vulgarweed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vulgarweed) wrote2013-05-07 01:46 pm
vulgarweed) wrote2013-05-07 01:46 pm
FIC: "He That Rides Unseen" (The Hobbit, Bilbo/Thorin, NC-17)
He That Rides Unseen
By: Vulgarweed
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: NC-17/Explicit
Word count: ~6300
Pairing: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Summary: There is much more to Bilbo than meets the eye – especially on those occasions when none of him does. Thorin has faced down his fears on so many truly dangerous occasions, he will not shrink from the mere uncanniness of being seduced by someone he can't see. A fandom-specific kink: sex with the Ring on.
Author's notes: This is a much-expanded, much-improved revamp of a short comment fic written for Porn Battle back in January (prompt: “jewel”) It's a complete mishmash of book/movie 'verse, but there are no real book spoilers past Beorn's house, except that talking ravens exist. Also, the ring insisted on acting like The Ring, so partway through, the title took on a double meaning. Thanks to htebazytook for the beta!
~~~
It was the last homely night on the edge of the dark and threatening wood, and that said something to Bilbo, that he should consider this homely now: a dwarf camp in the open air, no feather beds to be found or hot tea to be had, and no true silence either, just a constant susurration of snores and coughs and murmurs. Before the fire died down, there'd been some jolliness here; some subdued joking and song, some good use made of Beorn's generous gift of mead. Yet the fun had been quiet and quickly tamped down as the dark took over.
Bilbo liked the look of that wood not at all. Oh, he'd scoffed at the eerie tales of the Old Forest past the eastern edge of the Shire, the type of story that queer-headed, overly imaginative folk like the Brandybucks were wont to tell. But that was before he had seen so much of the world. Goblins and giants; whip-thin whispering creatures in the dark and men who turned into bears; wargs and giant Eagles. An angry forest with no love for travellers seemed the least of the wonders and horrors that the wide world had to offer. After Mirkwood, he imagined that the old haunted places of the Shire would seem tame and quaint.
He'd just have to get through this one first. And then get home again. After killing a dragon. Perfectly simple.
Don't go getting ahead of yourself now, he advised himself sagely. One terror at a time is quite enough to be getting on with.
The little hard round thing in his pocket brought him some comfort. Though really, he thought. What good does it to do to be invisible in pitch darkness, when everything else is invisible too? Seems a ring of night-vision would be more useful for what lies ahead.
He couldn't be sure why he regretted that thought, but he did. Deep in his frayed pocket, he rolled the gold ring between his fingertips, feeling its flawless smoothness. Bilbo wondered, not for the first time, why Gollum hadn't used it to hunt him. Not a pleasing thought, that. He'd be long dead and all eaten up by now, nothing but bones for his companions to find if they'd dared or cared to go looking.
Thorin at least ought to have done, Bilbo thought, after I soothed his nerves so by sucking dry that giant forge-tool of his back in Rivendell. Hard and messy work it was, to get his mind off that old grudge against the Elves. True, he gave back as good as he got, but that doesn't quite make us all even yet, if you ask me.
And so it happened that the more that Bilbo twirled his magic ring in his pocket, the angrier his thoughts became, and the more convinced he was that no one in the party, especially not Thorin, would really go to any trouble or risk for his sake, and he should look out for number one from now on.
Now, now, he thought, yanking his hand away. That's no good, no good at all. You are where you are, and you'd best make the best of it until there's no more best to be made.
After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't thoroughly enjoyed having a taste of the moody Dwarf king-in-exile, really taking him down a peg (a very big peg, as it happens, and delicious as these things go), those startled moans of his a sweet music. It was really a great deal of fun with the proud ones, and Bilbo at first had only really been trying to change the subject. He still wasn't sure he'd shown the proper etiquette, having never done anything of the sort with royalty before, although he supposed being on his knees was a reasonable place to start.
Beorn had been very good to them, in his unnerving way. After that strange but cosy house, Bilbo felt well-rested and well-washed and well-fed for the first time since Rivendell, and that left the attentions of his body to turn back to other longings also fulfilled there – which are generally the last thing on one's mind when one is trying not to be gutted by goblins, but rise rather rapidly to the surface when one is calm and safe and in the presence of an unfairly handsome dwarrow-prince who's let it be known he shares that particular type of desire, and demonstrated his proficiency in rousing and satisfying it.
So Bilbo walked, as silently as was his nature, to the place where Thorin drowsed in his bed of fur and leather, propped upon a rock outcropping to make a stoic warrior's pillow, with his skin-bag of mead. Thorin's eyes were not quite closed in sleep yet, they scanned about. In hopes of a tryst? Oh, Bilbo hoped that was what Thorin hoped for. If so, he would gladly give it. His mouth watered to think of tasting, and his hands itched to touch, and suddenly his treacherous fingers slid down the front of his own waistcoat, back into that little pocket, and touched once again the band of gold.
It seemed to stir and warm to his finger. And then Bilbo thought of a very wicked possibility indeed.
He crept as close as he dared around behind Thorin, and when he perceived he'd reached that edge, he slipped the ring onto one finger. And then he came closer.
Now, Bilbo had learned a great deal of stealth on this venture – and he'd also learned something about the reflexes of hardened fighters. The magic ring wouldn't block the swift thrust of a sword through something Thorin couldn't see, Bilbo was certain, so when Bilbo deemed that he'd come as close as he dared, he whispered Thorin's name again and again. When Thorin started at the sound of his voice, hand on Orcrist's hilt, Bilbo announced, so softly, “It's me.”
“Come closer,” Thorin demanded. “Or are you a trick of this unwholesome wood, come out to lure us away in the night?”
“A trick it may be, but if so, it's my trick, and you should know by now that I'm full of them,” Bilbo said. But he obeyed Thorin's request, leaning closer, on his knees in the grass. Light as a silent breeze, he slid his quivering fingers into Thorin's long hair. Thorin jumped and jerked away, grabbing at the hand that had touched him.
But Bilbo was quick and was not caught. “Now, now, none of that,” he said. “Hold still.”
“And be skewered in the dark by wicked magic that speaks with Bilbo's voice and yet cannot be seen?”
“As Bilbo himself sometimes can't be seen, silly stubborn Dwarf,” Bilbo said fondly, and put out his hand again, into the prickly animal fuzz of Thorin's beard, and pulled him around by the jaw to press their lips together in a quick but fierce kiss. When he drew back quickly, he said, “Now how many of your five senses do you need to recognise me? You're only missing one. I should be offended that you can hear and smell and taste me, and yet say you still aren't sure.”
“Perhaps I haven't scented or tasted you nearly enough yet,” said Thorin, beginning to warm a little to the game. Well, he certainly didn't lack for courage, and mayhap his prick was even braver than his ambitious heart. “And it would help to convince me if I could touch as well.”
“Oh, you do understand what I'm getting at, perfectly well.”
“Your intentions are . . . transparent,” Thorin quipped, and Bilbo giggled indulgently, and that was enough for him to slide both hands into Thorin's hair boldly this time. The hand that bore the ring pulled hard, bending Thorin's head back to expose his throat, and then Bilbo pressed his mouth to the thin band of fair skin showing between beard and collar, tugging first with his lips and then his teeth, flicking his tongue against soft fluttering skin.
Then Thorin's big hand was in his hair, and Bilbo chuckled a little against Thorin's neck when the dwarf looked up and saw only his own clenching fingers. The expression on his face was beyond price. And then Thorin's eyes went dark and his hand pulled tight and dragged Bilbo's mouth back up to his own. Thorin's tongue reached out and searched like a mad blind thing, sensing and groping and pushing Bilbo's lips open, making absolutely sure that the feel and the taste of him was real enough – just as he remembered, wet and warm and eager. Thorin gave a deep little hum and held Bilbo's hair fiercely as he tried to push the kiss ever deeper.
