hands were tied in front of him -- a novice mistake, one far beneath an Elf thousands of years old -- he could only assume that part of this evening's amusement was watching him struggle to free himself. The ropes around his ankles came free easily enough, and he took the opportunity to lever himself upright, bracing his still-bound hands against the floor as he got his legs back under himself. Folded in half, head down, arse in the air, ready to push himself straight up, Thorin lingered longer than necessary, hoping that the sight of his bare cheeks would cause at least a small amount of distress. He grunted softly, attempting to add insult to injury with a little bit of flatulence, but Aulë was not with him.

Once upright, Thorin gripped a corner of his blindfold in his fingers and yanked it down, momentarily annoyed as it caught on his mouth and beard before it cleared his throat. He blinked into the light, brow furrowed to ward off the sharp stabs of bright pain that plagued him as his eyes adjusted. His head throbbed all the more insistently as his vision cleared enough to take in his surroundings.

He was in a large chamber, curving walls and floor suggesting a remodelled cave. Every surface was stone, shiny and slick, with nary a stick of furniture dotting the scene. At one end of the cavernous space was a large, open doorway, thick iron bars driven firmly from apex to threshold, their girth far larger than those that kept Thorin and his Company at bay in Mirkwood's prison. The opening behind the bars was awash in shadow, but Thorin would swear on Orcrist itself that something large moved within it.

Orcrist. If only he had not been stripped down to his skin. Even the lowliest of his blades would have seen him in good stead, for as he glanced down at his wrists, he saw that the quality of the rope looped around them was far finer than that he had wrestled from around his feet. Elven rope, light and grey and finer than such treacherous creatures deserved. Indeed, he had been meant to free all but his hands, and without the aid of a sturdy knife-edge, he was not going to be able to unwind it.

Even so, Thorin gave it an experimental tug, twisting it back and forth, testing its resolve. It would not do for a Dwarf to give up without trying, not even when all hope had long been extinguished.

"Dwarf!" The imperious tone rang off the stone so sharply Thorin was surprised the whole chamber did not chip and shatter. "I should have left you to the Spiders!"

The voice was coming from above. Thorin looked up, noticing for the first time the ring of torches that lined the edge of the cavern, the source of the light that had so recently stung his eyes. Above them, the curving walls stopped, still hundreds of feet from meeting the ceiling. Instead, the room widened even more, a second-tier set up like a viewing platform, from which individuals could sit and watch activities in the pit. There was only one occupant of that level, however, as Thranduil lounged on a white throne of horn and bone, wreathed in thin threads that sparkled as they caught the light. From Thorin's perspective, they seemed like the most delicate of webbing painted with morning dew.

In sharp contrast to the delicate artwork of clothes and throne was Thranduil's autocratic bearing, all corners and angles, as if he was hewn out of marble. Even from such a distance away, Thorin could feel Thranduil's sneer, his disregard raining down on Thorin in an invisible torrent of disgust.

"Nevermind." Thranduil's mouth twisted into an ugly slash as he regarded Thorin's nakedness. "That is something that can easily be rectified." He nodded towards the barred entrance, and as if out of nowhere, two Elven guards appeared on either side. Almost as one, they swiftly and efficiently released a series of fastenings that remained hidden to Thorin's eyes, then moved away from the bars, disappearing back into shadow.

Thorin frowned. Clasps on this side of the bars were not meant to keep him in, but rather, they kept something out. Something even the guards had no intention of greeting.

Thorin glanced around, looking for some kind of weapon. Any kind. A stray split of wood. An errant rock. The rope he had discarded not so long ago. Yet the floor around him was empty of anything but the slightly damp footsteps he was leaving behind, momentary evidence of salty sweat that evaporated with what little wind stirred the air. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide, and so Thorin prepared himself for the only acceptable alternative. He faced down the barred opening, feet planted firmly against unforgiving stone, well-back from whatever awaited him, but not so far away as to allow himself to be pinned against a wall.

There was a creak, a groan, and the bars started to rise, pulled upward by a hidden pulley system, no doubt operated by the same guards who had left him to his fate. Something was definitely moving in the dark.

He heard Thranduil's laugh, all delight and amusement, only a moment before the first large, hairy leg thumped its way into the light. By Aulë's forge, it was massive. He had thought that the Mirkwood Spiders were formidable enough, but apparently Ungoliant's offspring grew far larger than the foes that had almost felled the full Company before their capture by Thranduil's warriors.

"A guest? Was that what you called yourself?" Thranduil chuckled, and from the corner of his eye, Thorin could see him leaning forward towards the pit. "This is my guest, my poor little dwarf, and he demands to be entertained."

