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604to647 · 10 days

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Scherzo (a Barón Tovar Takes a Wife one-shot)

3.1K / Bridgerton AU Regency!Pero Tovar x fem!reader

Scherzo - a short composition – sometimes a movement from a larger work such as a symphony or a sonata

Summary: Your husband takes care of you when you get hurt during your travels.

Warnings: None! All fluff, though reader gets cheeky with her husband cause I mean, it's Pero? Protective!Pero, Soft Husband!Pero (I NEED HIM). A little bit of violence is described where reader gets physically hurt, nothing graphic.

A/N: This was written for @morallyinept's Flora & Fauna challenge; please see #jettsflora&faunachallenge for all the other amazing works by some wonderful authors (I didn't do much with the meanings of the flowers, was just going for ✨vibes✨ - hope it's okay!). I tend to always miss my babies after I complete their series, and can't help but write little one-shots for them to see what they're up to. This is our Regency couple from Barón Tovar Takes a Wife, but you don't need to read it (although it would be cool if you did - I'm kind of proud of this one 😭) - just know our happy Barón and Baronesa are doing what they love the most, which is travelling on the high seas together.

Beautiful Bridgerton inspired dividers by @saradika-graphics 🥰

Truth be told, Naples is not one of Pero’s favourite places to visit in Italy; the Barón much preferred the rolling vineyards of Tuscany or the cultural diversity of Milan. At least it will be a short stay, too short to even arrange for lodging in the city; it was much easier for everyone on the ship to remain staying in their onboard quarters while he oversaw some Royal fleet business with the Italians. It would be just three short weeks before they're set to raise the sails again, this time charting a course up the western Italian coast to the Civitavecchia Port of Rome. He realizes the last time the two of you were in Rome had been when you said your final goodbyes in his youth, parting ways and not meeting again for over ten years; Pero looks forward to strolling the cobblestone streets together once more, this time with you as his bride.

In the meantime, he would try to expedite the matter before him – if the Italian dignitary sitting across from him would acquiesce, perhaps he can still save enough of the day to take you to do some sightseeing before nightfall. Just as the stout man’s mustache twitches at something he’s read on the document Pero gave him, someone bursts into the office, violently banging open the door.

Recognizing one of his trusted footmen, Pero exclaims, “Miguel, could this wait? Signor Romano and I are in the middle of something.”

“No!” cries Miguel, alarmingly, “My apologies, Barón! It is the Baronesa...”

Pero reacts with blinding speed, his chair knocked to the ground from the force with which he stands, “What has happened?!”

“There was a commotion in the square, my lord. Your wife was hur-”

Pero is already out the door, running as fast as he can towards the city square where he knows you and your lady's maid, Lucia, had planned to do some exploring while he was away at meetings. Wind rushing past his ears, he can hear behind him the faint thundering footsteps of Miguel the footman trying to keep up with his master.

When he gets to the square, Pero is stunned to find it in a mild state of chaos – several shops have been vandalized and an overwhelming number people seem to be in a state of mild panic, crying. He scans the crowd and when he finally spots you, he nearly falls to his knees. You’re sitting on the ground next to Lucia who is crying loudly, comforting her the best you can; and while Lucia is clearly emotionally distraught, she appears to be physically unharmed - the same cannot be said for you. Your dress is torn in several places and covered in blood; whose blood Pero does not know, but he realizes, stomach dropping, that some of it at least must be yours when he sees the long bleeding cut down your left forearm. Your beautiful face has at least one messy scrape across your cheek that he can see even at this distance and your lip looks like it’s starting to discolour and swell.

You spot Pero when he is a but few steps away and instantly feel a wave of relief wash over you at the sight of your strong, handsome husband (though you do hate to see the look of panic and terror on his face). Dropping down to your side, Pero immediately cups your face in his warm, bear paw hands, careful not to disturb any of your injuries, “Dulce! How are you?”

You don’t want to tell Pero that your heart is still beating fast from how scared you had felt during the stampede, or how the cuts on your arm and face sting and that your sides and back have started to ache. You know that doing so will only make him feel worse - but you’ve never lied to your husband in all the years you’ve known him so you simply say, truthfully, “Better now that you’re here, Pero.” Melting into the soft tender kiss he presses to your mouth, you try not wince when his soft lips meet your bruised ones but fail miserably. Trying not to shatter in front of you when he hears your pained whimper, Pero wills himself to pull back with a silent reminder to handle you with more care; as he starts to check over your injuries, he asks delicately, “What happened, mi amor?”

One of the sailors who had joined the footmen in accompanying you and Lucia starts to explain before he’s silenced by a glowering look from your husband; Baronesa Tovar is not a woman who needs others to speak for her.

You give the poor sailor a reassuring smile before drawing Pero’s attention back to you and recount for him what happened in the square earlier. Noticing that the Barón's hands have been cold in the mornings as of late, you had headed out today with a mission to purchase your husband some gloves made with the fine leather craftsmanship that the Italians are known for. While admiring the buttery softness of a pair of large leather gloves handed to you by a lovely stall merchant, a fight had broken out across the square between a mob of over twenty large and angry Italian men. The fighting horde continued their bout while moving across the square, barreling into families and unsuspecting people just trying to go about their day. Caught unawares, the pedestrians scattered and ran panicked in an effort to get out the way of the oncoming melee. The fleeing crowd had ran in your direction and you and Lucia could not get out of the way fast enough – pushed down to the ground, in your attempt to shield Lucia as the two of you tried to crawl to the side of the street and away from the mob, your dress had been torn by the flurry of feet as runners stampeded, your body kicked more than once. At one point, someone had produced a pistol and shot at several buildings; and while that effectively ended the fight, several windows had shattered and some of the errant glass had fallen and cut your arm.

Pero feels absolutely sick at the picture his mind conjures of you being physically pushed and kicked, imagining how scared you must have been; he wants nothing more than to sweep you into his arms and comfort you, but without knowing the extent of your injuries, he settles for pressing his forehead to yours and whispering that everything will be okay now. You believe him.

With some difficulty, Pero helps you stand and brings you back to the ship; both of you agreeing that when the doctor is called, it should be to the safety and comfort of your own quarters. Though ever gentle with you, the fearsome scowl on Pero’s face clears a path from the square down to the docks – the deep furrow of his brow accentuating the faded scar over his left eye, as if to challenge anyone who would get between his wife and her safe haven. Calling out for medical supplies and hot water as soon as he’s onboard, Pero leads you to your chambers and sits you on your shared bed before falling to his knees in front of you. Slumping, tension in his strong frame finally dissolving, Pero lays his head in your lap and lets a few tears fall at the relief of finally getting you back home, safe. You stroke your husband’s soft curls lovingly, understanding all of him and letting his devotion wash over you - it brings you a calm that you haven’t felt for several hours now.

In silence, you let Pero tend to your cuts and scrapes, eyes never leaving his handsome face as you watch him concentrate on being gentle with his big, sometimes clumsy hands. Pero washes your face and hands, wiping away all evidence of the time you spent on the hard stone streets of the square, then takes care to thoroughly clean your injuries. When you hiss at the sting from the salve he applies to the cut on your arm, Pero murmurs, “Be good for me, Baronesa,” and distracts you momentarily from the pain with that sweet smile of his that he knows makes you melt.

Finally comes the point that Pero has been dreading; he undresses you carefully to tend to the injuries on your body, hoping none will be too serious. Once he has you stripped to the barest of your undergarments, he takes in the bruising that’s starting to show on your legs, hips and back and thinks he might cry again; his beautiful wife, so brave and strong – he cannot believe you sustained these injuries and still allowed him to move you about as he has without complaint. As if reading his mind, you run a finger through your husband’s scruff that you love so much and try to lighten his mood; nodding towards your discarded dress on the floor, you joke, “I do not think I will be wearing that dress again.”

Half serious, Pero replies, “I think I will bring it to the Polizia tomorrow, when I demand answers for how they allowed what happened in the square to transpire.”

“Pero.”

“Or we throw it over the side of the ship,” he shrugs, a little bit a light returning back to his eyes when he sees your good humour is unscathed; permitting himself to hold you close, Pero breathes his first calm breath since Miguel interrupted his meeting, inhaling your soft perfume. Seeing Pero in a better mood instantly lifts your spirits, and while in the safety of his loving arms, you give him a playful little wiggle and press your barely clad body to his.

“Dulce,” he warns, voice dipping low at your giggles. To show him it’s just a little bit of teasing, you straighten up immediately and allow Pero to run the warm cloth over your body and finish cleaning you up before dressing in your most modest nightgown without any more shenanigans.

The doctor who is called leaves a short while later, declaring that both you and Lucia will be fine and that a few weeks of lightened activity and rest should heal your injuries without issue. It’s not something you’re looking forward to, but you agree with Pero that for the remainder of your time in Naples, it would be better if you recovered from the safety of the ship.

For the first few days, you enjoy the calm and quiet of your vessel, many of the sailors and staff taking the opportunity to enjoy some leave while docked. But as the days go on, with Pero away for most of the day on business, you find yourself getting restless. You read your books and write your letters. You play your piano and even entreat Lucia and whomever remains onboard to play cards with you. From the ship’s deck you can still see much of the city, and even though you have no particular wish to return on this trip (your experience in the square still too fresh), it unfairly beckons to you like a siren. You’re bored. And despite loving your ship, you’re starting to feel cooped up.

Pero does his best each day to finish up his work as quickly as possible so he can return to you, enjoying the warmth of your company and checking for himself that you’re recovering properly. The Barón brings home delicious treats and pretty trinkets for his wife everyday, leaving no doubt that you’re ever on his mind even when apart. And while you love your husband dearly for his thoughtfulness, you cannot help, while enjoying his gifts from within the boundaries of a ship that once represented freedom to you, feeling a bit envious at being unable to go out and procure them for yourself. Pero can tell that you’re feeling a bit out of sorts, not your usual cheerful self; he so hates to see the wings of his pretty dove clipped – it saddens him just as much to see you try to hide your melancholy from him. And although he cannot agree to lift the current restrictions on your movements, he deeply wishes for a way to make your so-called confinement as pleasant as possible.

The morning that marks the start of your last week in Naples, you wake to an absolute ruckus coming from the ship deck; for a moment you feel a stab of fear, unused to such loud noises and voices without having been given some forewarning. You must still be feeling some effects of your recent scare, you think; upon listening a bit more carefully, you relax to the realization that the voices are primarily instructive and even calm. But it’s still much too early for this level of activity from the deck – the footsteps and voices you hear must be from at least double the amount of people you would normally expect to be up at this time of day. Also unusual is that you’ve woken up to an empty bed; every day following the incident in the square, you’ve woken up to your husband curled around you, arms and legs thrown over your body like protective amour. You don’t think you particularly like today’s change, but it makes sense – you can’t imagine whatever is going on outside to be taking place without your Pero’s permission. Not especially looking forward to another day of doing the same things again within the same confines of the ship, you lay in bed for a while longer, at least until the noises start to die down and your curiosity gets the better of you.

The sight that greets you as you open the door to the deck nearly knocks you off your feet. Somehow, it’s not a wooden ship’s deck that you’re now gazing upon, but a colourful and enchantingly idyllic scene, something that could have been painted by a great master of the arts. For a moment, you have to pinch yourself, is this a dream?

You step through the doorway from the ship’s hold into an ethereal garden – blooming flowers have overtaken every inch of the ship’s deck: thick braided garlands of roses, violets, and peonies wrap wondrously around every one of the ship’s railings, big bright pots of lilacs, azaleas and irises line the sides of the ship and surround a makeshift sitting area where some garden furniture you’ve never seen before has been arranged. Even the mast has been decorated to look like a spring maypole, intertwining vines of clematis and jasmine crisscross all the way down from the crow’s nest so tightly you can barely see any of the dark wood that normally centres your great vessel. Every bow is positively dripping with wisterias, reminding you for a moment of your beloved Bridgerton House. You walk slowly through the dreamlike scene, weaving between the lush plants and the fresh, bold flowers. Brushing your hand over the railing as you meander, your fingertips flutter at the soft feel of the blooming petals and your eyes brighten at the rainbow hues that paint every perimeter inch of the ship. Your nose breathes in the sweet and intoxicating floral scent that now dances lightly in the air. You close your eyes and inhale. Your eyes open again with a soft exhale. Repeat.

You’re turning around slowly, trying to take in the entirety of your magical surroundings when your eyes land on your beaming husband, standing like a handsome faerie king holding an exquisite bouquet of your favourite peonies in his hand, waiting for his pretty queen to take in all his hard work. Despite the residual pain you still feel a bit in your sides, you launch yourself into Pero’s arms, throwing your own around his neck and passionately press your lips to his. Mouth opening, you let Pero lick in and explore, before pulling yourself up onto your toes and suck on his tongue eagerly. Pero pulls you in tightly and when he feels your tongue stroke behind his teeth, lets loose a deep vibrating hum of want that reverberates through you, straight to your core. With a quick nibble to your bottom lip and a few chasing flutter kisses, Pero reluctantly pulls away; he’s sure there are curious eyes all over the ship deck, even if they are currently concealed by the splendid greenery that’s overtaken the space.

When he steps back look at you, the expression on your face almost gives Pero enough reason to throw modesty and decorum out the window, grab at your enticing curves and throw you down amidst the lush fauna he’s brought onto the ship to have his way with you. Almost. Your eyes shine bright and twinkle, there’s a fresh glow to your cheeks, and your smile is the widest that he’s seen in weeks: you’re alive again.

“Pero,” you cry in bliss, “what is all this?”

The Barón gently cradles your head in his hand and reverently strokes the soft hair of his beloved Baronesa, “Mi amor, I could tell that staying confined to the ship has not been agreeing with you. If you cannot go out to explore and play in the wide world, then I will do my best to bring the wide world to you. Now, instead of a cold, dreary ship deck, I hope you will enjoy the remainder of the week before we set sail in your own private garden.”

You could cry – what did you ever do to deserve the love and devotion of your perfect husband? He forever thinks of your comfort and the wellness of your heart – but he does so much more than just take care of you or do things that make you happy, he’s the reason for your joy, for your very being. You cannot stop murmuring, Thank you thank you thank you, into his chest as he holds you close, not only to him but for him.

