Title: Thickets and Ill-Tempered Thorns
Author: [livejournal.com profile] empy
Pairing: Fíli/Mirkwood Flora, Dwalin/Fíli
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dub-con, tentacles, xenophilia
Feedback: Is always lovely and welcome.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the Professor. I only play with them.
Note: originally begun as a prompt fill for the Hobbit kinkmeme, but it went a bit sideways from that.
Thanks: Dedicated to the stellar [livejournal.com profile] caras_galadhon, who tirelessly cheered me on and provided both advice and beta. I couldn't have finished this without her help. ♥ (She also deserves thanks for not throwing her hands up in disgust and telling me I was a terrible perv writing utter filth. *g*)

Also available on AO3, if you'd rather read/comment there.

* * *

The air seems a little softer in the clearing, a little cleaner, and Fíli leans heavily on the moss-covered trunk of a tree as he draws deep breaths. The Company has stopped, worn out from walking in endless circles among the black-barked trees of Mirkwood, and the constant bickering has got on his nerves to the point where he has feigned a call of nature just to get away from it.

The wan light filtering down through the tangled canopy of branches and vines dapples the ground and picks out a flowering vine that seems out of place. Its flowers are a deep hue, startlingly vivid, and he steps closer to examine it. It seems far more alive than anything else in the forest, seems beautiful and benign in contrast to the bare spiky branches and slow-rotting fallen leaves. The tenderest leaves are furled still, and he leans closer, tugging off his half-gloves and brushing his fingertips over the glossy surface. It reminds him of ivy in its waxiness, but the edges of the leaves are smooth, as is the rest of the vine. He starts as the leaf twitches under his touch. Clearly the air is still noxious to breathe, if it makes him think the plant is moving. He stills his hand, and now the entire vine bucks upward, demanding that he continue. A laugh bubbles up through his chest at the absurdity of it all, but he pets the leaf anew, his other hand sliding along the vine to scratch lightly at the stem of one of the bright flowers. There is a thrum running through the entire plant, and he wraps both his hands loosely around the vine to feel it. It is not like a heartbeat, but more like the purring of a cat, and he closes his eyes as he feels himself relax.

Suddenly, his palms are alight with pain. Thorns and barbs have sunk deep into his skin, quick as vipers, and he yelps as he tries to get his hands free. Each movement only drives the thorns deeper, and he breathes in sharp short breaths as he tries to still his hands in the vain hope that it might help him get free. Some of the barbs seem to retract themselves, and he struggles to remain still. When the last ones are drawn far enough back, he yanks his hands back, hissing as the very air around him makes each puncture wound smart. Blood is seeping out, pinpricks of red against his pale palms, and tears prickle at his eyes as a sudden surge of blinding agony drives up each arm. He stumbles back, coming up against the bole of a wide tree, and winces as the pain travels down into his chest.

Foolish, so foolish of him to act before thinking. Foolish of him to wander off from the rest of the group. Foolish of him to blunder in like a toddler and grasp at everything he encountered without considering if it could be dangerous.

The pain is lessening, but it keeps spreading, meandering down his sides and into his legs, and the ground is moving under his feet. He groans, trying to straighten up and take a few steps, and the vertigo eases a little. Groping for support, he walks forward, looking for the fallen oak that he had walked around as he approached the clearing. He needs to get back to the others, to Oin, to get help.

His skin is prickling, and the air is even heavier to breathe, hot and dense like the air in the forge on summer days. Sweat is dappling his temples, and his fur-lined coat is unbearably warm. Fumbling with the lacing, breathing curses as his wounded palms protest, he finally manages to open the coat and shrug it off his shoulders. His boots follow suit, and he stumbles a little as he tries to kick them off. It's to no avail. Each removed garment only makes him feel more overheated, and he tears at his shirt. His vision is beginning to blur, and the pain, previously sharp, is now a roiling fever-heat just under his skin. Failing to get out of the shirt, he turns his muddled attention to the front lacings of his breeches and manages to undo them. He is able to push them halfway down his thighs before a wave of vertigo hits him, tilting the world on its axis, and he grabs the nearest thing to hand to keep upright. A vine, coarse with moss.