“Ow,” Bilbo muttered. “Vambraces off, please. They've snagged my hair. You certainly won't touch anything sensitive with them on.”
With a resentful growl, Thorin pulled his hands back and unbuckled the offending pieces of sharp metal, laying them carefully close to his side as if he expected to need them again soon. Bilbo smiled and crawled over Thorin's body, sinking down and touching. Quickly, one of Thorin's craftsman's hands had hooked fingers through what remained of Bilbo's ragged cravat, tugging him in for another kiss, and the other was trailing calloused fingertips under Bilbo's waistcoat, teasing a nipple through the worn-thin linen, and Bilbo gave him a hopeful moan deep into his mouth.
The Ring affected Bilbo's vision too; Thorin was silvery and blurry to his sight; handsome as always, but fey and fell also; his need became fearsome to Bilbo because he knew, in the long run, he could never fulfill it. They should stop this game, no matter how sharp the pleasure, how intense the hunger. Their desire for each other would grow stronger with use, not lesser. It would deepen. It would weave into their being until it became inextricable. And then, even with the best of outcomes to their quest, there would be no happy ending after all; even in the normal course of years should they be so lucky, Bilbo's span would be briefer, and he would leave Thorin behind with long years to face alone.
A deep voice of knowing whispered terrible things in the back of Bilbo's mind. Your life will be too short and his too long. Or vice versa; it may go that way. Unnatural creatures, unnatural love. Gold-lust and lust-lust. It's too late. I see you.
But Ring or no, Bilbo was a hobbit. Tomorrow might well be terrible, he thought. Like as not. I'll worry about that later – as long as he fucks me well tonight, and I think if I play my cards right, he will.
By now, Thorin had Bilbo's waistcoat undone (no great work, considering his lost buttons), and his shirt as well. Bilbo had much less luck getting access to Thorin's skin – that beautifully wrought mail shirt was not meant to be undone at all, and Bilbo was reduced to running his invisible hands over interlinked metal and a mere memory of Thorin's body beneath.
“I want this off,” Bilbo complained.
“Not so close to the dark wood, little one.”
Bilbo gave a huffy sigh, then leaned forward and explained to Thorin exactly why he didn't like it: “In the house of the Elves, at least we had use of a safe bedchamber. Don't you remember? You were bare in front of me and I could touch you, and I did. You have a splendid coat of hair on your chest, and lovely, mysterious tattoos on your shoulders, and golden rings in your nipples. They're very pretty. I sucked them and played with them, as you recall, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“And I think you enjoyed that, didn't you? My enjoyment of your body?”
“It's true I did like that, yes.”
“Well, if I can't touch you and see you as I like, I think it's only fair you can't see me. Stop sulking. At least you can touch my skin if you want, which is more than I'm getting of you.”
Thorin looked angry for a moment, and then he laughed quietly. “Fair enough. But my hands are well-placed now, and I regret to tell you, most of what I'm touching is cloth. I'm sure it was good Shire cloth in its heyday, but that day is long past...”
“Fine,” Bilbo said, and he lifted himself off Thorin and stood up. He braced a foot on either side of Thorin's legs and began his weird striptease. First to go was the cravat, and that was difficult – the oft-soaked knot was almost locked, and his fingernails were short and broken, and it was hard work to get it undone. But he did eventually, and he peeled it away from his neck and let it drop. Thorin's eyes tracked it immediately as soon as it became visible when it left Bilbo's hand. There was no wind. It drifted to the ground softly but straightly.
His waistcoat came next, and it only became visible when it left his body. His shirt, the same.
Thorin made a strange sound when he heard Bilbo's invisible feet shift and hop, because that meant the hobbit's breeches were coming next. There was an unmistakable soft sound of fingers working laces and buttons, and then an odd little jump, and then the nearly-worn-out breeches came to rest on the ground, completely visible now that they were no longer wrapping Bilbo's hips and legs.
“I'm naked now,” Bilbo declared (which was not entirely true, as he still wore the belt that held the Elven dagger, and – of course – the ring. But he was wearing nothing else at all, so he was naked in spirit, if not in letter). “Still standing over you. Touch me.”
Thorin smiled. He smiled, and it was glorious. Slowly, he ran his hands along the ground until they found Bilbo's toes, and that was a good starting place; in moments, his fingers were running through the soft fur atop Bilbo's feet, stroking and tugging. Confident he'd found a good starting place, his hands circled and squeezed Bilbo's ankles, and went back down to those strangely erotic and compelling patches of hair for a moment, and then ran higher up his shins, curving up around his calves.
Thorin hummed soft and deep, and shook his head a little in self-surprise, as his hands tightened at the back of Bilbo's knees. “Is this a common skill in your Shire? Can your people ever be certain who it really is in their beds?”
“This is not a common trick,” Bilbo said. “I am no common trickster – ” and it broke off with a little cry as Thorin pulled his knees out from under him. He fell forward over Thorin's body, hands landing on broad, solid shoulders. In a flash his mouth was on Thorin's again, giving him quiet moans as those big hands mapped his skin and found him mostly acceptably nude. Bilbo felt himself heating at every touch, and he leaned down to claim and release Thorin's lips again and again, fluttering his tongue in and out between them and tasting teeth and beard and mead. Oh. The combined flavorscent of dwarven king and that sweet honey wine inflamed him.
But there was the matter of the sword belt, which of course Thorin did not miss, least of all when the little Elven dagger clinked in its scabbard and the belt blocked the smooth slide of Thorin's hands down Bilbo's hips. Thorin drew back quickly, doubt in his eyes for a quick moment, sharp and tense.
“I do apologise,” Bilbo whispered. “The closer we get to the wood, the harder I find it is to be parted from it.”
“Beginning to think like a warrior, aren't you?” Thorin said with a relieved smile as he listened for the sounds of unbuckling. Bilbo took a quick jiggle of the hilt, just to make sure there was no sliver of a blue glow. Naught but moonlight. And even Thorin could see that, when Bilbo laid his own belt and blade down by his side, next to Orcrist. “Ah, that's good,” Thorin whispered as his hands could at last make long uninterrupted strokes up and down Bilbo's body. “And besides, my sword is at your service.”
“And it is so very much larger.”
“That may be,” Thorin said, “but in the hands of a brave wielder . . . ” And with that Thorin had found his way round to Bilbo's brave little blade of flesh, standing up proudly from its nest of curls. (It was nothing to be ashamed of, Bilbo well knew; it was of a size well fitting to the Shirefolk, and it had earned no mean share of appreciative second and third glances at the bathing-hole in his youth, and put to good use often in the hedgerows nearby, to no complaints whatsoever.)
But of course it was nothing to the beast he set free by undoing Thorin's laces. As before, Bilbo was set to grasping and stroking, looking at its head rising from its casing of delicate skin like a fat mushroom in the spring, juicy and savoury and fresh. As Bilbo scooted back on his knees to lower his mouth to it again, he said softly, “So tell me, Thorin, if you would teach me the ways of war . . . ”
“I would teach you that and more, but there are some skills you seem to have already well in hand.”
“Thank you for that, and I've been told I have them well in mouth as well. By you yourself once, not so long ago.”
“I may well have said so,” Thorin said. “But I probably wasn't referring to your talk.”
“Now now, I've had it said I'm quite silver-tongued when it suits me to be,” Bilbo said. “If it's my tongue you want, then you should treat me with more resp – OH!” he cried as a meaty hand cradled the back of his head and shoved him down. Oh yes, yes, that's the stubbornness of dwarves, and that's exactly what I'm here for, yes, he thought as he took a physical form of Thorin's pride between his lips and deep into his mouth, sucking and licking with all the hunger that was the only claim to fame of his people. His jaw had to drop and stretch to take its thickness and it began to ache quickly, and he simply could not go all the way down, but he tried, and brought up his deft little hand to do the rest.