The flowers last a week which is precisely how long you need them to last. During those final days before your fleet sets sail, you find yourself soothed every time you enter or sit in your personal secret garden; second, by the tranquility and peacefulness of your botanical hideaway, and first, by the knowledge that you have the love of the kindest, sweetest man on earth.

Leaning now along the once again bare wood railing, with the salty sea wind blowing through your hair, you feel a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist. The patchy facial hair of your husband tickles your cheek as he presses a sweet kiss to your temple and whispers in your ear, “Happy to be on our way, Dulce?”

Turning in his arms, you snuggle into his safe hold; tucking yourself under his chin, you sigh into Pero’s neck, “Just happy, mi amor.”

#jettsflora&faunachallenge #pero tovar #regency!pero tovar #pero tovar fic #pero tovar fanfiction #bridgerton au #pero tovar series #pero tovar x you #pero tovar x f!reader #pero tovar x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #no y/n

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milky-aeons · 2 months

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𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆

౨ৎ . . . in which prince GOJO SATORU must keep quiet in lieu of his lover's surprise guests.

warnings: m!reader, prince!reader, aladdin!au, established relationship, swearing, bondage, gag-play, gag-speech, exhibitionism, mentions of marriage, sexual content, oral giving (m!reader), mdni, w.c 3.8k

♪ . . . ˗ˏˋ ꒰ supernatural — ariana grande ꒱ ˎˊ-

The country of Agrabah boasted extreme temperatures at this time of year. Solace from the scorching rays could only be reached in shaded corners, at the banks of the River Jordan, or behind the walls of small settlements with their tarps pulled shut. There was never many citizens to see out on the cobbled streets at high noon.

But in this throne room, one of the many stray guards thought, a cold lick of sweat trickling down his back, one would not think they resided in the sunny Middle East. But, perhaps, an igloo in the Antarctic.

"You are showing improper manners when in the company of your Sultan, son and prince of mine."

"Eh, that so? Go tell someone who cares."

Chasing after those drawled words was a harsh pop when the prince cracked his neck. He rubbed the spot soothingly, then rolled his head the other way, hoping to do the same.

Every soldier lining the golden walls shared a wayward look. From high up on the platform with which he sat; the Sultan — His Majesty, the Ruler of these lands — twitched his eyebrow.

"Really. You do understand I could have your head right this moment. Delivered to me on a golden platter?" He hissed at his son. When there was no reaction from the troublesome prince, the Sultan's temper flared — he shot to his feet, red-faced, and barked, "Satoru!"

Prince Satoru grumbled at the shrill voice splitting the air. He sunk down deeper into the lounge, as if hoping it would swallow him whole and release him from whatever the hell this was meant to be.

"Oi, oi, old man," He griped, digging a finger into his ear. "You sure yellin' like that is good for you, right now? You could keel over at any second, ya'know?"

Metal clanged softly as each of the soldier's guard shifted to grip their sabres — their Sultan was livid; he was flushed and fuming and looked just about ready to mete out an execution warrant. For his own son. Their muscles tensed, nerves on fire. Because of course, they would obey anything and everything their Majesty ordered of them as sworn militants to his hand.

But everyone in Agrabah's fine Palace walls knew that fighting the Prince Gojo Satoru was a losing battle before it could even begin.

To their relief, the stout Sultan let out a long, grieved sigh, and sunk back down onto his perch.

"Must you make every conversation a task with you?" He grumbled, rubbing a beringed hand down his face.

Satoru's face stretched into a smile. "And lose the fun of riling you up? Not a chance."

Prince Satoru leaned up and bowed his body into a stretch. Decorative chains, golden pendants and all other jewellery this royal was adorned with clinked together through the movement. He collapsed onto the cushions once more. "So?" He moaned. "You didn't drag me all the way to the throne room just'a scold me. Whaddya want?"

"What I want," His father spat, emphasising the word like it was venom. "Is to talk about your nuptial duties you have been conveniently ignoring."

"Don't know what you're talkin' about." Satoru hummed. His eyes had wandered to the great furry beast that had taken interest to prowl his way. Striped and deadly — one of the many Palace pets butted his head into Satoru's palm when he held it out affectionately. "Neither does Rajah, actually." He added, gesturing to the massive tiger that had curled up at his feet.

A cool stare was all he was answered with. When the Sultan spoke again, it was dripping with impatience, "You may play the fool all you wish, boy, but the fact will always stand that you are to take this throne one day. And for that to be a smooth, successful transition, you must show unity. You must take a partner to make your ruler, alongside you."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm already one step ahead of ya there" Satoru said. "I've already got my someone, don't I?"

"If who you refer to is that low-life prince you have been rolling in the sand with—"

"Oi." Satoru raised his voice. The single syllable carried the impact of a whipcrack. "Watch it, old man."

But the Sultan surged forward. "You can not possibly believe to take the throne with a prince from such a disgraceful family as your—!"

BANG!

The sound of the lounge chair hitting the floor jarred everyone in the throne room; even those most seasoned in battle gave a flinch. Rajah hissed and growled; one poor maiden had become so startled she let the palm leaf she had been using to fan her Majesty clatter to the stone tiles below.

Satoru stood to his unbelievable towering height. All the fine robes and silks he wore draped over his body exposed flesh that tightened in rage. He practically vibrated. And his eyes — how they blazed. A radiant blue fire that contested with droplet sapphires hanging draped around his waist.

He glared up at the Sultan, his voice like a winter storm, "Let another fucking word come out of your wrinkly mouth about him and see what happens. Go on. I dare ya."

Perilous silence fell and settled against everyone's shoulders. No one dared move — which emboldened Satoru to take a step forward, raising his chin in that brave gesture he always had since he was but a fledgling boy.

"That's what I thought. Now, why don't I make somethin' clear? When you finally cough one too many times and bite the dust — it will be me that sits up on that throne, and it will be him who stands by my side. It's gonna be him that all those civilians bow down to; who they marvel and respect. And not because of what family he was popped out of — but because he is just that fuckin' awesome. There's nothin' that's gonna change my mind. Either I take him to be my husband, or walk and leave your Palace empty and dusty. Do I make myself damn clear?"

Perhaps it was because he was too stunned at his son's gall that the Sultan refused to answer — his dark eyes wide and startled, his lips twitching with words but no sound. Or, perhaps it was because this ruler had realised something; that he was a fool. An oblivious fool for not noticing sooner how deep his heir's relationship stretched with the prince residing on the other side of the River Jordan, and what repercussions it was bound to have.

"Good." Satoru chirped when no one spoke a word, his expression suddenly sweet and silly. With one smooth movement did he twirl on his heel and sauntered right out of his father's throne room.

The grape was ripe and juicy as you popped it into your mouth, delighting in its tart sweetness spreading over your tongue. You smiled wide around your mouthful, grabbing another.

"Is the fruit to your liking, your Majesty?"

The question had come from the older, scarier gentleman of your guard who stood closest to you on the balcony. Of course, there was a specific reason he had asked that question — one that involved powerplay, that taught the young servant holding the fruits tray a lesson in subservience. You glanced over your shoulder to him, then to the little boy whose arms had begun to shake in poorly concealed terror.

You held the servant's watery eyes for one second, two. Then let a smile beam across your expression.

"Why, it's wonderful! I think it might be the best fruit of the season. And this young man here has prepared them quite well," A small yelp squeaked out of the boy when you swooped down to steal the platter from his hands — who knows what your guard would do if he dropped it. "Make sure his family are treated well for this, won't you?" You directed at your guard.

The solider stiffened to solute. "Yes, sir."

But you saw the stormy dissatisfaction that raced across his eyes — you must not be so soft-hearted to your servants, you could already hear him scolding you later that evening; when the sun had set and the walls no longer had ears — a strong prince does not give all his riches to commoners, he must bet on the winning piece that occupies the chess board.

The servant-boy looked unsure as to what to do with himself — his eyes flickering nervously from your face to the tray in your lap. Smiling, you leaned down from your perch on the stone balcony, and lay a soft hand on his shoulder.

"You may go now, boy. Tell your father you have done well, today."

An emotion that looked stuck between shock and elation contorted his tan skin — but he nodded feverously. And then ducked underneath your dozens of guards to race down the Palace halls.

"Such a sprightly little man." You chuckled, listening to the slapping of his sandals get quieter the further he got. "I think you were about to make him cry, Abdul."

"If he were a man," Your guard spoke in his characteristic monotone. "He would have no need for tears."

"But if he were a child?"

"Maybe you should listen to your stick-in-the-ass guard!" A voice shouted from somewhere down below. Familiar and fond; eliciting a thousand racing sparks flickering across your skin. "I'd hate to see ya overthrown by some crooks just 'cause you're such a softy, y'know~!"

Immediately, as if were almost instinctive at this point to follow his voice, you threw yourself over the edge of the balcony. And there he was — the absolute demon of a man — standing perched on the roof of one of your lower palace buildings. Prince Gojo Satoru had a hand shielding his eyes from the sun — but even from all the way up here, you felt them against your skin — you felt the promise and the intensity and the love he always held in them.

You mirrored his wicked grin — although no where near its dazzling mischievousness.

"Well, you are on the wrong side of the River Jordan!" You yelled down to him. "This is a surprise. Surely a prince such as yourself would not notice a part of his concubine missing if I were to disappear, now would you?"

Satoru did not say anything in response to your tease. Instead, he dropped his hand and positioned them on the stones of your Palace walls. His shoulder muscles tensed and bunched when he lifted his body weight to climb — brick by brick, rock by rock, until his pale fingers curled around the lip of your balcony's edge.

He heaved himself up in one rush — so strong, so Satoru — until he could surge up and collide his lips with your surprised ones.

"Don't say shit like that." He rasped when you broke free, intending to greet him properly — but Satoru just placed a large hand to the back of your head and pulled you in, again.

His kiss was not punishing — but it was fuelled by something; a simmering emotion hiding behind the surface of his princely mask. You hummed into his mouth, accommodating him by twining your fingers into his soft hair, but you gasped when he tilted his head and deepened your kiss into one that was a lot more hot, a lot more needy and desperate.

You waved your guard away mindlessly when Satoru climbed over the balcony — still keeping your lips locked. He was like a bull on a one-track mission, a beast ready to devour you. He did not give you but a moment to breathe. He clawed at your short tufts of hair so he tilted your head back; delving his tongue deep and thick into your mouth.

You could not help the moan that tore up your throat at his relentless pursuit, feeling his hands roving down your broad back, the fabrics on your waist. When he reached around to grip your ass, you gasped, breaking his insistent kiss. Satoru was not deterred; he buried his face into the crook of your neck and suckled softly and your sensitive skin — grinding your bodies together.

"You—ah!" You gripped at his muscular shoulders for balance as he found your sweet spot just below your ear — and attacked with hungry need. "Your shoulders are tense, my love. Another... run in with your father? Or are you just aching to have me?"

The ferocious growl that rumbled through his chest was all the answer you needed. "Both." He heaved, resurfacing to look at you. And oh, how you would never get used to the beauty of him. Even when he was wearing a grumpy frown and had his eyebrows knit. He tilted his large body forward so as to touch your forehead with his. "Fuckin' geezer. Pisses me off."

You ran soothing paths up and down his bare arms, trying to work some of the tension out of his muscles. Some part of you knew what had upset him so — for it had been the same yesterday, and the day before. Now that Prince Gojo Satoru was approaching his third decade, the Sultan had become increasingly persistent on pushing his marriage date forward and finding a suitable partner for him. And you — even with your princely title — had not won his father's favour.

"It may not be so bad," You whispered quietly as you both shared breath. "I could still be part of your concubine. You would have me and make your father happy, still."

Satoru was still for a moment — those moonlight lashes so divine fanned across his cheeks. Then, he shook his head slowly. He leaned in to capture your lips in a sweet kiss — lingering, so he could whisper the words, "Nah. I want more than that. I wanna put a crown on your head."

His kisses resumed; but they were lighter and less pent up. They made you giggle. You backtracked until both of you stumbled into the cashmere curtains of your balcony doorway. It was then that you turned and intertwined his fingers in his, leading him down one of the expansive Palace hallways.

"Come, then," You whispered, letting all of your sinful intentions bleed into the honey of your voice. Satoru's cock gave a near-painful twitch at that look in your eyes — the type that could tempt an angel into corruption. "Let me take your mind off of it."

Situations that left the Gojo Satoru caught off guard were few and far-between. He was a spontaneous guy — usually, it was him that was doing the catching off guard and the situation making.

But as he tugged experimentally at the rope bound around his wrists and connected to a particularly heavy cabinet, he wondered when you had gotten so creative.

"What books have you been readin', hm?" He asked you coyly. From your perch straddling the man against his tight waist, you leaned forward, spreading your hands teasingly against his pectorals. They flexed underneath you touch, making you smirk.

"Oh, you know; princely readings. Summaries of monthly trades, correspondence from other cities... have you been tending to your large pile of paperwork, actually?"

Satoru hummed, knowing you were teasing him. He was just about to fire back something equally as cheeky when you bore down on him — rubbing your ass against his straining cock. The air caught in his throat and he groaned, pulling instinctively at his restraints. You had also looped a snake of golden rope around his legs in intricately woven knots — holding him securely down to the ground.

"Does that feel good?" You purred, feeling how your own cock ached for some friction of its own. But not yet — this was all about his needs for the moment and taking his mind only to you.

Satoru's teeth gleamed through his growl. "Fuck. I hope ya don't like this dresser too much," He gave another tug on his binds. "Might break the leg off of it if ya keep this up."

"Oh, but I have a better idea."

It was in that moment that you produced a slip of silk from around your pants — a little bit too long for what you had in mind, but thick and sturdy enough to do a good job at it.

You positioned the sliver in front of Satoru's mouth — motioning to what you were about to do. The predatory gleam in his eyes told you he understood all too well, but just to be sure, you whispered, "May I?"