His breathing is laboured, rattling in his throat, and each sound around him warps and echoes twice over. He is dimly aware of having divested himself of most of his clothes, but the worry about it making him vulnerable is overshadowed by the need to cool down. He is still too warm, feeling feverish and nauseous, and it takes him far too long to realize that something is twining around his ankles and calves. His kicks are feeble, and when he stumbles backward, he does not fall. Something braces him, something thick as an arm and curving along the small of his back just as gently. He twists, trying to see who is behind him, but all he sees is the same gloomy clearing he only recently turned away from. The pressure on his ankles increases slightly, then lessens, and he finally looks down only to find vines wrapped securely around his calves and reaching for his knees. The green of the vine is very deep, its surface so glossy it slides over his skin without snagging on a single hair. He watches with detached horror as the vine creeps higher, then squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head violently to clear it. Only an illusion. It has to be. His heart beats faster as he considers the implications. Has the venom reached his brain already, if he is seeing things which are not there? A startled gasp escapes him as fear surges high. He might be dying, he is certainly wounded, and here he is, lost and separated from the rest of the Company. From his brother. From Thorin.

When he opens his eyes, determined to get free and get back to the others, the world blurs for a moment. Ignoring it, reasoning he can feel his way back if his vision falters, he yelps as the vines tangled around his legs tighten in reproach. There is a prickling where the silk-smooth bark touches his skin, and that is all the warning he gets before thorns sink into his skin again. He thrashes in the hold, succeeding only in pitching forward. The vines are joined by others, feeling their way up the backs of his legs to twine around his waist like the arms of a lover, and he feels himself grow dizzy. A droning sound fills his ears, beating in time with his faltering heart. The pain is fading, however, slowly being replaced by a languid roll of something he cannot identify at first. It soothes him, stills his restless limbs, and spreads like a drop of ink in water. The lower it goes, the more potent it becomes, and now he realizes what it is: utter pleasure.

How foolish of him to be alarmed by the plant coiling around him, he thinks as his heartbeat levels out, when its purpose was not to trap him but to please him. When the vines creep higher, running like lover's fingers up along the insides of his thighs, he murmurs with pleasure, spreading his legs.

He catches himself at it, frowning as he shakes his head in a desperate attempt to clear it. What is he doing? What is happening to him?

A solitary vine creeps around his chest, sliding from his waist crosswise along his sternum and up to his shoulder, brushing tenderly against his neck. He ceases struggling, suddenly worried the vine might decide to coil around his throat, and instead lets himself be moved like a puppet. The slow rolling movements make him dizzier, and his head falls back as the vines wrapped around his thighs reach his groin. Any lingering thoughts of fear or worry dissipate like smoke on an evening breeze, and the thought of returning to the others he dismisses as too hasty. Why rush when he is offered a chance to indulge? To finally find some enjoyment among the constant rushing and fleeing?

His arms are still free, and he reaches down to grasp his half-hard cock. His palms tingle, but it is no longer painful. He strokes his cock, feeling each movement echoed in the motions of the vine, and suddenly one of the vines laces itself with his fingers, sliding along his cock. It should alarm him, but it does not, and as the vine coils itself around his cock in an elongated spiral, his toes curl. The pressure is just right, the slick feel likewise. If he but closed his eyes, he could imagine it was Kíli's fingers, Kíli's clever mouth.

The surface of the vine is beading with moisture, something warm and slippery, and he speeds up his strokes. A moan escapes him when another tendril slips past his hand and under his balls, coiling into a knot as it presses against his hole. He spreads his legs wider, tilting his hips, and is rewarded with further pressure. The vine moves again, inquisitive, and pushes further, finally slipping inside him. Whatever the vine is coated with heats up as the tendril slides deeper into him, and a moan rolls out of him. It is so wrong, and yet feels so good the hesitation is all but wiped away. The vine twitches, undulates, and he writhes in the hold, moaning.

It feels as though the vine is growing thicker inside him, and he bucks his hips, trying to urge it to go deeper. The vine around his chest tightens its hold until it begins to restrict his breathing, but he soon forgets that discomfort as a second tendril joins the first inside him. His strokes have slowed until the vine wrapped around his cock is moving his hand for him.

The tendrils twine around each other, forming a single whole that stretches him wide. His thighs twitch as he raises himself up on his toes to be able to counter the thrusts, to take them deeper. It is like riding a cock, but one thicker and longer than he has taken before.

He pants, his head spinning both from the lack of air and the sheer heady sensation of the tendrils pumping into him, and voices another moan. The vine resting against his neck is curling and uncurling, caressing him as gently as any of his lovers, and he lets his head loll back. His eyes might be open or they might be closed, and he finds he does not care, as long as the pleasure he feels continues uninterrupted.

* * * * *

"Fíli's been gone for too long." Kíli's already rising to his feet, grasping his bow.