~~~
Thorin had been restless since Beorn's hospitality had both restored his company and softened their instincts. There is always a temptation to relax in relative luxury, even such a rough and odd version, and the shapeshifter was moody enough to worry him. Accept too much, take too much, and he'd turn on you in an instant, that was clear. But Thorin couldn't help but wish Beorn had taken more of an interest in their quest. He'd be a good friend to have in the deep, dark wood.
Thorin didn't put much store in the ramblings of Radagast, but stern warnings from Gandalf and Beorn both must have merit. There'd be precious little sweetness up ahead – no honey, no mead, no strong shelter. Just thirteen dwarves and a hobbit and a place that seemed to want them all dead.
Thorin had to admit to himself, if he regretted anything, it was his failure to take the opportunity to show Bilbo a little more appreciation of his private talents. There might not be another chance.
He took a sip of mead, determined to make it last, and listened to the eerie silence all around them. There were no cheerful voices of night birds or insects here, only unsettling cries and whistles far off in the distance, under the hissing trees. Yards away the others were snoring and muttering in their sleep, and the sound of them seemed frighteningly loud and clear, revealing of position, isolated in stillness. And though he could hear nothing, he couldn't shake a sense of a close presence – that he couldn't hear footsteps in the grass, and yet footsteps there were. The moonlight played tricks on his eyes; he thought he saw grass parting in a way that the wind could not answer for – and yet he could not trust all his senses, that much was already clear to him.
He felt the stirrings of a nameless fear, and held the hilt of Orcrist close. It did not glow. If there was a foe present, it was not one that would declare itself so easily. Every hair on his body (and there were many) stood up in small alarm, every sense alerted and he glanced about, desperate to see any movement that would prove him right or wrong, and yet the play of star and shadow deceived his eyes at every turn.
And then he smelled it: the warm sweet-grass scent of Bilbo's hair. And he heard, “it's me,” voiced just above a whisper; Bilbo's voice pitched low and soft, quick to reassure as if Thorin were a spooking pony. I think he could ride me better, Thorin thought. Fight and flight were still there, but dimming in the presence of a third instinct.
So they spoke, and it was the little burglar for certain, with his cheeky manner that made Thorin want to throw him over his knees like a dwarfling talking back – oh, and probably Bilbo would like that.
Still, it was a fearsome thing – to turn to Bilbo and feel the breeze of his breath, but not to see him. Fear still rose in Thorin of a different sort. Bilbo was no foe, but he was uncanny; this was no mere trick of moonlight, no mere burglar's skill nor the natural gift of a small and stealthy race. He was invisible. But not untouchable, no, not with those soft fingers tickling Thorin's beard, palming his jaw and cheek with their summer-warm skin, tightening in his hair with a hint of promising cruelty.
He could see no face close to his. No wide blue eyes to look into. No pointed ears flushing red. No pert little nose to want to bite.
But there was a mouth touching his own, pressing, opening, asking, taking . . . and it had a familiar taste, yes, everything was right, the scent, the voice, the feel of his soft hair. Thorin closed his eyes and plundered that mouth like a drunkard in the dark trying to feel his way home.
When he opened his eyes, for just a second he saw the grassy field, the edge of the wood so dark. And no one in between, not the one kissing him, caressing him, crawling over him, straddling him, begging for his touch all over . . .
Therefore, Thorin's eyes were lying. Therefore there must indeed be more to Bilbo than met the eye – since now, none of him did.
Bilbo was quite right – four senses were more than enough to be sure, and Thorin let the strangeness take him, watching his hand clench on nothing though he felt hair in his hand, heard exciting rustlings and clinkings and gaspings and sighs as Bilbo licked him and bit him.
Let it never be said that Thorin son of Thrain backed down from a challenge, or let fear stand between himself and a worthy prize. He took everything he was given and grasped hard and hungry for more. And when he could feel from the touch of bare feet at the sides of his hips that Bilbo was standing over him, and when one by one items that were unmistakably Bilbo's road-worn gentlehobbit's clothing appeared suddenly in mid-air as they were shed and dropped and drifted down to the ground. Then what Thorin wanted most in that moment was to get himself all over what he knew lay beneath them, now exposed to the cool autumn air.
His fingers found Bilbo's toes in the grass, and ran up them slowly through the soft hair on his feet, up his ankles and his thick, strong calves, to the smooth skin behind his knees. He pulled Bilbo back down on top of him, and learned with his hands what his eyes would not tell him. Not so plump as he had once been. Lither and stronger. Still small. Still insatiably hungry.
~~~
Bilbo occupied himself with his mouthful, just on the edge of too much – no, it would never go completely in, too long and thick, but he had hands to tease and squeeze and a tongue to sense out each tiny detail of ridge and vein, fold and wrinkle, bulbous head and salty slit; he had ears to hear how Thorin's breath and voice rose and fell, directing Bilbo perfectly in how to move, that big hand pushing at his head, not too hard, but heavy and suggestive.
He chuckled for a moment to think what an observer might see – Thorin holding his hand some odd distance over his own cock, writhing and thrusting lightly, as if he were pleasuring himself by magic. He was lost in ways to make this spectacle even stranger, when Thorin grabbed his hair and held him still.
“Yes?” Bilbo asked a little thickly, drooling rather too much.
Thorin's hands ran as far as they would go down Bilbo's back, kneading at invisible muscles, lightly scratching his spine. “It seems unfair that only you get to feast,” Thorin said. “And I am the one who needs to taste more, being deprived of one way to appreciate you.”
“How would you mend that?” Bilbo asked in a husky voice, panting slightly.
“Swing your sweet arse up here to my face,” Thorin whispered. “Let me lick your prick and bite your cheeks.”
Bilbo groaned loudly as heat washed through him. He rearranged himself thus, trying not to trap Thorin's long hair with his knees, shivering at the tickle of Thorin's nose at his balls. “But I can't quite reach . . . ” he whispered, leaning forward as Thorin's rough hands pushed his soft thighs apart and Thorin's beard scratched at the tender skin there, arousing Bilbo to supersensitivity, making little whimpers come from his throat as Thorin's big tongue ran down behind his heavy little sac.
“Oohhhh,” Bilbo breathed as he tried to stretch his torso down long enough to take Thorin's cock deep in his mouth again. He could only get so far as the head between his lips before he started to crawl too far forward, and then Thorin seized him hard by the hips and pulled him upward, burying his face deep in the cleft of Bilbo's arse.
“'S'all I need,” Thorin muttered, muffled. “Don't finish me off, I have another use for you.”
“At your service,” Bilbo moaned as he was probed fiercely. “I see you haven't lost your way to my hole this time – ” cut off by a yelp as Thorin bit and slapped his arse. All right then, Bilbo thought, put your mouth to better use.
Bilbo was distracted by the tongue laving him so thoroughly between his legs, in such private, shameful places – so sensitive, so responsive to it. Thorin's grip on his cock, too loose and teasing to build to his peak but just enough to make him pulsingly hard, and those aching, wet lewd suckings and lickings, just the tip of Thorin's tongue inside for a moment, then just one of his full little stones taken between Thorin's bristly lips, then the other, then . . .
Bilbo concentrated on working just the fat head of Thorin's cock with his lips and tongue, fine detail work, coaxing out a few more of those deep moans that vibrated against him so exquisitely.
Thorin's tongue pressed hard at him, forcing its way inside. Bilbo gasped and bore down on it, even as he pulled at Thorin's cockhead with his mouth, quick sharp strokes that made Thorin push up towards him.