In response, Satoru opened his mouth to clamp down on the silk gag, then settled back onto the cushion and let you do the rest. And with slow, precise movements, you carded the silk through his white hair and secured it at the back — leaning away to marvel at your handiwork; the Prince Gojo Satoru, bound and gagged at your mercy for you to tease.

You chuckled, circling a finger around one of his taut nipples. "I think I like you like this."

"You gon'th lich me enogh, ahreaghy?" He spoke around the gag and gave a particularly punishing thrust of his hips upwards that you almost collapsed onto him.

But it was almost time.

You braced against his chest to leave a sweet kiss against his flushed cheek. "I will be back in one moment, my love." Your whisper fluttered against his skin — and then, you had lifted up off of him and disappeared behind the screen which shielded you both.

Satoru voiced in the form of a guttural groan how he felt about being left like this when you decided to tend to something else. He adjusted his tongue so that it sat comfortably behind the gag, he shifted his hips upwards, rocking them in a rhythm to try relieve even a modicum of pressure that was building up in his cock. His stiff erection tented his silks; it created a small damp spot where his tip leaked — ready and wanting. He grunted, exhaling a hot plume of air. How much longer did you expect him to wait?

A soft creaking permeated the air as two large doors were pulled open — finally. He was going to fuck you until you didn't know your own name. After, of course, you rode his cock with him bound like this. He needed you so gods-damned bad that it hurt—

"Welcome, welcome, my wonderful guests!"

The blood froze cold in Satoru's veins.

That was your voice — and not just your voice, but your formal one. The one you perfected for hosting dinner parties or parrying with diplomats during important business affairs. Satoru strained to listen; and sure enough, there came the impending patters of a dozen or so footsteps flooding into the room.

"Thank you for having us." Shoko Ieiri; Village Doctor, said in her dulcet voice.

"It's rather beautiful." One of the famed Palace Diplomats; Nanami Kento.

"It could use a few stuffed animals, I think." Yaga Masamichi — head Royal Tutor — clicked his tongue.

The voices of others floated through the air afterwards; all of which Prince Satoru recognised. Agrabah was not a large city, and those in the upper echelon kept very close to those with Royal blood. Kiyotaka Ijichi; Utahime Iori; Gakuganji Yoshinobu; among others — they all congregated in the Palace room where he was bound and gagged. Satoru's blood fled into his face and neck. He turned his head, listening for even the slightest step towards his hidden corner.

What the hell were you thinking?!

But as the din of conversation sparked and he was huddled here, trying to keep quiet, the adrenaline in Gojo Satoru's veins took on a different form. There was something exhilarating about being caught like this; him, a Prince in waiting for the Throne, and here he was in his most exposed form. He could hear you gliding around the floor, engaging your guests in light, cordial conversation like you had not been grinding on top of him moments before. The thought of it all — he found the blood rushing back to the head of his cock; now twitching, begging to be touched.

His whole body felt hot. It took an exercise in strength to not let out loud, heady pants as his body worked itself up to its own fever pitch. He was held so tight — he needed you, he needed you to ride him right now while everyone else was oblivious outside of the hidden screen door.

Then, your voice rose over the crowd, "Please, do make yourselves comfortable. There shall be drinks and delicacies on the way. I have been called away momentarily, as all Princes are, but do not worry — I shall return soon."

A gentle chorus of affirmations followed your announcement. There was the soft whisper of sandals against polished stone floors until they came right outside the hidden screen door. You were suddenly there, stepping into the small corner, locking eyes with your lover who looked both very happy and very cross to see you.

"Oh, you poor thing. Have I been neglecting you?" You cooed softly, coming down to kneel beside him.

Satoru's entire body was raw and flushed — there was a fine glisten of sweat that made his heaving chest glow. Your mouth dried out at the sight of him. He rounded his frustrated blue eyes on you in a tempered glare.

"Wth ah you thnkn?" Satoru growled around his gag.

You gave him a sly little grin. And then reached over to palm his pulsing erection. Satoru stuttered, and then knocked his head back, a full body shiver racing through his bones.

"My, my," You whispered, dipping underneath the silks damp from his sweat and holding him in your grip. His skin burned, the swollen tip of him wept pearls of white. You gathered it up on your thumb and pulsed down the shaft — working him quick and feverously. "You're so hard, my love. Do you like the stakes when they're so high? Does it turn you on so?"

Satoru's body was bucking in time with your hand movements, his hips thrusting savagely. You absolutely could not help yourself when you bowed down to take his girth into your mouth. The moan you let out was low, strangled — Satoru was tugging on his restraints so hard that your dresser gave a massive whine.

You lapped at him with greed. Tongue dancing down his length and then around his tip, loving how the movement made Satoru raise his entire torso upwards; needing to feel more of your mouth, wanting to hit the back of your throat and have you swallow every last drop of him.

Your hand lashed out to keep him steady when he came; hard and hot and so much spilling down your throat. Satoru turned to bury his head into the pillow, biting down to stop him from screaming with the pleasure of it. You resurfaced, licking your shining lips and swallowing — savouring the taste of him.

You were both heaving hard and heavy when you leaned over to place a loving kiss to his mouth.

"We better clean up, my Prince," You whispered on his lips. "There are guests for us to attend to."

✎ . . . requested by lovely @princeasimdiya12

WRITING REQUESTS

#jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #gojo x reader smut #🎋 — writing requests #💓 — thump

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shadeysprings · 1 year

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The Princess of Asgard

—Loki x F!Reader

Summary: Your supposed vacation on Asgard takes an unexpected turn.

Warnings: kidnapping, non-consensual arranged marriage, betrayal & violence.

A/N: Written for @lokisgoodgirl as they've been wanting some Dark!Loki recently. Ngl, I do miss writing him. Un-beta so may be meh.

Your feedbacks and reblogs are highly appreciated. Support Content Creators! And I hope you guys enjoy! ❤️

The tears continue streaming down your face as you stare at your reflection in the vast mirror hanging on the wall. The emerald gown you were forced to wear shimmers beautifully against the light of your chambers and you wish you could appreciate such a delicate garment, to bask at the regality being laid upon your feet.

But you can’t, not even a shred of happiness can be found within, for such gifts have come with a price, one you know deep down you cannot pay.

You blame your naivety, for it’s what brought you into your situation in the first place. The excitement burst from you when Thor and his brother, Loki, invited you to see their home. The stories of Asgard have held a vice on you since you were young, mesmerized at how beautiful the images scholars painted of a place they’ve never seen before. And being given that opportunity, to witness what no one else on earth has, was too irresistible not to take.

“What are you wearing?” Loki asks upon seeing you when you open the door, his eyes trailing down your body before stopping at your face.

“Oh, am I underdressed?” You ask, looking down at the graphic tee and canvas shorts you put on that morning. “I just thought of dressing light since it’s summer here.”

“Not at all, darling.” He smiles before ushering himself into your room along with a stout middle-aged woman with stacks of fabric nestled in her arms. “But I was thinking you would dress like an Asgardian during your stay here.”

The woman, who Loki introduces as Thyra, lays the assortment of fabric on the foot of your bed, dresses of silk and satin, looking delicate to the touch. You look up at Loki, eyes wide in disbelief and awe.

“Take your pick.” He instructs but nears the emerald dress all the same and runs his fingers against its skirts. “But I personally think you would look good in this.”

You scan the garments, the gold and beige sitting idly on the mattress, both in the same cut and style. Only the emerald dress stands out from the bunch, looking regal and elegant. But regardless of his suggestion, your eyes still land on the beige, hand reaching over to caress the silk before taking it.

“But this would look more in season, don’t you think?” You tell him, a smile playing on your lips. He smiles back but you can’t help but notice how it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Though after that morning, the dresses presented to you were all of the same color, emerald fabrics dancing against the lights of your room, leaving you no choice but to wear the green thrust upon you.

Your first week on Asgard was spent touring the palace and the outer grounds, Loki always at your side, arm intertwined with yours as he introduced you to his friends, along with the other lords and ladies in Thor’s court. A feast was even thrown in your honor, and even if you found the extravagant event fun and entertaining, the way you were regarded by royals and commoners alike threw you off guard.

But it didn’t stop there. Even after the feast, people bowed at your wake and called you princess, the title off-putting considering you were not close to such status, a mere civilian and average citizen on earth.

You thought they were doing so to show respect to the king and the prince’s visitor, but that one-morning exchange with Thyra, when she entered your room without your permission and started laying out a dress on the top of your bed, told you otherwise.

“It’s unheard of in all the realms for a princess to dress herself.” Thyra says in disbelief when you try to dismiss her. “I would not want the prince to scold me for not doing my work accordingly.”

“Oh—but I’m not a princess.” You tell her with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Not yet.” She simply responds before bending low and turning to leave.

And that chance encounters with Lord Fandral as you walked through the corridors of the palace alone.

“Are you lost, princess?” He asks.

You don’t understand why you’re being addressed as such. Is it customary to give visitors of the royals such titles?

With your brain too muddled with errant thoughts, you choose to brush it off and ask Loki later why they are treating you as such, you give the golden lord a smile and ask him where you can find the kitchen.

“I’d be happy to escort you, princess.” Lord Fandral says with a smile as he offers his hand for you to take.

As the days turn into weeks, the once magnificent palace felt all too suffocating; with Thyra’s constant insistence to serve you, the whispers you heard from the servants as you walked past them, and most of all, Loki’s indifference each time you asked him why you are being treated in such a weird way.

Until that day, all the answers were finally laid at your feet.

“Darling, Thyra has told me that—what are you doing?”

You don’t spare Loki a glance, irritation filling your senses as you pack all your things. “I’m leaving. I thought visiting Asgard would be great but things here are just fucking weird.” You spit, shoving your clothes in your duffel but stopping when Loki places a hand over your bag.

“You will do no such thing.” He says and you scowl up at him, but your anger shifts into curiosity, and your spine shivers when you see the seriousness in his emerald eyes. “You’re not to leave Asgard until I say so.”

“Why?!” You push his hand away and try to grab your bag but he latches onto the strap, pulling it completely from your grasp, and throws it on the ground. “What the fuck?! You can’t keep me here, Loki! I’m telling Thor and you won’t be welcomed back to the compound!”

“Go on then. He’s in the throne room right now.” He says, moving away and gesturing to the door. But the tone of his voice, calm and resolute, has fear crawling up your skin.

Yet still, you push on and walk past him, marching yourself through the halls as you try to navigate your way. You sense Loki following behind, but give him no mind, though once you find yourself lost, his chuckle resounds in your ear and you stiffen when his hand rests at the small of your back and whispers, “Just through here, darling.”

He leads you through a set of double doors and you look ahead to see Thor sitting on the throne, Mjolnir laying inanimate at his feet while addressing the people surrounding him.

His eyes meet yours and he smiles, dismissing his subjects when you march up to him. But the friendly smile fades when you stomp up the steps, a frown playing on his lips. “My lady, you seem to be in distress.”

“Hell yeah, I am.” You almost shout, pointing an accusing finger at Loki who stops at the foot of the steps. “Your brother is being an asshole. He said I can’t leave Asgard without his permission.”

Thor looks startled at your words, eyes shifting to his brother and then to you. “But why would you leave Asgard when you’re to be wed?”

You stiffen at the word. Wed? What does he mean? Your eyes dart to Loki who casually stands by the steps before climbing up toward you. He reaches for your hand but you quickly pull away, your eyes focused on him before looking at Thor who stands from his seat.

“Have you not told her, brother?” Thor asks, but his eyes remain on you.

“Told me what?!” You respond in a rush, panic rolling through your veins.

“I was supposed to while we ate breakfast but she banished her handmaiden and I caught her packing her things.”

Thor sighs but chuckles after. “Loki, you know midgardians are more unrefined in these situations than us.”

“I took your word into account, brother. Thought I would break it to her gen—”

“What the fuck are you both talking about?!” You shout, anger and fear mixing within you. “What the hell is happening?! What are you not telling me?!”

“Do you want to tell her or should I?” Thor asks his brother and Loki simply grins, giving a solemn bow to his brother. Thor faces you, blue eyes serious yet full of mirth. “You’ve accepted my brother’s gifts, have you not?”

“Gifts?”

“The dress.” He waves a hand in your direction and you look down at the green silk hanging from your shoulders. “You wear his colors, you’ve accepted his invitation to come home with him. Your chambers, adjacent to the prince’s, and a handmaiden for you to use as you please. Each one deserving of a princess.”

“But—” You stammer and shake your head. They can’t be gifts, you never even thought them to be; simply thinking that everything was part of Asgardian culture and you were not one to question their way of life. “I didn’t know they were gifts. I thought they—”

“I thought you were a smart girl but you’ve proved me wrong, little one.” Thor laughs and waves to his brother. “Enlighten her with the situation, we can’t have a scene played before the court on the day of the wedding.”

“But what if I decline?” Your voice trembles as you speak, body shaking as everything starts to make sense; why everyone calls you princess, Loki’s looming presence, and Thyra forcing you to wear the dresses instead of putting on the ones you brought with you. “I should get to decide, shouldn’t I?”

“But the decision has already been made,” Loki rebuts and you take a step back when he steps closer. “And it is seen as treason and punishable by death to go against the will of the royal family.”

You blink slowly, the air leaving your lungs as you try to process all the information that has just been said. You can’t get married, Loki may be handsome but you have no feelings for him. You feel betrayed, played with, and the pain feels too overwhelming as you saw the brothers to be your friends.

Why would they trick you? What have you done to merit such devious intent?

“It will be easier once you’ve had some food in you, darling.” Your eyes meet Loki’s when he stands close to you, his hand wrapping around your arm, thumb gently caressing your skin. “And realize that being my wife would be the best thing that has ever happened to you.”

You don’t want to agree. What the hell do they know about what’s best for you and what’s not? But you don’t fight back, instead, you nod and allow Loki to take your hand, bowing your head to Thor before following his brother out of the vast throne room.

But as soon as you pass by the doors, the guards closing them at your wake, you stomp down on Loki’s foot and clench your fists before thrusting it towards his neck, making the god stumble back while he chokes.

You don’t waste any more time and run as fast as you can, sprinting through the halls and staggering down the stairs. Several servants squeal in shock at your wake but you give them no mind, set on finding your way out of the palace and towards the bridge that you once crossed when you arrived.

