#tauriel x azog

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Worthy Prize

This is for @tolkienpinupcalendar Monster Fucker May

Pairings: Azog x Captive! Tauriel

Rating: E

Themes: Smut / NSFT | Dead Dove

Warnings: Captivity | Non-consensual drug use | Kissing | Marking | Rough Sex | Non-consensual sex | Monsterfucking

Wordcount: 2.1k

Summary: After returning to his keep, Azog is presented with the elf he captured during a raid.

Minors DNI | 18+

Azog made his way to the raised dais and took his place in the lord’s seat. His mother followed him. She took her customary place—standing by his right shoulder—and she waited for her son’s newest conquest to be presented to him. 

“An elven bedslave,” Uthri, his mother, said. “One who was the leader of the Elvenking’s own guard, no less. You must be well pleased, my son.” 

“I am indeed.” Azog glimpsed at his mother. Age and a lifetime of war had not diminished her in any way. She stood proud and tall as always, with a thick spear in her hand and her soot-black hair oiled and pulled up to form a neat top-knot. A scar cut across her face from the hairline on one end to the cheek on the other end, barely missing her right eye. A permanent reminder, he knew, of the last battle she fought. “I trust she did not trouble you and your attendants on the journey here.” 

Uthri snorted. “She fought us like a vicious cat,” she said, and she smiled. “But she is docile now, thanks in no small measure to the herbs we make her consume with her meals. She will give you no trouble in the bedchamber; you have my word on this.” 

Azog nodded in approval. “That is good,” he said, “for I have had my fill of violence for the present. And I do not wish to bloody this elf before I have had the opportunity to grow tired of her. Have her brought in.” 

His mother thumped the butt of her spear against the floor and called out an order. A commotion was heard just outside the hall Azog used for audiences—a shuffling of many boots, the rasping voices of other orcs. Another command rang out. Someone was told to make haste instead of tarrying. Then the high, wooden doors were pulled wide open. An elf with fiery red hair and her hands bound in front of her was pulled along by several orc warriors clad in boiled leather armor. A few had shirts of mail as well due to their higher rank. They walked up to the dais without saying a word. 

“There she is, my son.” Uthri uttered with pride. “The reward that you have earned with your victory.”

The High Orc chieftain regarded his newest conquest with barely disguised interest. Her hair was washed and brushed. It shone like new copper. Her robe was orc-made—linen woven from flax, with a thin leather belt around her waist. It was a slave's robe—unembroidered and a drab brown, for it was Tauriel's new fate: to serve another as their thrall. Her deep green eyes had glazed over, as if she were not fully in command of herself. The shadow of a bruise could be seen around her right eye, a sign that she had been struck not long after she had been placed in his mother’s hands. Azog’s gaze cut back to his mother. 

“As I said before,” Uthri remarked, her tone crisp, “she fought us like a vicious cat. I had little recourse but to strike her. Otherwise, we would not have been able to continue with our work.”

“I am not offended in the slightest,” her son returned. A thrall brought him a cup of ale. He drained it all in one swallow and gave it back for the thrall to take. “And I assume the herbs are the cause of that clouded look in her eyes?”

“Indeed, my son.”

“Good.” Azog rose. A closer inspection, he decided, was necessary.  

Tauriel stood where she was, unable to fully move her limbs of her own accord. It was as if her body was not truly her own. She blinked her eyes in a vain attempt to clear her head. One of her last clear memories was of fighting orcs along the southern border of Mirkwood. Other elves fought beside her. She grappled with one of the fell creatures until she got the upper hand and slit its throat with her blade. The few who remained fled back to the shadows from whence they came, and the elves halted their attack; they were certain they had won. Letting down their guard was an act of sheer folly in the end. Other orcs, who had kept themselves well hidden, ambushed them while their attention was turned elsewhere. Her fellow warriors fought long and hard before they fell to orc blades. She, on the other hand, was kept alive and taken captive by the one who overpowered her, the tall, pale orc who led the raid. It was the same tall, pale orc who stood before her now, the one who placed her in the hands of the one who struck her after he took his leave of them, and she tried to fight her way to freedom.

“Pretty, for an elf,” he murmured, circling her. “And with hair that has been touched by fire, all crimson and gold. You will serve me well, I think.”

“You…” Tauriel struggled to frame a reply. It was as if she did not even possess the will to form words. She closed her eyes and attempted to speak again. “You are mistaken… filth.”

Azog threw his head back and laughed, a chilling sound. “How I relish the names you elves call us!” He cried, amused by her insolence. “Defiance is futile, she-elf. You will serve me. This is the fate you have brought upon your head.”

“I… I will not… serve you,” Tauriel managed, “in any way.”

“You are mistaken, elf,” Azog countered, appreciating all that he saw. “So very mistaken.”

Uthri and her attendants had done their work well. They had scrubbed the blood and dirt off of Tauriel, making her pleasing to look upon. The bruise around her eye had nearly faded, and the cut along her left cheek had already begun to heal. The scar was now a pale pink instead of the angry red it was before. Azog leaned in and breathed in the scent of birch oil that clung to her skin. 