Bilbo looked down at what he could see – Thorin's majestic prick, his thick hairy legs, misty and shadowy in his Ring-sight, and it was not enough for him, even with that delicious devouring at his rear, that craftsman's caress at his cock.
“Thorin,” he said, turning his head. “Have you any of Beorn's butter left?”
“Is my flavor not to your taste?” asked Thorin from between his arse cheeks.
Bilbo sighed and rolled his eyes. “And I might ask the same about mine, stubborn Dwarf. I ask only because I would love to have some grease to make it easier, should I have a desire to take your massive cock up inside me.”
“And you have none left? Oh, of course. You're a hobbit, that's a silly question.”
“I'd hoped you might have saved some. I know dwarves are thrifty, and somewhere down the road, there might be buns to butter.”
Bilbo had never imagined Thorin's hands could move so fast. Apparently his joke was both insulting and correct, for before he could finish chuckling, there was a packet of butter open and a greased finger of Thorin's piercing him deep, right up inside him. Bilbo tried to keep quiet, he really did, but the thrust hit him just right, and then Thorin put another thick finger up there, and was wriggling them so well, coaxing his entrance open, enticing Bilbo to clench and relax, to draw them in and out and rock back against Thorin's hand.
He was gasping, he was panting, he was almost coming, but he also understood the imperative to wait for something even better. The unwrapped pat of yellow butter. The fingers. The fact that he'd lost all focus on Thorin's cock.
The fact that he was invisible, and he could slowly, slowly remove his arse from Thorin's face. Pull away slowly until that finger dropped out of him. Creep down Thorin's body on hands and knees until he reached a good place to turn around.
“If I didn't know better, Thorin Oakenshield, I'd think you meant you want to plough my valley and plant your seed,” Bilbo said, turning down his voice to quiet and promising as he made sure Thorin was aware of his change in position.
“I wouldn't have brought the butter out if I didn't think you wanted to be fucked,” Thorin growled.
“It is a larger tiller than I'm used to, but let it never be said that Bilbo son of Bungo backed down from a challenge,” Bilbo whispered.
“Then back down onto one,” Thorin said.
Bilbo did exactly that, like this: Kneel over Thorin's hips. Breathe the night air. Watch the stars. Calm himself to the point where he could reach his greased hand around behind him and take up Thorin's cock again, to hear the strangled grasp. Spread more butter over it. Lean down on one hand, use the other to work the cockhead against his own wet hole.
Use his own greased fingers to open himself. Swirling them in deep circles. Spreading them apart.
Guide it inside himself. Slowly. Let the weight of his body force the issue; impale himself, sit down, squirm.
Bilbo clenched his fists until his nails bit his palms and the Ring hurt the fingers on either side. Oh, he'd been fucked before, gladly – but that was with hobbit cock, like his own. Thorin's was not shockingly longer, but it was much thicker, and the burn Bilbo was feeling was from girth, not length. No matter.
No matter. He could take it. The burn became good – passing from awkwardness through pain into pleasure. Thorin's face was the most important thing – shadowed and veiled now, half-wild, mist-shrouded, as if he were in a different world from Bilbo. He wanted to get closer, peel Thorin open and tear him apart. Not possible. Just a hobbit. All he could do was lean down on his hands and move his hips just right, rocking Thorin's prick in and out of him.
What was Thorin seeing?
~~~~
Thorin saw only his own cock, weirdly compressed as it thrust up mindlessly into Bilbo's tight heat. Saw the foreskin rocked back again and again, saw its shape contorted by the contours of invisible insides.
And worst of all, it grew blurry. Unharmed, feeling nothing but exquisite pleasure – but grey and dimmed to his sight, misty, a prick befitting a wraith.
The night was dark. The half moon was passing behind clouds. It could be only an illusion.
But his hands that gripped and pulled invisible hips were not so. It was only that one part of him that was deep inside Bilbo's invisible body that had turned so fey.
~~~
With a terrible clarity that Bilbo didn't trust, he saw Thorin looking down, and saw those strong blue eyes turn fearful.
And that made Bilbo feel so very strong. He took that moment to pin Thorin's wrists near his head on the ground – it was farcical to think he could hold Thorin down, and yet in that moment he did – and start to ride him at a gallop. It was all for the good that Thorin could not see him, because he would have seen Bilbo's mild round face split open in a feral sneer.
“Fuck me,” Bilbo whispered, “fuck me harder.” It was a complete lie. He was the one fucking Thorin, not the other way round, and no matter that Thorin planted his feet on the ground and held Bilbo's hips and thrust up into him, Bilbo was always one hard thrust ahead.
Thorin fought back by taking Bilbo's bobbing, pulsing cock in his hand and pumping it in time with the wild, wanton jerks of Bilbo's hips, causing the hobbit to cry out before he caught himself, and muffled his voice in strangled gasps. Pleasure built in him unbearably, within and without, shaking him violently as every muscle clenched, he bit his own tongue, and threw his head back to see the spinning sky in his sharp ache and sweet release.
Thorin saw only the thick spurts of Bilbo's seed as they shot from his cock and landed wetly on Thorin's belly and chest, pearly white against his dark hair. The sight inflamed him, and he spread his legs and thrust up so hard he bounced Bilbo hard on his hips, groaning as he spent himself, emptying his heavy load deep inside Bilbo's body.
Bilbo was shaking now, growing limp and boneless, and Thorin pulled him down to rest on his chest, withdrawing his softening member with patient care, and drawing his heavy fur-lined coat over them both.
“Will you ever tell me how you do this?” Thorin asked quietly at last, when the moon had moved himself a little above them and was gliding into the clouds.
Bilbo groped sleepily for his clothes, but the question woke him up sharply. He could tell. He could take off the Ring, he could show it – he could possibly even let Thorin try it? It might fit the tip of his smallest finger. Perhaps they could try this the other way round sometime?
Something in Bilbo's mind went cold and furious at the very thought. No, he thought, absolutely firmly, and completely sure that the conviction was his own.
He could not answer Thorin that way, though, not when Bilbo had him like this, pleased and playful. “Maybe someday,” he said. “If you're very good to me.”
Thorin's hands were on his hair and his back, thankfully not near Bilbo's hand. “And do you consider what we just did as being good to you?”
“Oh very much so,” Bilbo said. “But you've been awful to me in the past, so you have a lot of good to do to me still before I'll consider it even.”
“I think I will enjoy paying that debt. I would not be beholden,” Thorin said with a little smile. “But I would like to see you now. This game grows wearisome.”
“Fair enough,” Bilbo said, when he was certain his Ring-finger was safely deep inside his jacket pocket. With a little flick and wiggle, the Ring took its place in the pocket. Bilbo pulled his hand away and threaded it again through Thorin's hair, combing out wild sex-tangles, confident that he was now fully visible and must look completely giddy and sated and well-used, lying naked in Thorin's arms.
~~~
It was no small mercy that all the company slept through that night, and happened not to glance over in their king's direction.
But one who did not sleep was high in a brooding beech at wood's edge, and felt little fear of the darkness beyond.
Aüc the Far-Flying, daughter of Roäc, cocked her head and peered her keen eyes quizzically at the movement below. She had seen her fair share of odd mammal behaviour, but she had never heard it said that Durin's folk were wont to mate with empty air. Well, she thought. Perhaps I too would go mad if I couldn't fly.
Fortunately for her, she could and she did. She had grown to distrust the rustlings in the dark wood – and the uncanniness of the spectacle, once her throaty caws of laughter had subsided. She felt a great relief when her wide black wings were safely caught up in the wind. Something was happening that was more than it seemed, and something was waking that would not easily return to sleep. Perhaps Aiwendil could help explain what she had seen – and what she had not.