Several footsteps stomp behind you and you push further, urging yourself to run faster. You can hide in the forest once you leave the palace and plan from there. All you want now and all you can do is get away from Loki and his brother and hope that you can find someone to help you and take you back home.

But you grunt when something solid catches your waist, your back pressing hard against a surface that you soon realize is someone’s chest. You try to pull away, clawing on the arm that restrains you to set yourself free, but you whimper when you feel the edge of a blade pressing against your neck, tilting your head back to avoid being cut.

“I will not be insulted by your insolence, darling.” Loki drawls against your ear. “I have been very patient with you, I have been kind. You do not want to test these waters only to end up drowning.”

“Please, Loki.” You cry and hiss when he breaks the skin, the metallic tang of your blood wafting in the air. “Why are you doing this? I thought we were friends.”

He chuckles and you let out a breath when the blade leaves your neck. But such reprieve is lost when his fingers wrap around your throat, his nose trailing down your temple and to your cheek then pressing a soft kiss against your skin.

“Well, darling,” He breathes, feeling rather than seeing his grin. “You thought wrong.”

Quickly, you wipe your tears away when you hear the door of your room open. You keep still, hearing soft footsteps pad through the open room and into the bedchamber, your body going stiff when you see Loki’s reflection in the mirror and resting his hands on your shoulder.

“I hope those are happy tears, darling.” He says as he greets you with a kiss on the cheek. “Today is a joyous day and I expect nothing but.”

You stay silent, unsure how to respond for you feel the opposite of happy. You’re trapped, kidnapped, into a foreign land, and betrayed by the people you’ve spent years who you trusted, and depended on to keep you safe.

Your eyes then shift to the side when Loki holds up a necklace with an emerald crystal hanging by the chain. He takes the liberty of clasping the chain around your neck, whimpers leaving your lips when his hand grazes the tops of your breasts, his finger caressing the jewel that sits on your cleavage.

“A beautiful present for my bride.” He whispers, the words stabbing your chest and you can’t help the tears from spilling once again. His brow furrows, turning you from the mirror to face him and you look down when he cups your cheek. “What’s the matter, darling? Do you not like it?” He asks. “I can get you another one, a bigger one if that’s what you want.”

“I want to go home.” You blurt out and cover your face as you sob against your palms. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

Loki then pinches your chin, making you wince and you drop your hands to your sides when he lifts your head and forces you to face him. A breath catches in your throat as you’re once more filled with fear, seeing his green eyes glow dangerously and the mischievous smirk forming on his lips.

“But darling,” He breathes, “You are home.”

I no longer keep a tag list but if you want to be kept updated on my fics, follow my side blog @springdandelixn-archives and turn on notifications.

#loki #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki x reader #dark loki #dark!loki #dark fic #mcu #au #the princess of asgard

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mydaddywiki · 3 days

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Mark Phillips

Physique: Average Build Height: 6′ 0½″ (1.84 m)

Mark Anthony Peter Phillips CVO ADC OLY (born 22 September 1948) is an English Olympic gold medal-winning horseman for Great Britain and the first husband of Anne, Princess Royal, with whom he has two children. He remains a leading figure in British equestrian circles, a noted eventing course designer, and a columnist for Horse & Hound magazine. He also remains a leading figure in British equestrian circles and serves as Chef d'Equipe of the United States Eventing Team.

Phillips was educated at Stouts Hill Preparatory School near Uley, Gloucestershire, then at Marlborough College, then the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. He was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant into the 1st The Queen's Dragoon Guards in July 1969, retiring at the rank of captain in 1978. Alongside his military career, Phillips became a champion equestrian. He continued to style himself Captain Mark Phillips, as it is usual for retired cavalry captains to keep using their rank if their civilian job involves working with horses in racing or equestrian sports.

Twice married, Phillips first married Princess Anne on 14 November 1973, together they have two children. They separated in 1989 and, eventually, divorced in 1992 after years of marital strain with reported affairs by both. These problems came to light and entered the public eye when Phillips fathered a love child in 1985. In 1997, Phillips married an American Olympic dressage rider, divorcing in 2012 due to Mark's infidelity, together they had a daughter. Now it looks like he's banging another American equestrian. Damn… I need to get into horses so he could get into me.

#mydaddywiki royalty #Mark Phillips

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yoga-onion · 1 year

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Legends and myths about trees

Celtic beliefs in trees (16)

D for Duir (Royal Oak) - June 10th - July 17th

“June Tree - 7th month of the Celtic Tree Calendar (Ref)”

metal: gold; Gemstone: diamond; Gender: male; Patrons: Dagda, Esus, Taranis, Artemis, Zeus, Jupiter, Thor; Symbols: strength + patience, generosity + protection, justice + nobility, honesty + courage

The oak was the most revered tree of the Celts, with a tall, round, stout trunk that is thick and round, spreading out like a crown. They grew into huge, imposing trees and lived long lives, so they became objects of worship for the Celts, who wished to live forever.

Another reason for their worship was their high level of usefulness. It was used for housing and furniture. The round table around which the knights of King Arthur's Round Table were surrounded was made of one solid piece of oak wood. Merlin the Wizard used magic in the oak forests and his magic wand was made from the finest oak branch. The ancients also believed that with the help of acorns, they could come into contact with the gods who ruled the natural world.

The bark was used for tanning, dyes and medicinal purposes and had a wide range of uses. Oak wood was also used for coffins to hold the remains of the dead and was associated with the afterlife. Oak acorns were a favourite food of pigs in ancient times and helped in the mass rearing of pigs. Oak trees, as well as the mistletoe that inhabits them, were a factor in oak worship. Because it was believed to have fertility and reproductive benefits, a ceremony was held on the sixth day of every month in the lunar calendar to reap the mistletoe by the druids (Ref2).

The oak woodland was revered as a sanctuary by the Celts and was called Nemeton. Druidic rituals were held under the oak trees of this Nemeton. There is evidence of the presence of many Nemetons in continental Gallia (the ancient name for the ancient Celtic settlements).

The oak tree, imbued with energy, power and vitality, represents divinity in nature as a gateway to the inner world, a passage to the Kingdom of God, and communicates its divine will to us in the company of the gods.

木にまつわる伝説・神話

ケルト人の樹木の信仰 (16)

D for Duir (Royal Oak) - 6月10日～7月17日

『6月の木〜ケルトの木の暦（参照）の第7月』

金属: 金; 宝石: ダイヤモンド; 性: 男性; 守護神: ダクダ、エスス、タラニス、アルテミス、ゼウス、ユピテル、トール; シンボル: 力＋忍耐、寛容＋保護、正義＋高貴さ、正直＋勇気

オークはケルト人が最も崇拝した樹木で、背が高く，丸々としてどっしりとした幹は太くて丸く、冠のようにこんもり広がっている。堂々とした巨木に成長し、長生きすることから、永遠に生きたいと願うケルト人の信仰の対象となった。

崇拝されたもう一つの理由は、その有用性が高かったことである。住居や家具などに使われた。アーサー王の円卓の騎士たちが囲んだ丸テーブルは、１枚のがっしりとしたオークの木でできていた。英国では、アーサー王とともに、オークは魔法の守護者とされていた。魔法使いのマーリンはオークの森で魔法を使い、魔法の杖はオークの最上の枝でつくられていた。また、昔の人々はどんぐりの力を借りれば、自然界を支配する神々と接触できると信じていた。

樹皮は皮なめし、染料、薬用などに用いられ、用途は広かった。オーク材は死者の遺骸を入れる棺桶にも使用され、死後の世界とも関わりがあった。オークの実、どんぐりは古代には豚の好物で、豚の大量飼育にも役立った。オークの木だけでなく、オークの木に宿るヤドリギも、オーク崇拝の一因であった。多産と繁殖をもたらす効果があると信じられたことから、ドルイド（参照2）の手でヤドリギを刈り取る儀式が陰暦で毎月６日に行われた。

オークの森林はケルト人にとって聖域として崇められ、ネメートンと呼ばれた。ドルイドの祭式はこのネメートンのオークの木の下で行われた。大陸のガリア(古代ケルト人の居住地の古称)にはネメートンが多く存在した証拠が残っている。

エネルギーと、力と、活力をそなえるオークの木は、内なる世界への入り口、神の国への通り道として、自然界における神性を表し、神々との間にあって私たちに神意を伝えている。

#trees #royal oak tree #celtic belief #celtic calender #tree legend #tree myth #legend #folklore #mythology #druids #merlin #arthur's round table #wizard #nature #art

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lostsneeze · 5 months

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In the banquet hall of a king who famously adores cats and lets dozens of them roam freely about the castle at all times, heedless of how many nobles and courtiers are allergic to them, we have…

👛 The proud noblewoman who simply refuses to sneeze at all more than a muffled stifle into one of her or her husband’s seemingly endless supply of handkerchiefs. No matter how desperately itchy her nose gets, any meaningful relief will have to wait until a moment in private. Similarly, no one at court will ever hear her blow her nose; even at its most runny and clogged she will make do with endlessly wiping it on her handkerchiefs or trying to appease it with the most mild, girlish, barely effective sniffles.

🏏 The tomboyish princess who resents all aspects of nobility and dreams of one day running away with the stablehand to live in a cottage by the distant sea. She boisterously exaggerates her hitching breaths before each sneeze and makes no effort whatsoever to cover them, often pausing afterwards to let a long drip hang audaciously from her nose for a full few seconds before wiping it on her sleeve or just snurfling it back.

⚔️ The stout royal guard stationed by the door, clad in half-armor even during this peaceful meal for the sake of presentation, who fumbles in his steel gauntlets whenever he wants to wipe his generously sized and continuously running nose. Periodically he will let out what by his standards at home is a politely contained sneeze, but in actuality is noticeably boisterous enough to be easily identified even among the clamor of the dining hall.

💎 The foppish young statesman who projects as much of himself as possible into social space under the pretense of polite reservation. Speaking stuffily through the lacily embroidered handkerchief he’s often brandishing daintily to hold underneath the wide nostrils of his nose, he will loudly announce his sneezes and apologize repeatedly for them, frequently with a whining excuse for his frequent interruptions about how he’s just so sneezy.

🛡️ The masc-presenting knight whose reaction isn’t actually all that severe, and so in its own way more annoying. Rarely sneezing, but often sniffling, their otherwise handsome features are constantly twisted with aggravation at a perpetual feeling like hair stuck to the edge of their nostrils, tickly enough to be noticeable and maybe hitch a breath or two but not reliably build into a release.

📜 The advisor whose ambitions and accomplishments drive her to a seat near the king, and therefore the highest concentration of cats, despite her absolutely debilitating allergies. By the end of the 3rd course she will have a completely plugged nose, swelling eyes, a rash creeping up all her exposed skin, and fits of sneezes counting a half-dozen or more. Nevertheless she persists, unwilling to miss any opportunity to be near the royalty during a potential moment of important discourse.

#snzblr #choose your fighter - sneeze style

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ltwilliammowett · 2 years

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Sailor Nicknames

Sew Sew Boys - Sailors who have a special talent in sewing Jack of the Dust- Purser Mate Jack Nasty Face- a low ranking sailor Landlubber- a landsman who has no knowledge of the sea Fireship - a prostitute with a venereal disease Spouter - a Whaler Blubber Hunter- a Whaler Admiral of the Narrow Seas- a Sailor who threw up in the lap of a comrade Vice Admiral of the Narrow Seas- a Sailor who has managed to pee on a mate's shoes under the table. Long Tailed Beggar- a Cat Lubber- a lumbering, awkward fellow a stout, clumsy oaf who struggles with seamanship Bone Polisher- a cat of nine tails Bugs- a dirty slovenly sailor Bully Boys- an American sailor Jack Tar - a British sailor Cook`s warrant - an operation that ends in amputation The Croaker- a Surgeon The Doctor - a cook Davy Jones natural children - pirates, smugglers, scamps, scalawags and rovers Hands- Crewmembers Jimmy the One - the first Lieutenant in the Royal Navy Johnny Hawbuck- an officer who dressed like a dandy at sea Landshark - A Lawyer Limey- another name for a british sailor Jollies - A Royal Marine Leatherneck - A Royal Marine Lobster - A Royal Marine Old Salt - a veteran sailor Manxman - a sailor from the Isle of Man Nip cheese - the Purser

to be continued....

#naval history #nicknames #just a short list #to be continued #age of sail

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princessanneftw · 2 years

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Princess Anne and Sir Tim Laurence inspecting the horses in the parade ring ahead of the Derby at Epsom on 4 June 2022

#and sir michael stoute has just won!#they’ll be delighted #princess anne #princess royal #tim laurence #timothy laurence #anne does stuff #british royal family #brf #platinum jubilee

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pochipop · 1 year

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＃GENSHIN IMPACT !! ♡ — PRINCE AU/FORBIDDEN LOVE DRABBLES.

#. synopsis! — drabbles featuring tighnari, diluc, & ayato as princes who’ve fallen for a commoner reader .

#. characters! — tighnari, diluc, ayato .

#. warnings! — mentions of genre typical hierarchical discrimination .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @yyolkchi (reblog/spam) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

＃ TIGHNARI !! ♡

Curious Prince Tighnari who sends you love letters tied round the neck of stout pigeons; their beaks tip-tapping ever so gently against the sunlit window you sit beneath, a novel page tucked between your fingers. It’s been little more than a few days since you last saw him in the castle garden, your skin awash in comforting moonlight, but he writes to you nonetheless in delicate, melancholic cursive. He tells you of the longing you leave deep within his chest; —of the many times his mind has drifted far away to a place you reside alongside him as he flips through books in the castle library.

You imagine he sat down to pen this in the early hours of the morning light, rolling it gently, tying it ever so gracefully with a bright red ribbon that sealed his deepest desires inside. He tells you of the nights he’s spent tossing and turning atop his silken sheets, restless and fitful as he yearns for your sobering warmth. To have you in my arms, he writes, is the sweetest dream of all. And it’s one that he can’t often have, —one that goes by much too fast when it comes around under a blue moon.