"No." Dwalin speaks without looking to Thorin for permission. He sets his hand on the lad's shoulder and pushes him down to sit again. "I'll go look for him. You stay here."

He memorizes the trunks of trees as he goes, marking some to be able to find his way back. The air is dense with corruption here, and he can feel it addling him as it has addled the entire Company. There are few noises in the forest, bar the restless creaking and rustling of the trees, a heavy noise like a constant complaint of some great beast in pain. He ignores it, pushing on in the direction where he saw Fíli heading. Keeping an eye on both of the princes comes naturally to him, and it is a habit that is hard to break even though both Fíli and Kíli are more than able to fend for themselves.

A rustling draws his attention, a sharper noise somewhere to his left, and he draws Grasper, keeping it low by his side as he walks toward the noise. As he moves closer, another sound becomes audible, something much softer. Moaning. He quickens his steps, breaks into a run, but gets no further than a few steps before he stops dead in his tracks. A clearing opens in front of him, fringed with trees that seem like stooped old men, and the space between them is thick with vines.

And in the middle of that tangle of vines is Fíli.

For a moment, his mind will not register what he is seeing. Fíli is next to naked, clothed only in his undershirt, and vines are coiled around his legs and chest. And... those vines are moving all the while, tightening and loosening as though they were alive. Fíli's legs are lewdly spread, his head canted back, and he suddenly voices a moan the like of which Dwalin has heard more than once but in circumstances entirely different.

The moan is so at odds with the situation: the sound is needy and aroused, rather than alarmed, and though Fíli is writhing in the grip of the vines, his movements are not the jerky flailings of someone desperate to get loose. No, this is the sinuous shifting of someone sunk deep into pleasure. Fíli's hand works between his legs, but only lazily, and as Dwalin creeps closer, he sees why. The vines coiled around Fíli's thighs are slick with moisture, and as he follows the deep-green tendrils with his gaze, he ends up biting his tongue to keep the startled noise down. Two tendrils, each as thick as his thumb, are pumping into Fíli, stretching him for each thrust, and Fíli seems to be canting his hips in an attempt to take them ever deeper.

He stops short, setting his palm against the bole of a tree to steady himself, and considers his options. Clearly the vines are alive somehow, and clearly they are exerting some kind of influence that is keeping Fíli docile. What he does not know is if they are aware of his presence or how they would react to him attempting to free Fíli.

"Fíli?" he ventures.

Fíli seems not to have heard; his head remains tipped back and his eyes are half-lidded.

He moves closer, warily eyeing the vines and avoiding touching them, but soon realizes he cannot get close enough without actually wading in among the snarl of tendrils in front of him. When he lifts Grasper, the mellow thrum in the air changes pitch abruptly. The vines closest to him edge up, and thorns the length of an arrowhead appear along their entire length, a miniature forest of black spikes. He lowers his axe, then shoulders it again, watching the thorns sink a little lower.

This near the plant, he can feel the scent of the sap. It is sweet but not overly so, akin to over-ripe apples slowly fermenting. The vines nearest him, the ones bristling with thorns, are dry as bone and of a different colour than the ones twined around Fíli.

“Fíli,” he calls again, voice low, leaning forward to see if the vines will push him back again. They do not. Instead, they remain in place for a moment, then slowly begin to uncoil. He remains still, his hand twitching near the pommel of the knife at his belt. His choice would be to hack his way to Fíli and cut him loose, but after having seen the thorns, he knows it is not a viable alternative.

Fíli's face is shiny with sweat, his gaze unfocused. The vines trapping his arms will not let him lift them, but he tilts his body toward Dwalin as much as he can. "Dwalin," he murmurs. "Come closer."

The vines seem to be offering Fíli to him. They coil and slide, spreading Fíli's legs wider until his heels no longer touch the ground. Dwalin can feel his pulse beating in his temples, feel his blood pool thick and heated in his groin. He should be appalled, he should be hacking his way through the vines to free Fíli, but all he is capable of is shifting where he stands to relieve the pressure on his stiff cock. It would be so easy to give in. He wants to give in, wants to take what the vines offer him. His resolve to fight the influence of the strange flora and of the entire malevolent forest is waning, weakened by each little moan from Fíli.

* * * * *

When he sees Dwalin stand behind the snarl of vines, he almost dismisses it as a mirage, as a hallucination. "Dwalin," he murmurs, the single word demanding effort to produce. "Come closer."