~end
Enjoy!
AO3 version if you prefer to read it there.
By: Vulgarweed
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: NC-17/Explicit
Word count: ~6300
Pairing: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Summary: There is much more to Bilbo than meets the eye – especially on those occasions when none of him does. Thorin has faced down his fears on so many truly dangerous occasions, he will not shrink from the mere uncanniness of being seduced by someone he can't see. A fandom-specific kink: sex with the Ring on.
Author's notes: This is a much-expanded, much-improved revamp of a short comment fic written for Porn Battle back in January (prompt: “jewel”) It's a complete mishmash of book/movie 'verse, but there are no real book spoilers past Beorn's house, except that talking ravens exist. Also, the ring insisted on acting like The Ring, so partway through, the title took on a double meaning. Thanks to htebazytook for the beta!
~~~
It was the last homely night on the edge of the dark and threatening wood, and that said something to Bilbo, that he should consider this homely now: a dwarf camp in the open air, no feather beds to be found or hot tea to be had, and no true silence either, just a constant susurration of snores and coughs and murmurs. Before the fire died down, there'd been some jolliness here; some subdued joking and song, some good use made of Beorn's generous gift of mead. Yet the fun had been quiet and quickly tamped down as the dark took over.
Bilbo liked the look of that wood not at all. Oh, he'd scoffed at the eerie tales of the Old Forest past the eastern edge of the Shire, the type of story that queer-headed, overly imaginative folk like the Brandybucks were wont to tell. But that was before he had seen so much of the world. Goblins and giants; whip-thin whispering creatures in the dark and men who turned into bears; wargs and giant Eagles. An angry forest with no love for travellers seemed the least of the wonders and horrors that the wide world had to offer. After Mirkwood, he imagined that the old haunted places of the Shire would seem tame and quaint.
He'd just have to get through this one first. And then get home again. After killing a dragon. Perfectly simple.
Don't go getting ahead of yourself now, he advised himself sagely. One terror at a time is quite enough to be getting on with.
The little hard round thing in his pocket brought him some comfort. Though really, he thought. What good does it to do to be invisible in pitch darkness, when everything else is invisible too? Seems a ring of night-vision would be more useful for what lies ahead.
He couldn't be sure why he regretted that thought, but he did. Deep in his frayed pocket, he rolled the gold ring between his fingertips, feeling its flawless smoothness. Bilbo wondered, not for the first time, why Gollum hadn't used it to hunt him. Not a pleasing thought, that. He'd be long dead and all eaten up by now, nothing but bones for his companions to find if they'd dared or cared to go looking.
Thorin at least ought to have done, Bilbo thought, after I soothed his nerves so by sucking dry that giant forge-tool of his back in Rivendell. Hard and messy work it was, to get his mind off that old grudge against the Elves. True, he gave back as good as he got, but that doesn't quite make us all even yet, if you ask me.
And so it happened that the more that Bilbo twirled his magic ring in his pocket, the angrier his thoughts became, and the more convinced he was that no one in the party, especially not Thorin, would really go to any trouble or risk for his sake, and he should look out for number one from now on.
Now, now, he thought, yanking his hand away. That's no good, no good at all. You are where you are, and you'd best make the best of it until there's no more best to be made.
After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't thoroughly enjoyed having a taste of the moody Dwarf king-in-exile, really taking him down a peg (a very big peg, as it happens, and delicious as these things go), those startled moans of his a sweet music. It was really a great deal of fun with the proud ones, and Bilbo at first had only really been trying to change the subject. He still wasn't sure he'd shown the proper etiquette, having never done anything of the sort with royalty before, although he supposed being on his knees was a reasonable place to start.
Beorn had been very good to them, in his unnerving way. After that strange but cosy house, Bilbo felt well-rested and well-washed and well-fed for the first time since Rivendell, and that left the attentions of his body to turn back to other longings also fulfilled there – which are generally the last thing on one's mind when one is trying not to be gutted by goblins, but rise rather rapidly to the surface when one is calm and safe and in the presence of an unfairly handsome dwarrow-prince who's let it be known he shares that particular type of desire, and demonstrated his proficiency in rousing and satisfying it.
So Bilbo walked, as silently as was his nature, to the place where Thorin drowsed in his bed of fur and leather, propped upon a rock outcropping to make a stoic warrior's pillow, with his skin-bag of mead. Thorin's eyes were not quite closed in sleep yet, they scanned about. In hopes of a tryst? Oh, Bilbo hoped that was what Thorin hoped for. If so, he would gladly give it. His mouth watered to think of tasting, and his hands itched to touch, and suddenly his treacherous fingers slid down the front of his own waistcoat, back into that little pocket, and touched once again the band of gold.
It seemed to stir and warm to his finger. And then Bilbo thought of a very wicked possibility indeed.
He crept as close as he dared around behind Thorin, and when he perceived he'd reached that edge, he slipped the ring onto one finger. And then he came closer.
Now, Bilbo had learned a great deal of stealth on this venture – and he'd also learned something about the reflexes of hardened fighters. The magic ring wouldn't block the swift thrust of a sword through something Thorin couldn't see, Bilbo was certain, so when Bilbo deemed that he'd come as close as he dared, he whispered Thorin's name again and again. When Thorin started at the sound of his voice, hand on Orcrist's hilt, Bilbo announced, so softly, “It's me.”
“Come closer,” Thorin demanded. “Or are you a trick of this unwholesome wood, come out to lure us away in the night?”
“A trick it may be, but if so, it's my trick, and you should know by now that I'm full of them,” Bilbo said. But he obeyed Thorin's request, leaning closer, on his knees in the grass. Light as a silent breeze, he slid his quivering fingers into Thorin's long hair. Thorin jumped and jerked away, grabbing at the hand that had touched him.
But Bilbo was quick and was not caught. “Now, now, none of that,” he said. “Hold still.”
“And be skewered in the dark by wicked magic that speaks with Bilbo's voice and yet cannot be seen?”
“As Bilbo himself sometimes can't be seen, silly stubborn Dwarf,” Bilbo said fondly, and put out his hand again, into the prickly animal fuzz of Thorin's beard, and pulled him around by the jaw to press their lips together in a quick but fierce kiss. When he drew back quickly, he said, “Now how many of your five senses do you need to recognise me? You're only missing one. I should be offended that you can hear and smell and taste me, and yet say you still aren't sure.”
“Perhaps I haven't scented or tasted you nearly enough yet,” said Thorin, beginning to warm a little to the game. Well, he certainly didn't lack for courage, and mayhap his prick was even braver than his ambitious heart. “And it would help to convince me if I could touch as well.”
“Oh, you do understand what I'm getting at, perfectly well.”
“Your intentions are . . . transparent,” Thorin quipped, and Bilbo giggled indulgently, and that was enough for him to slide both hands into Thorin's hair boldly this time. The hand that bore the ring pulled hard, bending Thorin's head back to expose his throat, and then Bilbo pressed his mouth to the thin band of fair skin showing between beard and collar, tugging first with his lips and then his teeth, flicking his tongue against soft fluttering skin.
Then Thorin's big hand was in his hair, and Bilbo chuckled a little against Thorin's neck when the dwarf looked up and saw only his own clenching fingers. The expression on his face was beyond price. And then Thorin's eyes went dark and his hand pulled tight and dragged Bilbo's mouth back up to his own. Thorin's tongue reached out and searched like a mad blind thing, sensing and groping and pushing Bilbo's lips open, making absolutely sure that the feel and the taste of him was real enough – just as he remembered, wet and warm and eager. Thorin gave a deep little hum and held Bilbo's hair fiercely as he tried to push the kiss ever deeper.