Ah, —but those nights are none too average. The flowers in his personally-maintained garden seem to glimmer in the moonlight and sway like graceful dancers in the breeze. He holds you close amongst the flora, under a sky dusted with glittering stars; ones he swears shimmer just for you. The fur of his ears, a tall, proud symbol of his nobility, tickles your cheek when you rest your chin on the crown of his head. Sometimes, you find yourself wondering if you deserve a lover with such a lavish lifestyle; —if all the discontent you fear from both sides of the tracks have valid points laced within their venom.

Your lover soothes your worries down like a cat licking at the staticy fur of its kitten. His angelic touch alights your skin as he whispers words of love and devotion into your ear until the fire inside you has been stoked to heights once thought impossible for your demeanor.

Tighnari slips a de-thorned, ruby red rose just beneath the scarlet ribbon, sending it off to find you.

I vow to you, my darling blossom, that we will meet again before the final petal of this rose has fallen from the stem.

＃ DILUC !! ♡

Pensive Prince Diluc who knows too much and is none too thrilled about stepping into the position of King in less than a year’s time. He was once the prize of his family, the gem of his nation, —a young man everyone thought would make the perfect ruler one day. However, now that the day is fast approaching, it seems like Diluc is in a constant battle with his thoughts and often daydreams about waking up a different person; someone simpler and much less renowned.

When he lies next to you like this, Diluc feels perfectly ordinary. He’s not the soon-to-be King, nor the preppy young Prince of his glory days; —he’s simply yours. And you don’t ask of him things he cannot provide. Your lips feel like sundrops sent from heaven against his neck, peppering along the column of his throat until you capture his mouth in an ardent kiss. He hums ever so softly, a sound that resonates like royal instruments from the back of his throat.

“Y/n,” he breathes when you slowly pull away, your forehead coming down to rest against his own.

Somehow, you know the next words falling from his tongue will be apologies for things you’ve seldom concerned yourself with. His propensity for shouldering the blame of generations that came long before him is much too great a burden to bear, even for a young man of his valiant strength. Thus, you’ve vowed (in silence, of course) to shoulder that burden with him, if only from the shadows.

You’re quite used to darkness, after all. . . It’s here that he meets with you under the humble moon, stealing kisses from your supple lips.

“Don’t,” you say softly, in a voice just above a whisper, “—there’s nothing to say sorry for.”

Ah, but you’re so wrong. He knows he should apologize for the very state of affairs as they are, as he sneaks you around like you’re some sort of criminal who swept in from a nearby kingdom to swipe his heart away. He knows he should apologize for all the times he’s passed you by without a second glance, as if you were little more than a stranger when you’d woken up in his bed the very same morning.

Diluc swallows his apology, instead whispering to you something much more profound, something akin to miraculous for such a simple lifetime.

“I love you.”

＃ AYATO !! ♡

Dutiful Prince Ayato who falls for you so deeply between lessons and hours-long studying sessions; seeking refuge in your embrace when his eyes go bleary from the stress. The weight of the kingdom rests heavy on his shoulders, but he braves the storm with a confident smile because he knows no other way. But when his head rests in your lap like this, you like to imagine that behind his sealed eyelids, he’s found some semblance of peace away from all the pressure.

He looks so ethereal, even when signs of exhaustion plague his handsome face.

Your hand matches the curve of his cheek, his brilliant irises coming into view as his eyes peel open to stare up at you lazily. This is the first time in far too long that he’s felt so blissful and calm, as if sinking into you is all it takes to even him out and shelter him away from all the crushing responsibilities of royalty.

Here, with you, there are no expectations that he fears he can’t live up to. There’s nothing to plan for days in advance, careful thinking plaguing every little detail lest he make even the slightest of mistakes. Instead, there’s warmth and freedom, a chance to spread his wings and fly through the late evening sky.

“Love,” he says to you, voice dripping with milk and honey, “I’ll have to walk you to your quarters soon.”

You hum in acknowledgement having known the time for such was fast approaching, yet you make no move to hurry him along. Your fingers card through his hair, prodding softly at his sensitive scalp. It dawns on Ayato then that he much prefers the gentle brush of your fingertips to the frigid graze of any crown.

“You don’t have to come along,” you tell him. “It’s not like I’ll be getting lost.”

He appreciates the joke you make less so because it’s funny and more so because it makes you smile.

Ayato comes anyway, striding through the empty halls. They stretch on for what seems like miles in his lethargic state, suppressing yawns as his heels click against the glossy hardwood. Just inside your room, one of the small spaces offered to the help of the castle, the young prince matches the curve of your cheek to the plane of his hand. He brushes his lips past your own, diluting the urge to pull you in and kiss you with enough passion that it just might sync his heartbeat to your own.

You’d do anything to have him stay the night, but the risk is much too great. It’s better if he returns to his room, —if he keeps his distance for now. You bite your tongue as he bids you goodnight, the taste of him lingering all the same.

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whorinsmokenshield · 3 months

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Malalkhrukûn (January)

Summary: Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit. Just as grass is green, the sky is blue, and the Lonely Mountain is tall, Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit through and through, and no one would know this better than himself. Yet strangely, while underneath the dwarf whom he calls king, he’s never been more acutely aware of just how much of a hobbit he is.

