#HeatwearAU

[esculentevil]

(Thorinduil ABO’verse AU) Heatwear: Dressed to the Toes

((Part 1 of Thorin discovering the specifics of Elven clothes for Omegas in Heat via Thranduil.))

☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆💎AO3/Pillowfort🌲☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆

“Are you... in a DRESS???”

Thranduil cants his head almost lazily as he turns his gaze from the document held between his destructively delicate digits to the incredulous dwarf below him. A thick eyebrow raises judgmentally before the Elvenking nods elegantly, “Yes.” There’s no shyness or shame in his voice, this is simply a statement; but, somewhere in his stardust eyes, there is a subtle trace of fear.

But Thorin knows it is not about the dress.

As he tries to figure it out, his own thick (although, not AS thick) brows furrowing in confusion, Thranduil scripts something on the long paper he’s still reading with a thin piece of graphite about the length of his hand (which is, Thorin notes with surprise and interest, slightly smudged from using it; he wonders, for a moment, why an elf would, then, use such an instrument [they do so hate getting dirty, after all] before realizing with a start that it’s probably easier to clean than ink--similar to their own use of chalk). He studies his scroll critiquingly for a breath before finally turning back to the Dwarfking, “It is my understanding, mell Thorin, that you are here to personally give me my quota of mithril, naed?”

Frowning at the bits of indecipherable Elvish, Thorin squints and scowls before nodding once in affirmation and attempting to approach the taller king’s throne.

He’s immediately fenced off by two elven guards and what he thinks is a butler. They form a wall that he cannot get through or passed and stare down at him like he’s some kind of vermin, disgusting and diseased, ill-fit for their king.

It enrages him, “MOVE!”

“Peace, Thorin, King Under the Mountain,” Thranduil stands, an effortless and fluid motion that causes Thorin to finally realize he’d been sitting strangely this whole time (his legs were not crossed, he thinks confusedly, but knees together and feet BOTH on the ground... because of the dress? no... it’s long so surely...), and raises a regally placating hand. He then makes his way down the stairs leading to his grand throne with a carefulness that has Thorin RESTLESS.

Why does the Elvenking seem so... delicate???

Thorin scowls and squints up at the too-tall creature that also appears too soft this visit and uncomfortably readjusts the heavy chest still in his rough hands. Hardworking hands. Calloused and weathered and not-gentle-enough hands.

Why is this bothering him???

And what is that SMELL??? Flowers? Many of them. All coming from Thranduil; which is odd because Thorin knows--from when he first stood in this throne room and first enraged the Elvenking and first got enveloped in his counterpart’s scent--that Thranduil smells of cypress, myrrh, sandalwood, and wine.

Not FLOWERS.

“... I am in Heat.” Again: no shyness or shame; just a simple statement.

It still sends Thorin reeling.

“That is why I am in a dress: it helps keep the smell in.” He indicates the drape, long and lengthy and THICK in its make, and then--as though to demonstrate--dares to lift the article just slightly enough that Thorin gets a blast of flowers--lavender, rose, sage, lilac, and more--right up his nose and down his pants and just a glimpse of shockingly bare and surprisingly beautiful painted toes.

As the other elves around them seem flustered and concerned, fluttering about like the butterflies Bilbo told him live up in the forest’s canopy, Thorin slowblinks up at the Elvenking with a dazed face but curiously contemplative eyes, “Pink?”

Thranduil seems to slowblink back--he also seems to smile; suddenly, and surprisingly, rather shy. “Petal Pink,” he clarifies with a soft nod and slight shift. The long cloth falls down again, cutting off vast majority of the strong scent, but leaving the painted toes on display. “I have been told it suits me.”

“It does,” Thorin admits, still rather dazed, as he suddenly realizes there’s pink everywhere on the Elfking--in his hair via flowers, on his dress via embroidery, across his face via a blus--and unthinkingly adds: “But blue’d look better.”

Thranduil raises a thick brow, again; but this time he’s amused. “Blue?”

“With silver,” Thorin expands, picturing it in his mind: a beautiful starry night sky, “No: white diamond stars--the crown of Durin on your big toe.”

Thranduil’s face is almost beet red when Thorin looks up to gauge his reaction and the Dwarfking is almost pleased when he sees delight on that ethereal face, “Careful, mell Thorin, King Under the Mountain; or I might feel you courting me.”