Dwalin stands still at first, like a statue, then slowly begins to skirt closer, knife clutched tight in one hand, and the vines initially seem intent to keep him at bay. They rise, but then they draw back, clearing a path all the way to Fíli.

He lifts his head, blinking against the light, and opens his mouth to speak. No words come out, throttled as they are by a moan. The vines inside him have increased their pace, the thrusts more staccato, and the very thought of Dwalin seeing him like this, spread wide and fucked roughly, sends a heated wave of arousal through him. "Th-they feel almost as good as your cock," he finally manages, arching his back at a particularly angled thrust. "Almost as good as when you fuck me hard." The vulgar words roll off his tongue with such ease, buoyed on the lassitude and lust brought by the vine-venom.

Dwalin's eyes look almost black in the dim light, and he suddenly raggedly exhales, taking a hesitant step forward. One step becomes another, less hesitant. As he walks closer, the knife he still holds clips a vine, scoring the bark. Thorns bristle immediately, scraping Dwalin's arms, but he seems not to notice it.

The sounds of twigs snapping under Dwalin's heavy booted feet seem muted, but then all the noises in the forest are warping. Even the sound of his own breathing sounds strange to Fíli, and it seems the vines themselves are singing, a deep thrum that settles into his flesh rather than his ears. It wavers, growing deeper the closer Dwalin gets, only to suddenly drop to an expectant tremble when Dwalin reaches him.

Dwalin's fingers run up his bare thighs, finally grasping his hips firmly. "What a sight for sore eyes you are." His voice is raspy, distracted.

His eyes are dark and hazed, and suddenly his frown melts into a smile edging into a grin, something lecherous and satisfied. His nails dig into Fíli's skin for a moment, and then he lets go, instead sliding his hands up the twisting vines.

As soon as Dwalin touches them, the vines coil and tense, tightening their hold, and Fíli voices another moan. He is breathless, caught in the snarl of vines, but the thrill of being at their mercy far outweighs any alarm. Shame is a foreign thing to him now, something neither needed nor wanted. What he wants is Dwalin's cock inside him. What he wants is to give in to the vines that hold him fast and to Dwalin, take them both. Take it all.

"Do it," he says, throwing the last of his caution to the wind. His nerves are a single large snarl of lust, burning and coiling, and his body aches with it, with need deeper than he has felt before. "Give in. Give me what I want."

Dwalin's knuckledusters clink against his belt as he fumbles with the buckle, finally giving up on undoing it and instead just reaching for the lacings of his breeches.

Fíli watches him, feeling another frisson of arousal run down his spine at the sight of Dwalin's cock. He knows each one of the rings and bars that decorate it, knows the delirious feeling of them dragging against his flesh. His legs part wider of their own volition. One of the vines withdraws slowly, wrapping itself around his cock instead.

"What do you want?" asks Dwalin, leaning in as close as the vines will allow. His breath is ghosting over Fíli's lips, the space minuscule but enough to keep them apart.

"You." His heart is beating faster again, but not out of fear.

Dwalin's smile is a grin. "Ever at your service." He shifts where he stands, seeming to falter for a moment, then steps to the side, beginning a slow circle around Fíli.

He can feel the vines flex, and realizes Dwalin is pulling at them. Each jerk travels down to him, but then they abruptly stop. There's another push, but this is unmistakably an arm, pushing him forward, bending him over.

The first thrust jolts a harsh moan out of him. It is too deep, too hard, and even though the vines are slippery with sap, barely slick enough.

"Does it feel good?" Dwalin's voice is already hitching, edging into a snarl. As if to counter the next thrust, he tangles his hand into Fíli's hair and pulls, hard enough to force Fíli to tilt his head back. "Do you want more?"

He has still not recovered from the shock of Dwalin's cock pressing into him, stretching him to make him admit both the vine and the stiff prick. Now, he can feel the other vine, the thinner of the two but wider than his finger, make its way up his inner thigh. It moves in lazy waves, nudging his balls as it goes, then begins to push inside him without preamble.

"No," he whimpers, "no." The sensation is overwhelming, threatening to tip him into unconsciousness. He can feel himself clenching, can feel his legs trying to close to hinder the hideous stretch.

The vines ignore his feeble protests entirely. The thinnest vine pushes further in, twitching as it goes, and Fíli squirms as much as the hard hold will allow. Dwalin groans, resting his forehead against Fíli's shoulder as the groans meld with curses. His hips twitch in stuttery thrusts, ones he seems to try to slow down.

"Stay still, lad, stay still... Mahal's teeth, it's so tight."