“Have her taken to my bedchamber,” he said, satisfied. The orcs who escorted Tauriel made haste to obey. They dragged her down a narrow passageway leading to their lord’s chambers. Azog stayed behind for a while. There were other things he wished to discuss with his mother: orders that had to be sent to other orc hordes, various tasks that had to be seen to. By the time he made his way into his bedchamber, Tauriel was already abed with her hands bound above her to a bedpost. Azog disrobed himself. Boots, breeches, belt and armor all formed a small pile on the dark stone floor. Tauriel heard him. She struggled to free herself from the bindings around her wrists, and failed. It was as if her strength had deserted her.

Is it the food? she thought. Is there something they make me eat along with the rest of my meals? Something that leaves me like this—weak and unable to fight or defend myself? Tauriel lay amidst the pelts, powerless to stop the orc who loomed above her. Azog sat down by her side and brushed his hand over her hair, almost in affection. She shivered when that hand—large and callused from years of wielding a heavy mace—drifted to other parts of her.

“You fight fiercely, she-elf,” he observed. “Claiming one such as you for myself is a great honor indeed.”

“I… I will never… be yours,” Tauriel spat weakly.

Azog laughed again. His meaty fingers brushed over her breast and tightened on her nipple through the fabric of her robe. It sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

“You will never be mine,” he echoed, and he pinched hard. Tauriel gasped in shock and pain. “And yet you are here, bound to my bed, unable to free yourself, and unable to call for aid. Learn to make peace with your new lot in life. There is no escape for you now.”

The orc chieftain wasted no time after that, so eager was he to savor all the captive elf had to offer. He leaned down and kissed her, kissed her until she was silent, kissed her until she felt like she could no longer breathe. Tauriel whimpered when he pinched cruelly, inflicting even more pain, and when she felt the heat of his kiss, one that was all teeth and tongue. The sounds she made encouraged Azog to go further, and go further he did. He moved to rest over her, pinning her down and caging her to the featherbed with his own weight. Tauriel writhed beneath him. Her feet struggled for purchase against the pelts. It inflamed him even more.

“Do not try to fight, she-elf,” Azog growled in her ear. “You will not succeed.”

He forced her thighs apart with his and clasped her bound wrists with one hand, pressing them deeper into the furs and impeding further movement. His other hand moved lower and lower until it found the hem of her robe. Tauriel shivered again; this time it was when her robe was pulled up to her waist and cold air flowed over her exposed flesh. She closed her eyes, silently enduring the assaults of her captor’s mouth as much as she endured the assaults of his hands. The one at her wrists tightened around them. The one caressing her thigh and bruising it slid underneath her smallclothes and tore them apart. Then he pressed himself against her, and she braced herself for what was about to follow.

Azog was big. Painfully so. And he was far from gentle. When he breached her with a single thrust and sank home, he let out a low moan and delighted in the sharp cry he incited from her. Tauriel was given no time to rest or grow accustomed to his intrusion. Her captor sought her lips again, then her throat, marking it with his teeth while his arm circled around her thigh, lifting it up and forcing himself even deeper inside of her with each thrust of his hips.

When they first overcame the elves, Azog was certain he was going to kill her like they did the others. Tauriel led the Elvenking’s guard, and she had killed more orcs than he could care to count. Then he stayed his hand, thinking she could better serve him alive than dead. Now—lost within the warmth of her body and roaring his pleasure loud enough for anyone outside his chambers to hear—he was glad he decided to spare her life. 

My mother was right, he told himself. This one is indeed a worthy prize.

Tauriel, on the other hand, was frightened. She found that her own body was turning against her. Pain yielded little by little to pleasure, and her cries and whimpers slowly turned into moans.

I cannot let this happen, she despaired. I cannot allow myself to yield to his embraces. He cannot have yet another triumph over me.

Tauriel’s vow to not yield proved to be a failure. She felt him despite her efforts not to do so, and she felt a great deal of him—his hot breath against her throat, his thick, large thighs pressing against hers, the brute strength that lay within his hands, and the strange but heady sense of bliss that would catch her unawares whenever Azog thrust into her. He took her without mercy, striking a place she had not felt before and making the world go dark behind her eyes when he did so. Her release came upon her without warning, an all-consuming feeling that made her twist against the pelts while she cried out long and deep. The sound of it was enough to unravel the orc above her. Azog groaned while he spilled his seed inside of her. He thrust until he softened and then he slid out of her, his needs sated for the moment.

“Rest and regain your strength, she-elf,” he hissed. He slipped out of bed and crossed over to a little table where he dipped his hands into a bowl full of water to wash the sweat off his face. Tauriel sighed. She welcomed the reprieve, however short it may be. “For I am far from finished with you this night.”

Tauriel shuddered. Her body already ached in ways she could not describe. Nevertheless, the opportunity to rest was a welcomed one, even if the one who offered it had other plans in store for her after she opened her eyes. She whispered an answer that she was certain would appeal to him, and then she closed her eyes.

I will escape, she told herself, One day I will find a way out for myself, and then I will kill them all.

She did not hear the doors to Azog’s bedchamber open, nor did she not hear the command for more of the herbs she was made to consume before. She had already yielded to true sleep.