((Lowkey tagging @elithilanor because, well, Thranduil with pink toes. Our exchange here made me think you’d appreciate this segment [there’s more coming for anyone curious/into it] but, honestly, if Thorinduil or ABO’verse isn’t your thing just let me know and I’ll remove the tag!))

((PART 2 IS HERE!))

[esculentevil]

(Thorinduil ABO’verse AU) Heatwear: Dressed to Dine

((Part 2 of Thorin discovering the specifics of Elven clothes for Omegas in Heat via Thranduil.)) ((If you’re interested, you can read Part 1 HERE/HERE; or just head over to AO3 to read both!))

☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆💎Pillowfort🌲☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆

Delivering Mirkwood’s agreed upon quota of mithril went smoothly after that.

The heavy chest that was almost too large for him to carry looks near dainty laying in the forest king’s long hand, its maw wide and insides being poked and prodded by elegant and tapered fingers. They are painted petal pink, too; and, again, Thorin envisions them differently: dark, matte blue--near velvet in its look--with variously sized white diamonds (like the ones he remembers being offered the first time he stood at his grandfather’s side to welcome the elven delegation: he still has no idea why his father and the king taunted the Elfking with them; but, he is king, now, and it is his right to decide what is done with them all...) skillfully arranged to bring the sky, itself, down upon the elf’s delicate digits.

A possessive growl almost escapes him as he dares to picture it:

Him; completing the Crown of Durin on Thranduil’s thumb.

It scintillates gaily under the brilliance of his elf’s smile.

~

He is shown to a room shortly after that.

It is high up, which makes him uncomfortable, but crafted of solid stone (truly: not even the roots of trees can be seen as they so often are elsewhere here) with geometric detailing that--while still clearly elvish in their manner and make--feels remarkably similar to the rooms of his home. There is even no window--indeed: no access to the outdoors at all--and a square-shaped fireplace blazing brightly in the corner of the surprisingly, and sharply, rectangular room.

Thorin allows his eyebrows to lift up and his eyes to gaze around appreciatively.

There are two straight-backed and straight-lined armchairs flanking the fire with a low-laying and equally rectangular table sitting between them. A large jug and matching mug awaits him, there, and--when he approaches--he finds the first filled with water and the second filled with a humble offering of honey mead (which, if Thorin remembers correctly, is the closest the elves have to beer).

He accepts the offering as he observes the rest of the room.

This is a dayroom, Thorin realizes, as he notes the long bench along the wall farthest from the entrance which is just as straight-lined as everything else and laden with old books in Common Speech and an excessive amount of furs. They’re all folded neatly and stacked atop each other like blankets in a closet--which, at first, seemed almost laughable to the Dwarfking; but, then he thought about it and he realized it is actually a very sweet gesture: elves, Thorin knows, do not feel the cold; the outside world does not effect them and so they are pure and untouched in ways unfathomable to mere mortals like him; which means, likely, they might know that humans and dwarrows use furs and fires for warmth but not really understand how much of either they will actually need or use.

So, the elves simply provide as much as possible so he wants for nothing.

Thorin hums to himself thoughtfully as he sips the mead (a bit too sweet but hearty and heavy and hopsy) and runs a rough hand along the top book’s cover (made, interestingly, of sheep skin and entirely blank beyond a single symbol that looks like a line with a curl coming out of its left side at the low center) while reading the spine: the symbol, again, followed by yet more elegant curls. Completely unintelligible, of course, as he is a dwarf and never learned Elvish; but, sticking out of the bottom of the book is a single braid of silk in solid red surprisingly decorated with a simple bead baring the same symbol as the cover.

Deciding that it’s clearly acting as a marker of some sort, the dwarf rests his mug on the raised arm of the bench and settles himself upon the seat of it, comfortably nestling himself between the stacks of books and furs.

When he opens the offered book--noting to himself that it is literally the only one NOT translated into something he can actually READ, which he finds strange--he finds himself staring at colorful pictures--drawings, really--of delicate elves dressed in long gowns with thick fabrics and flowers on their hair and clothes and NAILS and it clicks, suddenly, what he’s looking at: Omegan Elf Fashion.

~

Although, he has no idea if it’s from Thranduil or someone else: he takes it, eagerly, as an invitation and browses the book until he’s summoned for dinner.

~

“I hope your rooms are to your liking,” Thranduil greets him with a gentle smile, voice soft and sweet, and lips still wet and a bit too red from all his wine sipping.