The Spider lumbered into the middle of the chamber, eight eyes trained on Thorin, not a flicker of readable expression in any of them. Thorin shifted, moving out of its path, keeping his back to the walls, refusing to turn away. The Spider immediately changed direction, his target rather obviously the only moving object in its immediate vicinity. There would be no way for Thorin to outrun it, but perhaps he could escape through the doorway through which it had entered. He bobbed his head, trying to see beyond the Spider's legs, infinitely unnerved when it bobbed its head in imitation.

"Please, calm yourself, King Without a Mountain. Your companion is young and inexperienced. It will take him but a moment to gain his conversational legs. I would never dream of introducing you to someone outside of your station. If you simply embrace the experience, I guarantee you will enjoy yourself before too long."

Thorin growled, low and soft. He had already assessed the walls as unclimbable without equipment, but he promised himself that the Elven King would not see another sunset. For now, however, he needed to find a way out of his current predicament. The Spider was almost upon him, and the way out between its legs. Thorin pressed his lips together and ran, narrowly avoiding the pedipalps that reached for him. His feet slapped against the stone, keeping their purchase even as he slid. He did his best to ignore the slap, slap, slap of flesh on flesh, focussed entirely on the yawning gulf of blackness that was his best hope.

Out of nowhere came a tug on his legs. First one, then the other. He stumbled forward, alarmed that he would not be able to catch himself as he fell, bracing himself for a violent impact. But just as suddenly, he felt himself scooped up, pressed against prickling hairs, three long, spindly legs gripping him tightly to the Spider's cephalothorax. If he closed his eyes, he was sure he could trick himself into believing he was merely chest-to-chest with the creature, but as it wrapped thin strands of webbing up and down his legs, he knew that to close his eyes would be a mistake that would end in his own death.

Distantly, he could hear Thranduil's laughter, almost eclipsed by the roaring of his blood in his ears. He looked up at the Spider, trying to assess what might be its weakest spot, and was greeted by the flash of long, dripping fangs descending upon him. He cried out as one sunk into his shoulder, certain now that he would be joining his ancestors far earlier than he had hoped. He could feel the venom pumping into his body, coursing through his veins. He swallowed a sound that certainly could not be a whimper, and stifled a shudder that no doubt heralded his imminent death.

And yet... Instead of the searing pain he expected, Thorin felt a strange warmth that radiated out from the puncture. Within moments it was spreading throughout his limbs, making the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. He licked his lips, surprised at how thick and slow his tongue felt as his head began to swim. Perhaps this was what had been in the water. Perhaps all this was nothing more than humiliation that was meant to scare and cow before he was returned to his cell to muse on his fate. His eyes closed of their own volition, ignoring Thorin's efforts to keep them open wide. This was when sleep was to come, he knew it. It was merely a matter of moments, and then he would hopefully awake with his clothes and dignity at least partially restored.

What he didn't expect was the insistent twitch of his prick.

Thorin's eyes flew open, his shock at his body's reaction enough to override the otherwise enticing drift the venom promised. He opened his mouth to shout, but his tongue refused to work and his throat closed against all but the most guttural of sounds.

"Did I not tell you?" drifted down from on high. "I'm told this part is quite pleasant, and I can see that you agree."

Thorin groaned. He could feel the prickle of hair against his shaft, and a glance downward confirmed that the Spider was rubbing a leg between his thighs. There was no doubt that the sound in his ears was his own voice whimpering, caught as he was between horror and arousal. He could feel the Spider's silk twining higher and higher up his legs, and he jerked as it wrapped once, twice, thrice around the base of his cock, the beginning of a spiral that circled around and around his shaft, the final loop laid out just beneath the head.

He tried to struggle, but the venom removed all but the weakest of his protests. His muscles would not tighten, his limbs would not move. All he could do was lay against the Spider's chest, wishing away all sensation and failing to do more than feel. The silken webbing was as effective as one of Bifur's iron contraptions, maintaining his ardour while refusing to allow him to spill.

After what felt like an eternity, the Spider let Thorin drop gently to the ground, batting at him until it was able to turn him onto his front, hands and prick trapped between his body and the stone floor, arse in the air, unprotected and vulnerable.

Thorin could hear the glee in Thranduil's voice. "Be thankful, Dwarven King of Nothing. Had I chosen a female as your playmate, she would eat you once you had mated. But I am merciful, and have gifted you to my favourite male pet. Once he is done with you, you will remain largely whole."

Thorin moaned. He tried to shift against the stone, but what little movement he managed merely aroused him further. His thoughts were sluggish, each one seeming to come from very far and slipping away before he was able to grasp them. He knew this was wrong, was sick, but he could no longer think beyond the next touch. The Spider's legs brushed and teased, making Thorin's skin tingle, and the silk that it wrapped around and around him pressed and rubbed and stroked until every inch of him was shivering in need.

He cried out, begging wordlessly for some kind of release, when he felt something prodding and poking between his cheeks. A moment of fumbling passed, and then the webbing tightened, tugging his legs wide, opening him up to better inspection.