“Ow,” Bilbo muttered. “Vambraces off, please. They've snagged my hair. You certainly won't touch anything sensitive with them on.”
With a resentful growl, Thorin pulled his hands back and unbuckled the offending pieces of sharp metal, laying them carefully close to his side as if he expected to need them again soon. Bilbo smiled and crawled over Thorin's body, sinking down and touching. Quickly, one of Thorin's craftsman's hands had hooked fingers through what remained of Bilbo's ragged cravat, tugging him in for another kiss, and the other was trailing calloused fingertips under Bilbo's waistcoat, teasing a nipple through the worn-thin linen, and Bilbo gave him a hopeful moan deep into his mouth.
The Ring affected Bilbo's vision too; Thorin was silvery and blurry to his sight; handsome as always, but fey and fell also; his need became fearsome to Bilbo because he knew, in the long run, he could never fulfill it. They should stop this game, no matter how sharp the pleasure, how intense the hunger. Their desire for each other would grow stronger with use, not lesser. It would deepen. It would weave into their being until it became inextricable. And then, even with the best of outcomes to their quest, there would be no happy ending after all; even in the normal course of years should they be so lucky, Bilbo's span would be briefer, and he would leave Thorin behind with long years to face alone.
A deep voice of knowing whispered terrible things in the back of Bilbo's mind. Your life will be too short and his too long. Or vice versa; it may go that way. Unnatural creatures, unnatural love. Gold-lust and lust-lust. It's too late. I see you.
But Ring or no, Bilbo was a hobbit. Tomorrow might well be terrible, he thought. Like as not. I'll worry about that later – as long as he fucks me well tonight, and I think if I play my cards right, he will.
By now, Thorin had Bilbo's waistcoat undone (no great work, considering his lost buttons), and his shirt as well. Bilbo had much less luck getting access to Thorin's skin – that beautifully wrought mail shirt was not meant to be undone at all, and Bilbo was reduced to running his invisible hands over interlinked metal and a mere memory of Thorin's body beneath.
“I want this off,” Bilbo complained.
“Not so close to the dark wood, little one.”
Bilbo gave a huffy sigh, then leaned forward and explained to Thorin exactly why he didn't like it: “In the house of the Elves, at least we had use of a safe bedchamber. Don't you remember? You were bare in front of me and I could touch you, and I did. You have a splendid coat of hair on your chest, and lovely, mysterious tattoos on your shoulders, and golden rings in your nipples. They're very pretty. I sucked them and played with them, as you recall, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“And I think you enjoyed that, didn't you? My enjoyment of your body?”
“It's true I did like that, yes.”
“Well, if I can't touch you and see you as I like, I think it's only fair you can't see me. Stop sulking. At least you can touch my skin if you want, which is more than I'm getting of you.”
Thorin looked angry for a moment, and then he laughed quietly. “Fair enough. But my hands are well-placed now, and I regret to tell you, most of what I'm touching is cloth. I'm sure it was good Shire cloth in its heyday, but that day is long past...”
“Fine,” Bilbo said, and he lifted himself off Thorin and stood up. He braced a foot on either side of Thorin's legs and began his weird striptease. First to go was the cravat, and that was difficult – the oft-soaked knot was almost locked, and his fingernails were short and broken, and it was hard work to get it undone. But he did eventually, and he peeled it away from his neck and let it drop. Thorin's eyes tracked it immediately as soon as it became visible when it left Bilbo's hand. There was no wind. It drifted to the ground softly but straightly.
His waistcoat came next, and it only became visible when it left his body. His shirt, the same.
Thorin made a strange sound when he heard Bilbo's invisible feet shift and hop, because that meant the hobbit's breeches were coming next. There was an unmistakable soft sound of fingers working laces and buttons, and then an odd little jump, and then the nearly-worn-out breeches came to rest on the ground, completely visible now that they were no longer wrapping Bilbo's hips and legs.
“I'm naked now,” Bilbo declared (which was not entirely true, as he still wore the belt that held the Elven dagger, and – of course – the ring. But he was wearing nothing else at all, so he was naked in spirit, if not in letter). “Still standing over you. Touch me.”
Thorin smiled. He smiled, and it was glorious. Slowly, he ran his hands along the ground until they found Bilbo's toes, and that was a good starting place; in moments, his fingers were running through the soft fur atop Bilbo's feet, stroking and tugging. Confident he'd found a good starting place, his hands circled and squeezed Bilbo's ankles, and went back down to those strangely erotic and compelling patches of hair for a moment, and then ran higher up his shins, curving up around his calves.
Thorin hummed soft and deep, and shook his head a little in self-surprise, as his hands tightened at the back of Bilbo's knees. “Is this a common skill in your Shire? Can your people ever be certain who it really is in their beds?”
“This is not a common trick,” Bilbo said. “I am no common trickster – ” and it broke off with a little cry as Thorin pulled his knees out from under him. He fell forward over Thorin's body, hands landing on broad, solid shoulders. In a flash his mouth was on Thorin's again, giving him quiet moans as those big hands mapped his skin and found him mostly acceptably nude. Bilbo felt himself heating at every touch, and he leaned down to claim and release Thorin's lips again and again, fluttering his tongue in and out between them and tasting teeth and beard and mead. Oh. The combined flavorscent of dwarven king and that sweet honey wine inflamed him.
But there was the matter of the sword belt, which of course Thorin did not miss, least of all when the little Elven dagger clinked in its scabbard and the belt blocked the smooth slide of Thorin's hands down Bilbo's hips. Thorin drew back quickly, doubt in his eyes for a quick moment, sharp and tense.
“I do apologise,” Bilbo whispered. “The closer we get to the wood, the harder I find it is to be parted from it.”
“Beginning to think like a warrior, aren't you?” Thorin said with a relieved smile as he listened for the sounds of unbuckling. Bilbo took a quick jiggle of the hilt, just to make sure there was no sliver of a blue glow. Naught but moonlight. And even Thorin could see that, when Bilbo laid his own belt and blade down by his side, next to Orcrist. “Ah, that's good,” Thorin whispered as his hands could at last make long uninterrupted strokes up and down Bilbo's body. “And besides, my sword is at your service.”
“And it is so very much larger.”
“That may be,” Thorin said, “but in the hands of a brave wielder . . . ” And with that Thorin had found his way round to Bilbo's brave little blade of flesh, standing up proudly from its nest of curls. (It was nothing to be ashamed of, Bilbo well knew; it was of a size well fitting to the Shirefolk, and it had earned no mean share of appreciative second and third glances at the bathing-hole in his youth, and put to good use often in the hedgerows nearby, to no complaints whatsoever.)
But of course it was nothing to the beast he set free by undoing Thorin's laces. As before, Bilbo was set to grasping and stroking, looking at its head rising from its casing of delicate skin like a fat mushroom in the spring, juicy and savoury and fresh. As Bilbo scooted back on his knees to lower his mouth to it again, he said softly, “So tell me, Thorin, if you would teach me the ways of war . . . ”
“I would teach you that and more, but there are some skills you seem to have already well in hand.”
“Thank you for that, and I've been told I have them well in mouth as well. By you yourself once, not so long ago.”
“I may well have said so,” Thorin said. “But I probably wasn't referring to your talk.”
“Now now, I've had it said I'm quite silver-tongued when it suits me to be,” Bilbo said. “If it's my tongue you want, then you should treat me with more resp – OH!” he cried as a meaty hand cradled the back of his head and shoved him down. Oh yes, yes, that's the stubbornness of dwarves, and that's exactly what I'm here for, yes, he thought as he took a physical form of Thorin's pride between his lips and deep into his mouth, sucking and licking with all the hunger that was the only claim to fame of his people. His jaw had to drop and stretch to take its thickness and it began to ache quickly, and he simply could not go all the way down, but he tried, and brought up his deft little hand to do the rest.