Thorin swallows and nods in affirmation, his confidence wavering just a little bit as he’s led into what appears to be a very private and personal dinning room. There is only the one table standing in the center of it, flanked by two chairs, and Thranduil is already occupying one with a bejeweled flute chalice in his hand (which, Thorin notes with a tightening of his lower belly, bares even more gray smudges of graphite than it had when he first arrived--almost as though the elf had SEEN the dwarf’s interest in the dusting and decided to ENTERTAIN it).

He sips it elegantly as he smiles, stardust eyes shining ethereally with pleasure although Thorin’s certain he could make them shine even brighter in bed togeth--as he waves one of those long, gray-dusted hands at the chair across from him.

Whether he knows what Thorin is thinking or not, the dwarf doesn’t know; but he’s certain there’s a smugness to that smile, now, as he embarrassedly sits across from the elf in the seat designed specially for one of his short stature. Their eyes meet across the table as silent elves pour in from a side door and laden the dinning table with--to Thorin’s delight and surprise--grilled salmon, various potato-based side dishes, and a very large--very sliced--roasted turkey. The dwarf gapes at the cooked bird, a bit lost, “I thought elves didn’t...?”

Thranduil, however, only smiles and accepts a few slices of the animal’s breast (cut, of course, by one of the servers), “We do not kill our fellow fauna, no; but we DO eat them when they die naturally and we have reason to use their body.”

“Use their body?” Thorin asks, eagerly accepting his own offered slices of bird. He lets the serving elves add a fish and a spoonful of each side dish, as well, before taking the proffered stein of honey mead from the elf that stoked the fire blazing in a wrought iron cage, designed like a tree stump with entwining vines to take advantage of its woodgrain-like texture, left just to the side of him; again, ensuring he wants nothing for warmth even at the cost of seeming excessive.

“We took the feathers for our potions, quills, decorations, pillows, and quilts; bones for our needlework, crochet hooks, utensils, beads, and other potions; legs and beak for yet more potions--although, sometimes for bowls and utensils, too--and, since this is a male turkey, the caruncle for our suppressants.”

Thorin pauses in his half-listening and half-eating to almost choke on breast. “Su-suppressants?!” He clears his throat and almost scowls up at Thranduil and his amused giggles (almost because, blast-it, the elf is just so CUTE like this). “W-what suppressants??? You are clearly NOT--!!!”

“I am home, mell Thorin,” Thranduil softly interjects and Thorin slams his mouth shut so fast is almost hurts, “Where I am safe and you will not likely be long; and, thus, I am not inclined to take things that will only mask what I really am: there is no shame in being Omega, no risk beyond mild distraction in my Heat, so--if I am not travelling to, say, Erebor--why bother taking suppressants?”

There’s a lump in the dwarf’s throat that dries his mouth and leaves him restless. He may not know much about Omegas--rarer, even, than the females of his kin--but he does know that look Thranduil’s giving him and the meaning of his words: TRUST.

The Elvenking TRUSTS that Thorin will not do anything to him during his Heat: Thranduil does not think he needs to be on suppressants because he TRUSTS Thorin will not succumb to its summons, enter his Rut, or take advantage of it.

This thought is silently confirmed when Thorin realizes they are entirely alone: there aren’t even GUARDS stationed within the room--though there are probably without--and Thranduil is (seemingly--one never knows with a literal war god...) entirely weaponless before him. True: the dwarfking can’t take him down alone; but, at one point, Thorin had, in fact, hated Thranduil enough to at least TRY; and this isn’t something any elf would not KNOW or FORGET, so...

“And... if I were to stay long?” the king of Erebor unsurely asks, eyes wide and dark with SOMETHING as the lump in his throat remains thick no matter what.

Thranduil’s eyes practically GLOW as they light up with joy; and, as he leans in over his food and the dining table and the lone candle Thorin only now notices, his long snow-white hair slips over his broad shoulders and brings to attention the abnormally tall and closed neck of Thranduil’s thick and pink adorned dress which does naught but send Thorin’s mind SPIRALING with wanton desire and NEED to MARK and CLAIM and OWN that hidden skin so it--and the Elvenking--is HIS; “Then, I would simply enjoy finally being able to show you my home~”

((Tagging @elithilanor again since you seem to be enjoying the ABO’verse headcanons and, well, still Duil with pink nails--tho Thorin’s got plans for those turning starry night blue soon--but, of course, just let me know if you want the tags to stop cuz I know you’re not into this ship.))