Fíli's breath is hitching desperately. He is stretched further than he thought possible, and more aroused than he can ever remember being. It should be an abomination, a horror to him, but as the vines move, he craves more of it. Craves the slick push-and-pull of Dwalin's cock moving in tandem with the vines.

His skin is on fire. Every bared inch of it burns, as hot as his blood, and the vines wrapped around him might as well be red-hot iron chains. He has never been so full, nor fucked so hard, and the undulations of the vines inside him are making his heart skip beats. Each hard thrust jolts a gasping groan out of him, as Dwalin drives deeper into him, fucking him with a fervour that seems to be increasing.

His head lolls forward, his hair sticking to his forehead, and he watches the flexing of the vines wrapped around his thighs. They are keeping his legs spread wide, canting his hips to allow Dwalin a better angle, and they move constantly, squeezing his legs gently. As he watches, a thin tendril, barely as thick as the thinnest of a silversmith's raising stakes, winds its way up one of the vines. It is a lighter shade than the rest, but gleams with moisture in the same way. It curls its way up, moving swiftly, and when it reaches his hip, it abruptly uncoils itself, hooking around the base of his cock. The squeeze is slight at first, but as it coils itself higher, the pressure increases, adding to the almost unbearable load of sensation.

The vines inside him buck, pushing and twisting in counterpoint to Dwalin's relentless hard thrusts. It is too much, he thinks, far too much for him to take without fainting or worse. He is stretched beyond what he thought possible, fucked full by not just Dwalin's cock but two thick vines. The lewd wet noises curl into his ears, flesh and sap in concert, accompanied by his moaning. Dwalin clamps a hand over his mouth, stifling the next keening moan, and the sensation of not being able to draw breath is what pushes him over the edge. He thrashes in the hold, feeling each drop of his own spend as it paints his chest and stomach. Dwalin snarls something unintelligible into his ear, pulling his hair hard. He twists further, tossing his head from side to side as his vision fades and clears by turns, and feels his heartbeat thunder like a rockslide as neither Dwalin nor the vines cease their thrusting. When Dwalin's hand slips down, allowing him to draw a great gasping breath, his vision doubles for a brief moment. The orgasm seems to stretch on for hours, rising and rising until he thinks he will surely die like this, over-filled and over-fucked.

The tendril still wrapped around his cock works itself ever higher, pausing for a moment just under the head, squeezing and releasing until he bucks his hips. Then, it uncoils again, raising itself just a little, as though to call his attention to it, but he can barely bring himself to breathe as the aftershocks of his orgasm ripple through him. Dwalin's fingers are still digging into his skin, bruising him, and the vines inside him continue their slow undulation, wringing every last drop of spend from him. Or nearly every drop. The tendril, so thin and tender, suddenly raises itself higher before plunging down, its fringed tip breaching his piss-slit in a single sinuous move. It sends a shockwave of sensation through him, pain twined so tightly into pleasure he sees white for a moment. His hips jerk as a second climax works itself through him, the waves smaller than those of the first but still enough to make him feel like he might shatter. The tendril twists ever so slightly inside him, and he voices a wail at the overload of it all. It is too much for him to take, too much pleasure.

His wail finds a twin in the curious cracked sound Dwalin manages as he climaxes. Dwalin slumps against him, draping over his back but still not loosening his death-grip, and his breathing is choppy and quick. The thrusts are slowing, but the vines keep twisting, slicked up now by more than just sap. Time and again, they nudge his prostate, milking him of spend, and the sensation dances on the line between pain and pleasure. When they finally stop, there is nothing left in him save the soft crush of satiety, the curiously pleasurable ache of the extreme stretch.

The vines unlace their holds gently, withdrawing slowly and in time with his breathing. He feels the weight of his own limbs again as he slides downward, boneless with languor. When the last of the vines let go of him, he pitches forward, falling to his knees on the leaf-littered forest floor. The air is too thick to breathe, and he leans further forward until he is on all fours. He can hear Dwalin shuffle around behind him, take staggering steps, but cannot find the energy to turn around. He can barely find the energy to breathe, and each muscle aches. He feels empty but filled at the same time, his shaking legs streaked with spend and sap and sweat.

The forest around them is full of whispers, a susurration that sounds like voices that whisper his name. The light is even dimmer now, but he has no grasp of how much time might have passed. When he looks up, trying to focus his gaze, he freezes.

His name was among the whispers, but not carried by his fevered thoughts. His eyes begin to focus on a familiar form, a familiar face, though one now painted by confusion.

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