Rating: Explicit

(Hi I wrote this for the Year of Bagginshield prompt 'Body Worship' for January. Prompt list by @acorns-and-oakleaves. Ao3 upload here)

~~~~~~~~~~

If Bilbo Baggins were ever able to meet the Valar of his choice, he would choose Aulë, for he would like to shake his hand and thank him in-person for the creation of the dwarves.

There was not a race in Middle Earth, not even the elves, that was able to match up to the raw strength, presence and stature that the average dwarf possessed (at least, in Bilbo’s opinion). They came in a variety, but most shared the same notable characteristics: arms like stone columns, chests like barrels, stout height, thick fingers, and cords of granite-dense muscles strapping every inch of their bodies. Bilbo has long thanked Yavanna that no one in the Shire had ever caught his eye, for had he been married when he laid eyes on his first dwarf there’s no telling what he would have done. Bilbo has similarly thanked Aulë every day that he was blessed enough to even be able to lay eyes on one in his life. Not to mention laying eyes on a particular dwarf; a mighty specimen of a king who might have been carved out of marble, with oiled raven-black locks and piercing sapphire-blue eyes. That Bilbo existed on the same plane as Thorin Oakenshield was an uncountable blessing in itself.

That Bilbo was currently situated underneath Thorin Oakenshield was a turn of events he would not have arranged in even his most fantastic dreams.

The steps that came before being pushed into the king's bedchambers were a blur of hot touches and gravelly whispers that skittered down Bilbo's spine like chills. Bilbo did not know what he had done to catch Thorin's eye that day, but he had half a mind to ask him so that he might do it every day. The scorching wall of Thorin's body had crowded him through the parlor of the royal apartments to the king's bedchambers, moving like a juggernaut until Thorin could kick the door closed behind them and turn the golden lock. At once Bilbo was grabbed by his shoulders, spun around, and kissed within an inch of his life.

Thorin leaned over him and ravished his mouth, beard scratching the skin of his chin and cheeks in the best possible way, then Thorin bit Bilbo’s bottom lip to trick him into opening his mouth.

Bilbo was making cut off moans and noises that were frankly embarrassing, worse still as he let the king dip his tongue into Bilbo’s mouth and take him for a dance, but Thorin was no better. Thorin was groaning from deep in his belly and grasping Bilbo’s arms like he thought Bilbo would sink into the floor. (Which, if Thorin were to keep kissing him like this, Bilbo just might). When the king retreated to gasp for air he would drone little words under his breath that made Bilbo’s body vibrate. There were ones that Bilbo knew: bunmel, the beauty of all beauties; ghivashel, the treasure of all treasures; kurdel, his heart of all hearts. Then there were ones that Bilbo didn’t know, ones that he’s thought before that Thorin was keeping a secret on purpose; galthûn, àrsûn, úkrad, and others. Each one being whispered into his lips made Bilbo feel like flint being struck against steel.

Bilbo was urged backwards, for he was just a sheep against a shepherd’s rod, until the backs of his knees hit the bed and buckled so that he hit the mattress on his back. Thorin climbed over him, hot breath heaving, hands on either side of Bilbo’s head to prop himself up. Bilbo had his own hands up and around Thorin’s neck, cupping it like something precious then thrown around his shoulders as if afraid to fall.

He kissed Bilbo again, again, long and heavy and blindingly hot. Thorin’s hair fell around him in a black curtain and created a pocket of just the two of them, panting and staring up and down into the other’s eyes and at the other’s lips until they inevitably reconnected with twin moans of pleasure.

Thorin hoisted himself further up onto the bed on his hands and knees, trapping Bilbo’s body with his own, and Bilbo thought he could die like that. Under Thorin Oakenshield, on top of royal down sheets, there was little that could compare. Bilbo was the most blessed creature in Middle-Earth.

Then Thorin shifted his weight and dragged his knee up so that it split the space of Bilbo’s thighs, and if he thought his noises were embarrassing before, it was certainly nothing against the whimper of anticipation he let out when Thorin pressed against him.

“M-Mercy…” Bilbo stammered, bringing his hands down to grip Thorin’s tunic. He’d worn it at the guildmaster’s meeting that morning, and all Bilbo could think about was what lay underneath. It was beautiful Durin blue, but couldn’t hold as much as a candle to the carved majesty that it covered.

“Do not speak to me of mercy,” Thorin replied with a teasing, throaty tone that set Bilbo on fire. He dotted every other word thereafter with a trailing kiss from his lips down the column of his neck, and a grind against his hip. “Wearing the crown, made by my own hands, in this fitted robe. The way you spoke to the master of textiles, I should have taken you over that table.”

“Oh, Thorin- Thorin!” Bilbo squeaked as Thorin nipped at the skin in the hollow of his throat and made him squirm. “Y-you said it was a circlet, n-not a c-crown- oh. A-And I don’t even remember what I said to the master- oh, please Thorin!”

Thorin’s hand had decided on its own to wander, and while Thorin ravished every inch of exposed skin above Bilbo’s collar his fingers had begun to play at the hem of his trousers, running along the seam and dipping under just enough to make Bilbo want to beg for him to stop or go.

“To be frank, marlel,” Thorin kissed him to catch the whimpers that were falling from his lips. “Neither do I.”

Thorin’s knee had been creeping higher and higher up the bed and by now was firmly against his overly-clothed cock. Bilbo couldn’t help himself, and his hips moved to grind against Thorin’s muscular thigh. He wasn’t the only one that was overly clothed.

“Off. Now. Please?” Bilbo tugged at Thorin’s collar and coat with each word, and added a bit of a whine to the last one that he knew would turn Thorin into a dwarf of action.

“Your wish is my command,” Thorin bestowed one last smooch, sweeter than the ones before it, and pushed up onto his knees to strip his top half.

Bilbo would have bemoaned the loss of his dwarven roof if not for the show that he was immediately gifted. He laid flat on his back and watched with rapt attention, relishing in Thorin’s heated eye-contact, as Thorin shucked his coat and outer tunic and bared his beautiful, stone-carved arms to the room. Smith’s arms, warrior’s arms, arms that have beaten steel, silver, goblins and orcs into submission. Thorin tore off his undershirt and Bilbo was left winded.

His chest was as firm as marble, and looked nigh unpierceable (if Bilbo didn’t painfully know better). Crossed with puckered scars that were the furthest opposite of revolting, he looked like a battle-tested breastplate. His belly was large and strong, and Bilbo couldn’t help but crave to drag his hands over it- to run his fingers through the dense, coarse hair that darkened it in a mat from his collar to his groin. Bilbo was awed by the sheer majesty that radiated off Thorin’s skin. If he walked around just like this, Bilbo had no doubt every man elf and dwarf from here to the Blue Mountains would not hesitate to bend their knees. Bilbo sure didn’t.

All of this, not even to mention the outline that Bilbo could see against the fabric of Thorin’s trousers. Hard as oak, thick, mouthwatering. They’d done this before, of course they have, but each time Bilbo felt like he was seeing and feeling it anew.

“What are you looking at?” Thorin’s voice breached the fog that had settled over Bilbo and glazed his eyes. Bilbo couldn’t believe he was being teased at a time like this, as if he could get any harder or more desperate.

“You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life,” Bilbo mumbled drunkenly. And by Yavanna, he thought he saw a bit of red dash across Thorin’s cheeks.

Thorin shook his head with fondness. “Hobbits and their honeyed words.”

“You know other hobbits?” Bilbo asked, bemused and teasing.

“I do not need to, for you are the pinnacle of them all, íbinê.” Thorin stepped out of his trousers and pants and knelt back on the bed in a smooth set of movements. “No other would even compare.”

Bilbo swallowed, half at Thorin’s words and half at- well…

“Well, then,” Bilbo said for the sake of saying something.

“But as sweet as your words are,” Thorin said, and settled back over Bilbo so they were hip to hip, his bare chest pressing against Bilbo’s cured thrice-damned robes, his breath brushing against the hollow of Bilbo’s ear. “I prefer it when you’re speechless.”

Bilbo trembled in his hands. “Oh.”

Thorin put his nose back to Bilbo’s throat and inhaled like Bilbo gave him breath. He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin of his neck. Bilbo fought not to move too much, for every time he shifted the thick line of Thorin’s cock ground against his crotch and Bilbo was liable to faint. The king ran his hands down Bilbo’s flank until they hit the hem of his outer robes, then they went further and ducked beneath the fabric.

“You, Master Burglar,” Thorin rumbled, perhaps just to make Bilbo shiver, and plucked at Bilbo’s robes impatiently. “are terribly overdressed for the occasion.” Thorin’s palms dragged two hot lines up and under his undershirt, over his stomach. Bilbo yelped as they squeezed his waist.

There was a lot of give in Bilbo’s waist; more than other places on his body, save for his thighs. Unlike Thorin, he was not made of sculpted iron and chiseled stone. He was only a hobbit, after all. Bilbo looked up at Thorin and saw the unparalleled strength and gods-like physique that Thorin wielded as well as he wielded an axe. He had to know what he looked like, how other people looked at him. Thorin was beautiful. A masterpiece, hand-crafted by his Maker.

Bilbo was…well, Bilbo was a hobbit. A soft, squishy hobbit, with a body from a life of luxury and plenty, scarcely muscled even after so many months on the road. A body that Thorin has seen before, but…Bilbo felt odd, now. Perhaps all of that ogling he’d been doing hadn’t done him any good. He could reach up and take Thorin’s chest in his hands and it would give very little because Thorin led a life of discipline and hardship, and his whole being was evidence of it.

Thorin had grown up around dwarves, and his attraction had grown around that. Was Thorin disappointed by him? The softness, the large feet, the lack of beard? Bilbo hadn’t even considered the beard before. Being smooth-shaven was a sign of deep shame in dwarven society, wasn’t it?

Was Thorin even attracted to him, physically? That thought was not a pleasant one. Did Thorin force himself to overlook that every time they made love? Perish the thought. It made Bilbo want to hide under the covers.

Bilbo’s heart fluttered as Thorin began to work at peeling away Bilbo’s layers, but it fluttered for the wrong reasons. It fluttered with nerves, like he was about to be sick with them. Thorin had seen his body before- more than a dozen times, and not all in the bedroom. He didn’t know why now of all times was when he’d decided to feel so insecure. It was decidedly inconvenient to be ashamed of one’s body when in the presence of another who was trying very ardently to get him naked.

Too distracted with his internal turmoil, Bilbo hadn’t even noticed that he’d stiffened up until Thorin’s warm hands froze in place.

“Bilbo?” He asked. There was no tease in his voice. “Alright?”

“Fine! I’m-I’m fine, keep going,” Bilbo assured. Thorin withdrew completely. He took his hands off Bilbo’s body and propped himself up over him.

“Do you need to stop?”

“No, no, I just…” Bilbo sighed and scrubbed his hands down his face. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”

“Never.” Thorin sounded deathly serious. He sat up and off Bilbo, and at once Bilbo both missed his heat and was thankful for the breathing space. He felt like he was about to cry. Damn it all. “Did I do something?”

“No. No, of course not, no. Nothing you did. It’s…” Bilbo couldn’t help but bite back the whole truth. “It’s just…myself. I’m having a hard time tonight, and I don’t know why. We do this all the time, I should be used to it.“

Thorin frowned at him, and Bilbo knew he wouldn’t get away with his half-sentences any longer.

“If you don’t want to do this, Bilbo, you don’t have to.” The concern from his voice came around to his eyes, and seemed to actually be rising into fear. “You should have told me if I was making you uncomfortable.”

“Thorin- no, that’s- I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then what do you mean?” Thorin started to shuffle back off the bed and that was the last thing Bilbo wanted, so he grabbed Thorin by the wrist to stop him. Thorin could shake him off, but stopped his retreat anyway. “If not me, then what? Hm?”

“I mean…I…” The words just wouldn’t come. Bilbo flushed with frustration and averted his eyes from Thorin’s to see if he could find his thoughts again. “Blast it, I don’t know. I don’t know how to say this. You’ll think me a fool.”

His king took pity on him. He took Bilbo’s hand off his wrist and held it. With the silent confirmation that that was alright, he then began to maneuver them both. “Come here,” he said, and sat on the bed behind Bilbo and sat back against the headboard. He coaxed Bilbo back with him so that Bilbo was leaning with his back to Thorin’s bare chest, with Thorin’s chin and beard settled against the crown of his head and Thorin’s arms around his middle. Exactly where Bilbo didn’t want them to be.

He bore it- though, normally he wouldn’t have to. Normally he’d be perfectly content, as warm and fuzzy as he would be if he were a cat stretched out in front of a fire, but Thorin’s proximity to the current object of Bilbo’s ire filled him with nothing but dread and stress. He felt like he’d ruined everything.

“Talk to me, ghivashel,” Thorin mumbled into his ear. “I would have you lend me your troubles so that we could share them. Please.”

“I…” Now Bilbo was going to cry. When Thorin spoke in that way, as if he were penning a love letter, Bilbo felt overwhelmed. Normally he was overwhelmed with something more primal, but now it was just fondness and guilt.

“Was I pushing too much?” Thorin asked, gently. “I thought you were reciprocating. Was I wrong? I won’t be upset. I…I understand I may come across…overly passionate”

Bilbo scoffed, incredulous. Thorin was aware of his faults, how he sometimes failed to read signs of Bilbo’s intentions purely because of how they sometimes differed from a dwarf’s, but Bilbo thought that the body language for being mindless with arousal was mostly universal. “Certainly not.”

“Then?”

There was nothing that could be done for it. Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut.

“Do you find me attractive, Thorin?” He asked with a voice as small as he felt, as small as Thorin’s hands on his stomach made him feel. Those hands twitched and tightened.

“Of course I do,” Thorin said the very second he processed the question. “You have a doubt in your mind about how much I adore you, labthûnimê? Have I made it so?”

Bilbo sighed. The hard part came now, where he tried to keep himself from sounding as vain as he sounded in his head.

“Of course not. I don’t doubt that you love me, that you…adore me.” (Thorin’s blunt passion with words still made him blush even now, in his naked lap) “Not at all. But…are you attracted to me?”

He was quiet for a moment, likely thinking, and Bilbo found himself wishing he didn’t have to think so hard about it. Wishing that he'd just get it over with- or, rather, channel a hobbit and say something indirect and vaguely sentimental to avoid answering the question.’Your soul is gorgeous to me’ or ‘you have a beautiful heart.’

Thorin then said, “I don’t understand, ghivashel.”

Blast it, now Bilbo had to be specific.

“Well…put simply…” Bilbo’s gut churned with nerves. “Well…Thorin, you’re…gorgeous.”

“I…thank you?”

Bilbo was glad that they were back-to-chest, for his cheeks were burning and he was in no mood to be teased for it.

“I mean that you are the most handsome dwarf in the mountain, by far, and…well, excuse me for being romantic, but I do think that you are the most attractive man in Middle-Earth. You’re strong. You exude power, your presence is astonishing. Your hair, your beard, marvelous. I’d use more colorful words, but I don’t fancy myself a poet, and I simply acknowledge that there’s very little that could compare to you.”

Bilbo swallowed.

“Certainly no hobbit. Soft and guileless as we are. And I know we've done this before but…I…I suppose I just looked at myself for the first time after looking at you, and…i-it’s a bit like putting pumpkins against potatoes, if you asked me. Only one of those makes a decent pie, anyway. Oh, I'm sorry, this is so ridiculous.”

Thorin’s hands began to squeeze and tighten.

“Oh, Bilbo.”

Bilbo didn’t love the tone of his words- the pity he thought he heard in it. He didn’t want pity, he just wanted Thorin to understand. What he really wanted was to hide under the bed until Thorin forgot all about this blunder and they could both go back to being blissfully ignorant of Bilbo’s sudden insecurities, but if Bilbo always got what he wanted he’d have been cozied into his armchair in Bag End before he’d even reached Rivendell.

Thorin gripped Bilbo tight enough to hurt and buried his face into Bilbo’s hair, sighing heavily and heating Bilbo’s scalp with his breath.

“I’ve not been good to you, bunmel, if there is even a bit of you that thinks you are not worthy of me. It is I who is not worthy of you.”

Bunmel, the beauty of all beauties. He would use that one, given what Bilbo just confessed to him.

“I don’t want your pity,” Bilbo bit out grumpily, nestling into Thorin’s arms. “You asked, I answered, I don’t want you to make it anything more than what it is.”

“This is not pity,” Thorin ground out. “This is shame. My shame. How long have you felt like this? Why have you never said anything?”

“Thorin, it doesn’t matter, ” Bilbo insisted. He wanted to pull out of Thorin’s embrace, but he was putting those smith’s arms that Bilbo had just been admiring to good use. “I’m being childish and vain, and again, I’d thank you not to not to make it more than it is. And what good would telling you have done, even if I’d had these thoughts before? Not much you can do about it- you may be king, but you are neither Eru nor Yavanna.”