"And now we come to it."

Thranduil's words made Thorin shudder, even as he felt a thick, rounded appendage press into him. The discomfort was real, no oil or spit to slick the way, yet the prickle of hair from the inside out had him biting his lip and whimpering. Something shallow and rounded pressed against his insides, and if he was not mistaken, it felt very much like a spoon might if it somehow found its way out of his pack and into the hands of a very creative Dwarf. It shifted back and forth a little, brushing against Thorin at exactly the perfect angle, making him see sparks behind his eyes. He gasped and groaned, his muscles twitching, tendons snapping in all the right ways.

And then the spoon-like thing settled, stretching Thorin even as he calmed. For one long moment, Thorin was consumed by nothing more than the pleasant buzz of feeling that began in his puncture wound, spidered throughout his body and pooled in his groin, heating him from the inside out. He shivered lightly, all thoughts, all resentments, all ambitions, desires and doubts banished from his mind.

And then the first pulse of fluid slid down the appendage and into him.

It was thickly warm, filling Thorin up with ease. His eyes widened as another pulse followed, each one a little closer to too much to bear. He cried out, squirming slightly, unsurprised as the Spider tightened its hold to keep him still. How much was there? How much could he hold? He shuddered hard, bit his lip as he felt the fluid overfill him, running down the inside of his thighs, dripping onto the floor.

The appendage was moving again, side-to-side, rocking gently back and forth, rubbing against him and making his arousal all the more insistent as it withdrew. He gasped as it slid free, fingers and toes curling in frustration as the Spider moved off, the heavy bulk of it lumbering back to the barred doorway, where it disappeared once more into shadow.

The silence that descended rang in Thorin's ears, thundered through his head. The guards who had released the Spider returned, and one of them turned him onto his back while the other leaned over, a small knife in his hand, and cut Thorin's prick free of the webbing.

Thorin screamed, his cock jerking as it immediately spilled across his stomach, his body convulsing in near-pain and much relief. He shuddered, shivering continuously, his muscles not quite convinced that the assault was over, his sluggish mind still grasping for more.

And yet the guards looked on impassively, as if they had seen many a "guest" of their King end up used and spent on this very floor.

"Clean him up and bring him to my chambers." The command could not be any clearer, Thranduil's voice brooking no argument. Immediately, the two guards lifted Thorin bodily from the floor, seemingly unconcerned by the silk, slick and sweat streaking his skin. With great effort, Thorin managed to lift his head, letting it loll back so he could see the Elven King. Thranduil had risen from his chair, his robe wrapped tight around him, shielding his groin. As he turned to go, he spared one more withering glance for Thorin and his escorts below. He smiled, then, the glint of teeth a chilling reminder of Elven treachery. For the first time since he had awoken in this chamber, Thorin felt the thinnest tendril of fear. "He may be spent," Thranduil said as he moved towards the entrance to the upper chamber, "but I am not. And I will be before this night is done."


END
(December 2014)

Comments

[raise_the_knife]

I knew you'd come up with something deliciously wonderful! I adore Thranduil, he's such a delightful sadist, and Thorin is so strong that you can just tell they're well matched and this isn't a one-sided game at all.

[bluegerl.livejournal.com]

Amazingly different. So delicately yet plainly expressed that it was admissable and didn't seem like a Weepingcock spork. Thranduil does seem to be a nasty piece of work... no one seems to like him, and turn him into something really horrid. (heh heh heh.. 'I WILL HAVE MY WAY....' heheh) I love the idea of the spider-silk for bondage - just the Ultimate in ties.

The cave was wonderfully described...especially Thranduils perch.

Clever you... I thoroughly enjoyed it. (Thorin, nekked - without those damn great boots!... heh heh heh)

[talullahred.livejournal.com]

Hi!

This is so far from what I normally read and yet I really enjoyed it. You did a great job at dark fic!

[savageseraph.livejournal.com]

I've already told you how much I love this twisted, perverse, and just plain wrong fic. Love it lots and lots and lots. It was a completely unexpectedly dark and delicious present.

Thorin's voice was pitch perfect. Arrogant and imperious and all about being in command of the situation. Until he can't be. I love watching him fracture in this fic. I suspect that what follows may cause even more cracks to form.

All the spidery bits... Just plain delightful and brilliant and nasty and disturbingly hot.

And as for Legolas's crazy daddy (who I love to bits), I adore his taunts, his savoring Thorin's pain and horror and the spectacle he has engineered, his parting threat.

*hugs* Thank you, thank you, thank you, for my giftie. *clutches fic tight*

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

A slightly startling scene, vividly described and yet where your Thorin's drug-soaked POV provides the reader with a way in to understanding the experience and a shield from some of the more brutal elements of the assault...and with a coldly manipulative villain as ringmaster.