~~~
Thorin had been restless since Beorn's hospitality had both restored his company and softened their instincts. There is always a temptation to relax in relative luxury, even such a rough and odd version, and the shapeshifter was moody enough to worry him. Accept too much, take too much, and he'd turn on you in an instant, that was clear. But Thorin couldn't help but wish Beorn had taken more of an interest in their quest. He'd be a good friend to have in the deep, dark wood.
Thorin didn't put much store in the ramblings of Radagast, but stern warnings from Gandalf and Beorn both must have merit. There'd be precious little sweetness up ahead – no honey, no mead, no strong shelter. Just thirteen dwarves and a hobbit and a place that seemed to want them all dead.
Thorin had to admit to himself, if he regretted anything, it was his failure to take the opportunity to show Bilbo a little more appreciation of his private talents. There might not be another chance.
He took a sip of mead, determined to make it last, and listened to the eerie silence all around them. There were no cheerful voices of night birds or insects here, only unsettling cries and whistles far off in the distance, under the hissing trees. Yards away the others were snoring and muttering in their sleep, and the sound of them seemed frighteningly loud and clear, revealing of position, isolated in stillness. And though he could hear nothing, he couldn't shake a sense of a close presence – that he couldn't hear footsteps in the grass, and yet footsteps there were. The moonlight played tricks on his eyes; he thought he saw grass parting in a way that the wind could not answer for – and yet he could not trust all his senses, that much was already clear to him.
He felt the stirrings of a nameless fear, and held the hilt of Orcrist close. It did not glow. If there was a foe present, it was not one that would declare itself so easily. Every hair on his body (and there were many) stood up in small alarm, every sense alerted and he glanced about, desperate to see any movement that would prove him right or wrong, and yet the play of star and shadow deceived his eyes at every turn.
And then he smelled it: the warm sweet-grass scent of Bilbo's hair. And he heard, “it's me,” voiced just above a whisper; Bilbo's voice pitched low and soft, quick to reassure as if Thorin were a spooking pony. I think he could ride me better, Thorin thought. Fight and flight were still there, but dimming in the presence of a third instinct.
So they spoke, and it was the little burglar for certain, with his cheeky manner that made Thorin want to throw him over his knees like a dwarfling talking back – oh, and probably Bilbo would like that.
Still, it was a fearsome thing – to turn to Bilbo and feel the breeze of his breath, but not to see him. Fear still rose in Thorin of a different sort. Bilbo was no foe, but he was uncanny; this was no mere trick of moonlight, no mere burglar's skill nor the natural gift of a small and stealthy race. He was invisible. But not untouchable, no, not with those soft fingers tickling Thorin's beard, palming his jaw and cheek with their summer-warm skin, tightening in his hair with a hint of promising cruelty.
He could see no face close to his. No wide blue eyes to look into. No pointed ears flushing red. No pert little nose to want to bite.
But there was a mouth touching his own, pressing, opening, asking, taking . . . and it had a familiar taste, yes, everything was right, the scent, the voice, the feel of his soft hair. Thorin closed his eyes and plundered that mouth like a drunkard in the dark trying to feel his way home.
When he opened his eyes, for just a second he saw the grassy field, the edge of the wood so dark. And no one in between, not the one kissing him, caressing him, crawling over him, straddling him, begging for his touch all over . . .
Therefore, Thorin's eyes were lying. Therefore there must indeed be more to Bilbo than met the eye – since now, none of him did.
Bilbo was quite right – four senses were more than enough to be sure, and Thorin let the strangeness take him, watching his hand clench on nothing though he felt hair in his hand, heard exciting rustlings and clinkings and gaspings and sighs as Bilbo licked him and bit him.
Let it never be said that Thorin son of Thrain backed down from a challenge, or let fear stand between himself and a worthy prize. He took everything he was given and grasped hard and hungry for more. And when he could feel from the touch of bare feet at the sides of his hips that Bilbo was standing over him, and when one by one items that were unmistakably Bilbo's road-worn gentlehobbit's clothing appeared suddenly in mid-air as they were shed and dropped and drifted down to the ground. Then what Thorin wanted most in that moment was to get himself all over what he knew lay beneath them, now exposed to the cool autumn air.
His fingers found Bilbo's toes in the grass, and ran up them slowly through the soft hair on his feet, up his ankles and his thick, strong calves, to the smooth skin behind his knees. He pulled Bilbo back down on top of him, and learned with his hands what his eyes would not tell him. Not so plump as he had once been. Lither and stronger. Still small. Still insatiably hungry.
~~~
Bilbo occupied himself with his mouthful, just on the edge of too much – no, it would never go completely in, too long and thick, but he had hands to tease and squeeze and a tongue to sense out each tiny detail of ridge and vein, fold and wrinkle, bulbous head and salty slit; he had ears to hear how Thorin's breath and voice rose and fell, directing Bilbo perfectly in how to move, that big hand pushing at his head, not too hard, but heavy and suggestive.
He chuckled for a moment to think what an observer might see – Thorin holding his hand some odd distance over his own cock, writhing and thrusting lightly, as if he were pleasuring himself by magic. He was lost in ways to make this spectacle even stranger, when Thorin grabbed his hair and held him still.
“Yes?” Bilbo asked a little thickly, drooling rather too much.
Thorin's hands ran as far as they would go down Bilbo's back, kneading at invisible muscles, lightly scratching his spine. “It seems unfair that only you get to feast,” Thorin said. “And I am the one who needs to taste more, being deprived of one way to appreciate you.”
“How would you mend that?” Bilbo asked in a husky voice, panting slightly.
“Swing your sweet arse up here to my face,” Thorin whispered. “Let me lick your prick and bite your cheeks.”
Bilbo groaned loudly as heat washed through him. He rearranged himself thus, trying not to trap Thorin's long hair with his knees, shivering at the tickle of Thorin's nose at his balls. “But I can't quite reach . . . ” he whispered, leaning forward as Thorin's rough hands pushed his soft thighs apart and Thorin's beard scratched at the tender skin there, arousing Bilbo to supersensitivity, making little whimpers come from his throat as Thorin's big tongue ran down behind his heavy little sac.
“Oohhhh,” Bilbo breathed as he tried to stretch his torso down long enough to take Thorin's cock deep in his mouth again. He could only get so far as the head between his lips before he started to crawl too far forward, and then Thorin seized him hard by the hips and pulled him upward, burying his face deep in the cleft of Bilbo's arse.
“'S'all I need,” Thorin muttered, muffled. “Don't finish me off, I have another use for you.”
“At your service,” Bilbo moaned as he was probed fiercely. “I see you haven't lost your way to my hole this time – ” cut off by a yelp as Thorin bit and slapped his arse. All right then, Bilbo thought, put your mouth to better use.
Bilbo was distracted by the tongue laving him so thoroughly between his legs, in such private, shameful places – so sensitive, so responsive to it. Thorin's grip on his cock, too loose and teasing to build to his peak but just enough to make him pulsingly hard, and those aching, wet lewd suckings and lickings, just the tip of Thorin's tongue inside for a moment, then just one of his full little stones taken between Thorin's bristly lips, then the other, then . . .
Bilbo concentrated on working just the fat head of Thorin's cock with his lips and tongue, fine detail work, coaxing out a few more of those deep moans that vibrated against him so exquisitely.
Thorin's tongue pressed hard at him, forcing its way inside. Bilbo gasped and bore down on it, even as he pulled at Thorin's cockhead with his mouth, quick sharp strokes that made Thorin push up towards him.