“I would not have allowed that thought to fester. I would not have allowed it to even take root. And I would have done this much sooner.”

“Done…” Bilbo furrowed his face. “What, exactly?”

Then Bilbo was flat on his back, head towards the foot of the bed, as Thorin had gripped him and flipped him and pushed him down as if they were sparring. He forced himself between Bilbo’s knees and shoved him into the mattress. It sent a jolt through Bilbo’s heart, his hands flying up to Thorin’s bare shoulders. Thorin was still naked. Somehow, Bilbo had almost forgotten.

“Thorin?”

Just like that, Thorin’s gentleness was almost gone. The heat in his eyes was not playful, but intense as a wildfire, nearly angry, but only just. He grabbed Bilbo’s hands, one and one, and pinned them to the bed above his head, leaving Bilbo’s front exposed.

Bilbo, who had flagged since the start of his spiral, was now very much at attention.

“Would you like to keep going?” Thorin asked, and fixed Bilbo with a very penetrating stare.

Bilbo flexed his throat. “Y-Yes?”

“Yes?”

He nodded nervously.

“Then stay there,” Thorin ordered. Bilbo did not feel inclined to disobey, for some reason.

“What are you doing?” He did, however, feel a little indignant at being manhandled like that. Just a little, but a little was enough.

Thorin didn’t answer him, the bastard. He sat up on his knees, hands barricading Bilbo on his left and right…and looked.

Just looked.

Bilbo was spread out for him like a vulnerable feast in dwarven robes, and Thorin’s eyes wandered over every line and shadow of his body. Bilbo saw the expression for the first time, ‘undressing him with his eyes’. His face flushed just as hard as it had when Thorin had his hands under his clothes. That dread in his stomach returned just the same.

He broke his rules and brought his hands and arms down to shield himself- or rather, he tried. The moment he moved in that direction Thorin snatched his arms and pinned them again.

“Th-Thorin!” he yelped.

“Stay. There.” Thorin grumbled into Bilbo’s ear, a wave of heat and lightning following. “Or I will keep you there.”

Oh oh oh, he should not have said that. Bilbo was getting harder now than he had been before. His cock pushed against his pants.

“O-Okay, okay,” he whispered tightly.

“Hm.” Thorin retreated again. Bilbo kept his hands where they were as if Thorin had bolted them down. He wouldn’t lie: the thought of disobeying him was not appalling. But he needed to see where Thorin was going with this.

Thorin consumed him with a hunger Bilbo had scarcely seen, going as far as to wet his lips when his gaze sauntered over the swell of Bilbo’s belly and the apex of his thighs. The heat behind his gaze only grew wilder, a fire in a coal mine.

“Íbinel, if you think there is an inch of you that is not more desirable as gold, you would be sorely mistaken.”

Bilbo watched the plane of Thorin’s throat flex as he swallowed.

“I would have you know what I see when I look at you,” Thorin groaned. “I would have you know every thought that comes to my mind, and know it as absolute truth.”

Thorin descended on Bilbo just as he had before, but it was much different now that Bilbo wasn’t allowed to grab him back. His king started by wrapping his hands around both of Bilbo's biceps and licking a hot, wet stripe up the side of Bilbo’s neck. His hips moved agonizingly slow against Bilbo’s pelvis, grinding their members together.

“Thorin!” Bilbo squeaked, and a firm squeeze from Thorin’s hands silenced him.

“Your skin tempts me like no other. The allure of gold does not even compare,” Thorin breathed into his neck. “Soft. Unmarked. You should be wearing my bruises for the mountain to know whose you are.”

Wasn’t that a tempting idea? Bilbo thought so, once the feeling of Thorin’s tongue on his pulse-point stopped corking his thoughts.

“I-I thought…dwarves…valued s-scars?” Bilbo huffed out.

“Scars are strength. They are a mark of survival. Proof of a will to live.” Then Thorin leaned up and in, until his lips touched the shell of Bilbo’s ear again, and his hands squeezed Bilbo's biceps. “You have nothing to prove. Not to me. Not to a single dwarf in this mountain. I have seen you survive with my own eyes. No scar could compare to watching you stand before my enemy and emerge unscathed.” Thorin moaned into his ear. “The things I wanted to do to you on that rock, and damn the company.”

Bilbo couldn’t reply, as Thorin’s hands were moving quickly. From Bilbo’s arms to the opening of his robes, Thorin spared him a meaningful look (at once both an assurance and ‘don’t even think about moving’) and pulled the layers apart to reveal Bilbo’s tunic.

“You look good in my colors,” said Thorin, whose hands had not stopped wandering. They came to rub over Bilbo’s chest and draw out a shaky sigh from Bilbo’s lips. “You’ll look better without them.”

“You and that damn line, I swear, you never run out of ways to- sweet Mahal!” Thorin had pinched one of his nipples with his thumb and forefinger through the fabric of his tunic. How he had even found it was a talent in itself.

“Look at you. I’ve got you cursing in the manner of my ancestors.” He straddled Bilbo’s lap to distract him as he made short work of Bilbo's robe, tossing it off somewhere in the room. He shuffled back down (damn him, and damn the drag of his cock down the length of Bilbo’s crotch that made him whine) and laid himself down on Bilbo’s legs. His chin was in line with Bilbo’s waistband, his fingers rubbing circles just a breath away from the skin of Bilbo’s hips. The electric sensation of almost made his hips jerk a little. So Thorin pinned him down with a bruising grip.

Wearing his bruises for all the mountain indeed. Though he hoped that these ones weren’t meant to be public.

“But were it up to me,” Thorin said, back in that alluring, raspy tone that made Bilbo’s head spin. “The only name you will know by the end of this night will be mine.”

“Oh,” Bilbo whimpered. Then cried, “Oh!”

Thorin’s hands rucked up the bottom of his tunic to lay just above his stomach and Thorin dipped his tongue eagerly into Bilbo’s navel. His beard scraped deliciously over his skin, and his hands pinched and massaged and rubbed along his stomach as Thorin lavished it with his mouth. Bilbo was almost trembling under the strange sensation, hands clenching and unclenching. Feeling the flesh of his stomach give and pull like a soft pillow had Bilbo blushing, in good ways and bad. After many long, trembling minutes of what Bilbo could only describe as veneration, Thorin spoke again.

“I cannot even fathom how this troubles you.” Thorin murmured, his words making damp buzzes against Bilbo's skin that felt like static shocks. “Galthúnel.”

Between his whimpers he stuttered out, “I-I'm soft. I'm n-not as strong as you are.”

“Yes,” -kiss- “you are.”

“I'm- mph-” Thorin nibbled a red spot at the bottom of his stomach, top of his groin, then soothed it with his tongue. “Not like you- oh, stop it!”

“No.”

Using both hands Thorin pushed up Bilbo's shirts until they were over his chest, then up and over his head. Shirtless and exposed, he glanced past the tempting view of Thorin's heady eyes; he could see the flesh of his stomach, tweaked and wet and oversensitive. Well-loved.

Thorin's nose traced a line, passed across his navel and up to his chest, and made eye contact with Bilbo from under his black eyelashes at a very dangerous angle that had Bilbo throbbing in his pants. “You are far stronger than me.”

He knew Bilbo was going to try to retort- he must have known - for the moment Bilbo opened his mouth Thorin latched onto one of his nipples. Bilbo squeaked and threw his head back, his hands fisting into the sheets over his head and straining with the force of his will to keep them still.

There weren't many words to describe the pleasure of Thorin's hot mouth and the scratch of his soft beard laving over Bilbo’s chest, Thorin’s other hand crawling up to pinch and drag his untended one. Bilbo had to resort to mindlessly pushing his hips up to try and relieve the ache that had settled there, and the heat that was beginning to grow. Thorin was grinding down just as he was, rutting at half of Bilbo's speed, and Bilbo half-worried it would be over before it got better.

Bilbo longed to slide his hands into Thorin's hair and tug the way he liked it, but Thorin knew his every move. His biceps only twitched and Thorin had released his pinch on one of his nipples to clamp down on his arms again.

“Thorin,” Bilbo moaned. “Thorin, Thorin- please!”

Thorin had nibbled on him again- the bastard. Bilbo felt lucky he didn't squeal like a lass. Thorin gave him no time to recover, and bestowed his attention on the other. Bilbo's chest was slowly heaving, and he felt certain Thorin would be able to feel his pounding heart through his skin.

The pressure and friction against his cock was not enough, not even close, but it tugged him along like a wheeled toy on a string, closer and closer and closer.

“I'm- you have to-” Bilbo would have been humiliated at how quickly he was going if he had the space for thought around the slick movement of Thorin's tongue catching on the nub of his nipple. The slight scrape of teeth nearly sent him over with a desperate whimper. His hips worked harder and harder against Thorin's cock, chasing his end. “Thorin, Thorin, Thorin.”

Thorin pulled back and clapped his hands down on Bilbo's hips to still them. The stimulation was gone, and though Bilbo's legs twitched and futily resisted the weight of his hands he could feel the edge shrinking back. That wheeled toy was rolling its way right back down the hill.

“Not yet, Íbinê.” Thorin smirked down at him. His weighty cock reaching for attention between his legs belied his self-satisfied expression, but they both knew that Thorin has infinitely more patience than Bilbo had in these matters. He could go for hours. Had, in the past.

Bilbo squirmed a bit, testing the strength of Thorin's grip. He didn't give an inch.

“I-I-I can go again. You know I can. As much as you want,” Bilbo said breathily.

Every dwarf seemed to have a favorite bit of information about hobbits. For Bombur it was their ability to put away meals. For Bofur it was their dedication to the craft of partying.

For Thorin, it seemed, it was their general lack of any sort of refractory period at all. He’d said before he thought perhaps that dwarves and hobbits were made for each other in this respect, given how difficult it was to get the average dwarf ‘up and running’ versus how easy it was to get a hobbit to pop off in as much time. Compared to a dwarf It took next to nothing to get Bilbo singing like a bluejay, and Thorin loved to play him like a harp in an inordinately long symphony.

“Oh, I know you can. Masaddazulmuzm,” Thorin purred. That was one word Thorin refused to translate. “But you'd like that too much, and I haven't been able to prove anything to you yet.”

Bilbo didn't have anything to say to that, given that he was still trying to catch his breath and regulate the pounding of his heart. His hands still laid limply above his head, and there he intended to keep them until Thorin said otherwise.

Thorin leaned back over him, firm as an iron blanket, and though he kept his hips quite a distance from Bilbo's he laid a sweet, heavy kiss on Bilbo's lips. It was slower than all the others, and felt as if Thorin was trying to speak through it. He was an eloquent dwarf, with a mastery of beautiful words, yet there were times like this where there was not a word in any language that either of them knew that was sufficient to convey what they were thinking. Bilbo thought poetry was sweetest when it was being pressed against his lips.

Bilbo laid there and let himself be kissed. Certainly a change of pace, but not a wholly unwelcome one. Thorin dragged his hands down Bilbo’s flank, squeezing gently, and stroking his thumb over the divot of his hips through his trousers. Bilbo’s lips twitched. His whole body felt like a bit of raw skin, but in a decidedly pleasurable way, and the pressure of just Thorin’s thumb was enough to make him jump.

Thorin pulled back a little, allowing their faces barely two inches between them. Thorin’s hot breath brushed over Bilbo’s lips when he spoke to fill the weighty silence.

“There are some days where I simply can’t believe that you’re real,” he whispered. His thumb rolled in gentle circles- not meant to be enticing, more soothing. “When the sunlight catches you just right, I lose my breath. All these beautiful curls, blessedly long enough to braid. Prettier than any stone in the mountain. I would have you as crowning the jewel of my throne, if I knew you would let me.”

“Well, perhaps I don’t always fancy being pinned up against a rock to be gawked at,” Bilbo said.

“I know that to be deeply untrue.”

Thorin moved his hand, and at last they were lying chest-to-chest, with Thorin a warm weight over Bilbo’s front and his beard a pleasant scratch against his skin. Bilbo’s legs twitched again. Thorin swept his palm slowly up the side of Bilbo’s face, crawling up to knit into his hair and let the strands run over his fingers.

“Like pure, spun copper,” Thorin muttered. “And it holds the finest braids my hands have ever woven.”

Thorin’s attentions seemed to have shifted, as both of his hands came to cup Bilbo’s face, to draw the pads of his fingers over his lips and nose and to dance about in his hair like a tailor appreciating fine silk. He had a tiny, mischievous grin whenever his fingers passed against the shell and tips of Bilbo’s ears and caused a shiver to wrack him.

“As much as I’m enjoying this,” Bilbo said. “I thought you were meant to be teaching me a lesson?”

Bilbo tried to tempt him, gracefully rolling his hips against Thorins and groaning as the heat returned.

Thorin thrust down, pinning Bilbo’s lower half with his pelvis. Drat.

“I am,” he replied lowly.

His eyes weren’t focused on any particular thing for too long- Bilbo’s eyes, his nose, his lips, and especially his hair all fell under his gaze. He appeared to be getting lost in the lines and planes of Bilbo’s face.

“There is not a part of you that I do not adore,” Thorin continued. “From the hair on your head to the hair on your feet. Your beautiful eyes. Your adorable” -he pinched at the tip of Bilbo’s left ear and made him jerk- “ears. I hunger for you like no other, make no mistake.” In a slick movement one of his hands dropped and squeezed the still-sensitive flesh of Bilbo’s waist quite firmly. “But when I look at you, every inch of you, I see a being so purely beautiful you could have been plucked right from the garden of your maker.”

Thorin’s hand lowered, and squeezed again. His waist, to his hip, to his thigh, to his knee, and back up to rest on his hip again. More specifically, his waistband. Thorin’s thumb teased at the edge of it, flicking the lip of the fabric, and he stared openly at Bilbo just to watch his face get redder with anticipation.

Bilbo trembled. “Please.”

Thorin smiled. “Your wish is my command.”

He hooked his thumb into Bilbo's waistband and yanked down. He did the same on the other side with his other hand, and dragged Bilbo’s trousers and pants down in one move.

Goosebumps exploded over Bilbo’s skin as the chill of the room hit his cock all at once. Thorin was able to fully remove his bottoms and toss them, once again, somewhere into the ether to be picked up later. They both sat naked before the other, staring like statues that faced each other across a shared hall.

“No matter how many times we do this. Each time, you are more beautiful than you were the last,” Thorin husked.

Thorin dropped a kiss to Bilbo’s lips and positioned himself over him. He gave him another, this time to the underside of Bilbo’s chin. Then to his Adam’s Apple, to the dip of his collarbone, to his sternum. Lower he climbed, taking his time as if they had eons of it, his lips and beard making Bilbo’s belly jump as he quickly lavished his navel again, until his head was set between Bilbo’s thighs and Bilbo was so anxious for his touch that he was almost panting for it.

Bilbo looked down at him. Thorin looked up. He grabbed the meat of Bilbo’s furred white thighs and pried his legs apart, Bilbo’s cock bobbing in front of his face. He pressed some teasing, tonguing kisses into the joins of his hip and thigh, chuckling when Bilbo whined and quivered, then he took the head of Bilbo’s cock into his mouth and swallowed him down to the root.

Bilbo clapped his hand over his mouth before he could moan embarrassingly loud. The grip Thorin had on his legs kept him pressed to the bed and prevented his hips from bucking up into the wet heat of Thorin’s mouth.

Thorin slid off, the drag of his tongue curling over Bilbo’s head and punching a sob out of him, muffled by his palm.

“Hands, galthûn,” he warned.

Bilbo obeyed, and uncovered his mouth. Thorin rewarded him by taking him all in at once until the tip of Bilbo’s cock hit the back of Thorin’s throat. He moaned even louder but was forced to resist the urge to silence himself, and ended up curling his hand into a fist and slamming it back down on the bed above his head.

Thorin worked with his mouth and hands. His head bobbed up and down, taking his cock in leisurely pulls, and his fingers were massaging Bilbo’s stones. Bilbo was considerably smaller than him in every way, so it was no hardship on his jaw (so he’d claimed before), and he could just about take all of Bilbo in one hand alone.

“Ah…ah…f-fuck…Th-Thorin, oh, Thorin,” Bilbo gasped. The grip his hands had on the sheets was painful. “So good. You’re so good, ‘s so hot, you’re so…I-I…” Bilbo couldn’t take his eyes off Thorin, until Thorin looked up at him from under his eyelids, lips stretched around Bilbo’s cock, and a rush of heat shot down his body just as soon as he felt Thorin’s thumb press against his fluttering hole.

“Thorin!” Bilbo shoved the back of his head into the mattress and keened as he spent into Thorin’s mouth without so much as a warning even to himself. His lover swallowed him just as easily as he had his cock. His hips jerked and strained against Thorin’s hands, giving spurt after spurt until he was left with just the aftershocks. His thighs quivered, flinching like they meant to close around Thorin’s head, and his chest heaving in beautiful exertion.