Bilbo looked down at what he could see – Thorin's majestic prick, his thick hairy legs, misty and shadowy in his Ring-sight, and it was not enough for him, even with that delicious devouring at his rear, that craftsman's caress at his cock.
“Thorin,” he said, turning his head. “Have you any of Beorn's butter left?”
“Is my flavor not to your taste?” asked Thorin from between his arse cheeks.
Bilbo sighed and rolled his eyes. “And I might ask the same about mine, stubborn Dwarf. I ask only because I would love to have some grease to make it easier, should I have a desire to take your massive cock up inside me.”
“And you have none left? Oh, of course. You're a hobbit, that's a silly question.”
“I'd hoped you might have saved some. I know dwarves are thrifty, and somewhere down the road, there might be buns to butter.”
Bilbo had never imagined Thorin's hands could move so fast. Apparently his joke was both insulting and correct, for before he could finish chuckling, there was a packet of butter open and a greased finger of Thorin's piercing him deep, right up inside him. Bilbo tried to keep quiet, he really did, but the thrust hit him just right, and then Thorin put another thick finger up there, and was wriggling them so well, coaxing his entrance open, enticing Bilbo to clench and relax, to draw them in and out and rock back against Thorin's hand.
He was gasping, he was panting, he was almost coming, but he also understood the imperative to wait for something even better. The unwrapped pat of yellow butter. The fingers. The fact that he'd lost all focus on Thorin's cock.
The fact that he was invisible, and he could slowly, slowly remove his arse from Thorin's face. Pull away slowly until that finger dropped out of him. Creep down Thorin's body on hands and knees until he reached a good place to turn around.
“If I didn't know better, Thorin Oakenshield, I'd think you meant you want to plough my valley and plant your seed,” Bilbo said, turning down his voice to quiet and promising as he made sure Thorin was aware of his change in position.
“I wouldn't have brought the butter out if I didn't think you wanted to be fucked,” Thorin growled.
“It is a larger tiller than I'm used to, but let it never be said that Bilbo son of Bungo backed down from a challenge,” Bilbo whispered.
“Then back down onto one,” Thorin said.
Bilbo did exactly that, like this: Kneel over Thorin's hips. Breathe the night air. Watch the stars. Calm himself to the point where he could reach his greased hand around behind him and take up Thorin's cock again, to hear the strangled grasp. Spread more butter over it. Lean down on one hand, use the other to work the cockhead against his own wet hole.
Use his own greased fingers to open himself. Swirling them in deep circles. Spreading them apart.
Guide it inside himself. Slowly. Let the weight of his body force the issue; impale himself, sit down, squirm.
Bilbo clenched his fists until his nails bit his palms and the Ring hurt the fingers on either side. Oh, he'd been fucked before, gladly – but that was with hobbit cock, like his own. Thorin's was not shockingly longer, but it was much thicker, and the burn Bilbo was feeling was from girth, not length. No matter.
No matter. He could take it. The burn became good – passing from awkwardness through pain into pleasure. Thorin's face was the most important thing – shadowed and veiled now, half-wild, mist-shrouded, as if he were in a different world from Bilbo. He wanted to get closer, peel Thorin open and tear him apart. Not possible. Just a hobbit. All he could do was lean down on his hands and move his hips just right, rocking Thorin's prick in and out of him.
What was Thorin seeing?
~~~~
Thorin saw only his own cock, weirdly compressed as it thrust up mindlessly into Bilbo's tight heat. Saw the foreskin rocked back again and again, saw its shape contorted by the contours of invisible insides.
And worst of all, it grew blurry. Unharmed, feeling nothing but exquisite pleasure – but grey and dimmed to his sight, misty, a prick befitting a wraith.
The night was dark. The half moon was passing behind clouds. It could be only an illusion.
But his hands that gripped and pulled invisible hips were not so. It was only that one part of him that was deep inside Bilbo's invisible body that had turned so fey.
~~~
With a terrible clarity that Bilbo didn't trust, he saw Thorin looking down, and saw those strong blue eyes turn fearful.
And that made Bilbo feel so very strong. He took that moment to pin Thorin's wrists near his head on the ground – it was farcical to think he could hold Thorin down, and yet in that moment he did – and start to ride him at a gallop. It was all for the good that Thorin could not see him, because he would have seen Bilbo's mild round face split open in a feral sneer.
“Fuck me,” Bilbo whispered, “fuck me harder.” It was a complete lie. He was the one fucking Thorin, not the other way round, and no matter that Thorin planted his feet on the ground and held Bilbo's hips and thrust up into him, Bilbo was always one hard thrust ahead.
Thorin fought back by taking Bilbo's bobbing, pulsing cock in his hand and pumping it in time with the wild, wanton jerks of Bilbo's hips, causing the hobbit to cry out before he caught himself, and muffled his voice in strangled gasps. Pleasure built in him unbearably, within and without, shaking him violently as every muscle clenched, he bit his own tongue, and threw his head back to see the spinning sky in his sharp ache and sweet release.
Thorin saw only the thick spurts of Bilbo's seed as they shot from his cock and landed wetly on Thorin's belly and chest, pearly white against his dark hair. The sight inflamed him, and he spread his legs and thrust up so hard he bounced Bilbo hard on his hips, groaning as he spent himself, emptying his heavy load deep inside Bilbo's body.
Bilbo was shaking now, growing limp and boneless, and Thorin pulled him down to rest on his chest, withdrawing his softening member with patient care, and drawing his heavy fur-lined coat over them both.
“Will you ever tell me how you do this?” Thorin asked quietly at last, when the moon had moved himself a little above them and was gliding into the clouds.
Bilbo groped sleepily for his clothes, but the question woke him up sharply. He could tell. He could take off the Ring, he could show it – he could possibly even let Thorin try it? It might fit the tip of his smallest finger. Perhaps they could try this the other way round sometime?
Something in Bilbo's mind went cold and furious at the very thought. No, he thought, absolutely firmly, and completely sure that the conviction was his own.
He could not answer Thorin that way, though, not when Bilbo had him like this, pleased and playful. “Maybe someday,” he said. “If you're very good to me.”
Thorin's hands were on his hair and his back, thankfully not near Bilbo's hand. “And do you consider what we just did as being good to you?”
“Oh very much so,” Bilbo said. “But you've been awful to me in the past, so you have a lot of good to do to me still before I'll consider it even.”
“I think I will enjoy paying that debt. I would not be beholden,” Thorin said with a little smile. “But I would like to see you now. This game grows wearisome.”
“Fair enough,” Bilbo said, when he was certain his Ring-finger was safely deep inside his jacket pocket. With a little flick and wiggle, the Ring took its place in the pocket. Bilbo pulled his hand away and threaded it again through Thorin's hair, combing out wild sex-tangles, confident that he was now fully visible and must look completely giddy and sated and well-used, lying naked in Thorin's arms.
~~~
It was no small mercy that all the company slept through that night, and happened not to glance over in their king's direction.
But one who did not sleep was high in a brooding beech at wood's edge, and felt little fear of the darkness beyond.
Aüc the Far-Flying, daughter of Roäc, cocked her head and peered her keen eyes quizzically at the movement below. She had seen her fair share of odd mammal behaviour, but she had never heard it said that Durin's folk were wont to mate with empty air. Well, she thought. Perhaps I too would go mad if I couldn't fly.
Fortunately for her, she could and she did. She had grown to distrust the rustlings in the dark wood – and the uncanniness of the spectacle, once her throaty caws of laughter had subsided. She felt a great relief when her wide black wings were safely caught up in the wind. Something was happening that was more than it seemed, and something was waking that would not easily return to sleep. Perhaps Aiwendil could help explain what she had seen – and what she had not.
~end
Enjoy!
AO3 version if you prefer to read it there.