“Sorry, ‘m so sorry, I-I didn’t even…oh, mercy.” Bilbo was still catching his breath. Thorin popped off of his sensitive cock- literally ‘popped’, with the sound his mouth made -and licked his lips like Bilbo had given him a faceful of honey instead. Bilbo was glad for it- he had a feeling they were nowhere near done, and the image of Thorin catching his cum with his tongue was almost enough to get him ready for the next round.

“Pleading yet again mercy,” Thorin rumbled. “Yet you give me none yourself, writhing on my bed as you are.”

“And whose fault is that?” Bilbo breathed, then he yelped as Thorin’s calloused hand took hold of Bilbo’s shaft and picked up where his mouth left off. Bilbo could tell by the look on his face that Thorin was drinking up every last oversensitive pant that he tugged out of him.

“Mine,” Thorin grunted. His hand picked up some speed. Bilbo wasn’t as ready for him as he thought; a cold fire had engulfed his stomach, as if begging for a chance to breathe. Thorin leaned over him, propped up on one hand, voice as low as distant thunder. “It is my hand that undoes you. My mouth. My cock.”

Bilbo cried as Thorin gave him a squeeze, nearly ready to shout, ‘too much!’

Instead, what he whimpered was, “Yours! Just yours.”

“Do you want my cock, Suzmazumimê?”

“Oh, please,” Bilbo drawled. He was fighting with himself to keep his hands over his head, twisting the sheets in his fingers, when all he wanted to do was grab Thorin by his beard, yank him down, and demand he stick his cock in him before Bilbo exploded.

“Will you beg for it?”

“I’m about to start!” Bilbo snapped. Thorin squeezed him harder and wiped the next thought out of Bilbo’s head.

Thorin then smirked, and he said, “You won’t have to.”

Bilbo furrowed his brow. Thorin loved it when he begged.

“Won’t?” Bilbo asked, dazedly.

“No. And do you want to know why?”

Bilbo wet his lips. “Why?”

Thorin’s thumb swiped over the head of Bilbo’s member right before he released him, and he grabbed the back of Bilbo’s head to pull him up into a searing kiss.

“Because you are beautiful,” Thorin whispered over his lips. “The fact that you let me anywhere near your gorgeous ass is a gift. Being able to fuck you is an absolute privilege, Bilbo Baggins; I should be the one begging you.”

Bilbo’s face flared up like a bonfire.

“Please,” Thorin breathed again, sticking tiny, mouse-like kisses to Bilbo’s nose, cheeks, and lips. “Let me show you how beautiful you are. May I be granted the privilege of fucking you, Master Baggins?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, feeling dizzy and nearly confused. He shook his head and sputtered, “Wh- of course! Thorin Oakenshield, if I don’t have you inside me in the next 10 seconds I’m going to- ah!”

“To what?” Thorin tilted his head, some of his hair tumbling off his shoulder.

“To-, to-,” Bilbo fought to find his words again, which Thorin was making exceedingly difficult by the steadily increasing pressure his thumb was putting on the skin behind his balls. When it began to rub in gentle circles, pressing further, grazing just so on the skin of his sac, Bilbo thought he felt something in him snap.

“Oil- inside- now,” he whined and pushed his hips down, hoping to make Thorin’s finger slip into where he wanted it most. “Please, please, please-”

“I told you, úkrad, there is no need to beg.” Thorin parted from him with one last kiss to his nose. “Your wish is my command.”

Bilbo was suddenly alone, strangely cold, when Thorin backed away to reach for their nightstand. He took that breathing space to get situated, shuffling his hips into a more comfortable position, spreading his legs, relaxing back into the bed to try and slow the thrumming of his heartbeat. He was mostly unsuccessful with that final task, as at that point his thoughts had been overtaken with a steady mantra of ‘finally’.

Thorin reappeared with a glass vial, half-full, and knelt right back between Bilbo’s legs like he was born to be there. He popped the cork of the vial, making heady eye contact with Bilbo all the while, and spilled a generous quantity on his hand. He restopped the bottle with just one hand, tossed it away onto the other side of the bed, and…and looked. Just looked. Again.

“I thought you said I wouldn’t have to beg,” Bilbo whined.

Thorin’s eyes dragged down his front. “You don’t. But you just have a little more patience than that, ghivashel.”

“I feel I have been very patient with you, Thorin.” Bilbo also had a feeling that the effect of his indignance was sorely mitigated by his flushed, twitching cock, blushing skin, and gentle panting. He watched Thorin liberally smear the oil over his right hand.

“Just a little bit more, my love.” Thorin’s eyes were fixed on his hole. Bilbo thought he saw his pupils dilate, but it was hard to tell in the low light.

Thorin then took Bilbo’s waist in his left hand, his right disappearing from Bilbo’s sight. When he felt the pad of Thorin’s index landing on the skin of his entrance, circling and rubbing oil around the rim, Bilbo’s stomach jolted and he closed his eyes in anticipation.

Finally, finally, finally-

“Look at me.”

Bilbo whined.

“Look at me.”

Bilbo peaked his eyes open.

Thorin hummed with satisfaction. “There are those eyes.”

“Thorin!” Bilbo griped.

“Easy, easy.” Thorin had a loose smile on his face. “I just had to make sure I wouldn’t miss my favorite part.”

Bilbo thought to ask what he meant by that. Then Thorin’s finger slid knuckle-deep into his hole and Bilbo was moaning.

“Beautiful,” Thorin breathed, though Bilbo could barely hear it over the blood in his ears.

The initial stretch made pleasure zing over his skin. Thorin’s finger was thick- as thick as two of Bilbo’s own -and he moved in slow, even strokes that were agonizingly pleasurable. Agonizing in how slow they were, when Bilbo was just a few seconds away from tossing himself down on his front and demanding Thorin fuck him like an animal. But Thorin’s grip on his hip doubled as an anchor to keep Bilbo from fucking himself down on Thorin’s finger and forcing Bilbo to take what he was given. The prod of his index was almost exploratory, dragging across Bilbo’s walls and teasing his inner rim as it worked him open.

All Bilbo could focus on was the feel of it, until Thorin brushed over a spot that kicked a yelp out of Bilbo’s chest and made his cock twitch hard.

He saw, from under his hooded lids, how Thorin’s lazy smile sharpened.

“There you are.”

All that happened next seemed to happen immediately, in Bilbo’s mind.

Thorin thrust a second finger up alongside the first, and while Bilbo was gasping Thorin put them right up against his prostate and pressed.

Bilbo wailed, precum drooling over his cock, hips rolling and fighting Thorin’s grip.

Thorin groaned, and began to fuck Bilbo properly with just his fingers.

“Oh, oh, more, p-please,” Bilbo moaned, meeting each thrust, legs falling open like he couldn’t physically keep them closed. “Thorin, love, I-I need- harder.”

Thorin wedged a third finger inside of him, and Bilbo’s head was thrashing from side to side.

“I love how wanton you are, íbinel,” Thorin grunted. “I would take the expression on your face and paint it if I possessed the skill. Hang it over my throne, in every hall. Every dwarf in the kingdom would know this beauty.”

He tried to imagine, as Thorin’s fingers pushed him along to his second orgasm, the image of himself in ecstasy hanging for all to see. Bilbo couldn’t blush with embarrassment even if he tried, as every ounce of blood that wasn’t racing through his veins was pooled in his cock.

“Oh, but I never could,” Thorin whispered. “They will simply have to burn with envy, knowing that this,”- he properly jabbed Bilbo’s prostate once more -”your pleasure, is mine and mine alone.”

Bilbo could think of little more than Thorin’s hands and the climbing pitch of his own moans, which Thorin also picked up on. He thrust his fingers even faster, leaning in to close his mouth of one of Bilbo’s nipples as he did before and watching him from under his eyelids.

“Ah, ah, ahhh, Th-Thorin!”

The swipe of his rough tongue over the nub was what did Bilbo in, and he stuttered out a moan and gasp as his hips kicked and he spurted cum over his and Thorin’s chests. Thorin fucked him through it, praising him, rubbing his prostate firmly until Bilbo thought he might weep with the hot-and-cold, staticky feeling of too-much pleasure. His breath was skipping in his chest, which Thorin stroked to help calm him down. His fingers were still inside him, not moving. Thorin was looking at Bilbo like a bag of precious gems.

When Bilbo caught his breath Thorin spread his fingers and pulled an overstimulated mewl from Bilbo’s lips. He shushed him with a swift kiss, and whispered sweet nothings to soothe him through the rest of the stretch.

Thorin was big for a dwarf, and was quite proportional. He was also determined to eliminate any possible chance of Bilbo getting hurt by his own hand (or cock, in the case) and went the extra mile with the stretching before the main deed. Right now his love and care felt like sugar in an open wound, but Bilbo would be remiss to tell him to stop. The timer on his refractory period was ticking down very quickly, and his cock was making a valiant effort to wind back up.

Bilbo spared a look at Thorin. He hadn’t thought to before, with his mind so blurry with lust.

Thorin’s cock was so hard it looked painful; it was flushed deep red from root to tip, great vein bulging on the underside, leaking steadily onto the sheets. The pitch black nest of hair at the base made it stand out even more starkly. Thorin had a gleam of sweat over his chest and neck and a loving, focused expression as he worked Bilbo open. When the pain bled to hot, burning pleasure and the sounds that fell from Bilbo’s lips were more moans than groans, Thorin eased his fingers out of Bilbo’s ass with one last graze of his prostate.

“Thorinnn…” Bilbo whined, dipping his hips down to try and grab him back. He was so empty now, so chilled. If he hadn’t been sure something greater was coming Bilbo might have demanded his dwarf put his fingers right back where they were.

“Oh I know. You’re incorrigible,” Thorin said. He took his cock in hand- which Bilbo watched, with rapt attention -and hissed through his teeth as he gave himself a few pumps. Thorin’s head rolled back and he clenched his jaw tight, looking like he was fighting off spilling into his own fist. Bilbo felt flattered, having not been able to touch him the whole time they were here and still having him nearly overcome with his desire.

“You’re gorgeous,” said Bilbo.

“And you are nothing less than divine.”

Thorin loomed over Bilbo, his hair falling over his shoulders, his arms and legs caging him. Thorin’s cock dragged through the spill left on Bilbo’s belly as he rubbed up against him, teasing him and taking his own edge off.

“No more,” Bilbo pleaded. He kept his hands still, but he moved his lower half up to meet his lover’s. “No more teasing. I need you inside me. Thorin Oakenshield, if you don’t fuck me right now I truly might cry.”

“Mm. We can’t have that. You’re far too beautiful for tears.” But Thorin kept up his slow and dirty grind, and Bilbo actually did hiccup in his frustration and desperation.

“Please, my love. Please, fuck me,” Bilbo begged.”

“Shh shh shh. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you,” Thorin soothed. “Just answer one question, ghivashelimê. One question, and I’ll give you what you need.”

“Anything,” stammered Bilbo. “Anything you want.”

“Just one question…” Thorin rested his forehead against Bilbo’s and gave him a significant look. “Do you believe me?”

“B-Believe you?” Thorin’s cock had begun to rub up against the side of Bilbo’s in Thorin’s grinding, and was making it hard to focus. “Believe what? Wh-what do you mean?”

Thorin stayed his hips, and the only movement was in the rise and fall of his and Bilbo’s breathing.

He asked, “Do you believe me now when I tell you that you are one of the most desirable creatures on this earth, and that I want nothing more than to ravish you until you can’t speak any name other than my own?”

Bilbo’s breathing stuttered a little, and his heart ached. For all that his head was swimming, it allowed him to piece together most of everything that Thorin had said to him since he pinned him down- everything that Thorin did to him not withstanding -and he’d been nothing but earnest. Genuine in his lust over Bilbo’s body, genuine in his very evident appreciation, and genuine in the compliments and praises he’s lavished over Bilbo every time he’s opened his mouth. Bilbo had never felt more attractive than when Thorin was pawing at Bilbo’s curves and ravishing his soft belly, when he only had eyes for Bilbo’s face as he took him down his throat, and when he was watching Bilbo roll through an orgasm with nothing but pure adoration and heat in his expression. And he felt like a fool for doubting Thorin for even a moment.

Gingerly, Bilbo moved his hands. His shoulders and arms were aching and sore, his palms itching from the nail-indents Bilbo had pressed into them, and he brought his hands down between them to cup Thorin’s face. Thorin let him do this, and let Bilbo stroke his thumbs over Thorin’s cheekbones and bury his fingers into his beard.

Bilbo took a deep breath and said with conviction, “I believe you.”

The grin he got in return was downright wolfish.

“Good.”

Thorin crushed his lips against Bilbo’s and took his thighs in hand, spreading Bilbo’s legs apart as far as they could go. Bilbo tried to help, spreading until it hurt, and tangling his hands in the hair at Thorin’s scalp. Thorin hummed deliciously into their kiss, and Bilbo felt the blunt, slick head of his cock pressing up against his entrance.

Thorin began to roll his hips, and as soon as the head of his cock breached him Bilbo broke their kiss with a low moan. He gripped Thorin’s hair tighter. Thorin had one hand on his own cock to guide his way, the other encompassing all of Bilbo’s waist and squeezing in time with his rolls.

“You take me so well,” Thorin muttered as his cock speared Bilbo inch by inch. Bilbo was too overcome with the stretch and fullness to return much more than a whine. “So well. So beautiful. No other could compare.”

He kept his thrusts shallow and even until his hips were flush with Bilbo’s ass. When they connected, Thorin gasped like he’d been holding his breath and his grip on Bilbo’s waist became two on his ankles, bringing Bilbo's legs up and onto his shoulders. Bilbo's puffed as he tried to settle himself, and he opened his eyes to find Thorin’s piercing blue gaze looking at him like he were made of mythril.

“Beautiful,” Thorin whispered again. Overcome, he pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s ankle, and began to move.

His cock fit into Bilbo perfectly, stretching him on every inward thrust and coaxing high moans from him. His movements got faster and faster, driving Bilbo against the mattress. He tried to keep eye contact with his king, but his eyes kept rolling up into his head as Thorin’s cock dragged against that spot inside him and made him see lights behind his eyelids. Thorin was grunting with ecstasy each time their hips connected, each slap of their skin making Bilbo clench on his cock.

Thorin descended on him, folding Bilbo’s legs against him until they were close enough to kiss. He did most of the kissing, as Bilbo’s mouth was loose with pleasure and he couldn’t seem to control it around the yelps and long moans that Thorin was punching out of him at each downward stroke. His lips found Bilbo’s cheeks, his chin, his forehead, the corners of his lips, and his deep huffs were interspersed with praises.

“You were made for me. Made for my cock. Take me so well, so perfectly, you’re so perfect. Amrâlimê, úkrad, bunmel, Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo-”

“Thorinnn…Thor-in, Thorin, oh, ah, Th-Thorin, Thorin!” Bilbo cried. His love had been right- that was the only thing he knew how to say.

“Say my name. Say it. That’s it. So perfect. So beautiful,” he ground out, his thrusts getting sloppy but frantic.

“‘Mmm gonna- ‘m gonna-” Bilbo gasped with half-lidded eyes. “G-gonna make me cum, I’m gonna cum, please, don’t stop- ah! Oh, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Thorin let go of Bilbo’s legs and instead grabbed his waist like he was grabbing the hilt of a sword. Bilbo let his legs fall to the side and wailed as Thorin’s thrusts became longer, deeper, and harder, his cock grinding against his prostate. One sharp pound jabbed his cockhead right into it and Bilbo came with a keen, splattering over his chest and stomach.

Thorin fucked him through it like his last one, drawing it out and making Bilbo feel like he was about to catch fire. Loose moans still popped out of him as Thorin chased his own end, grunting Bilbo’s name alongside more Khuzdul that Bilbo was hopeless to decipher. After a few seconds, Thorin’s hips stuttered and he was coming with a groan like an earthquake rattling the mountain, flooding Bilbo’s insides and wrenching one last cry out of Bilbo before collapsing onto him.

They stayed together in the humid air, the only sound being their collective breaths trying to catch. Thorin shifted a bit so he wasn’t crushing Bilbo under his weight (despite that currently being Bilbo’s preferred way to die) and stuck lazy kisses on each bit of skin that he could reach. Bilbo lifted his limp, jelly-like arms up so he could rub Thorin’s scalp and bring out that little rumbling sound he made whenever Bilbo played with his hair. A few long moments of this, then Thorin’s softened cock resting inside him became a little uncomfortable. Thorin felt the same, and at last pulled out of him with a quiet groan. He lifted Bilbo under his shoulders and pulled the both of them back so that they were resting properly on the bed, heads against the mussed pillows, and so Thorin could tuck him against his body and breathe into his hair.

Bilbo floated on a cloud of contentment as Thorin’s arms came around him and held him like something precious. One hand traced lazy runes into the soft skin of his chest, and the other did nothing but give him warmth. Thorin pressed his lips into Bilbo’s sweat-damped curls, over and over, and Bilbo hummed with absolute peace.

“I want to make you a new circlet,” Thorin murmured after a while, clearing some fog from Bilbo’s head. “Dahlia flowers. Rubies, set in mithril. I would weave it into your hair alongside your beads. You would radiate beauty like Kementári herself.”

Bilbo’s eyes burned. Red Dahlias. Did he know…? He must. He was so specific about the color, and he knew them by name. Bilbo’s thoughts ran in a manner that reminded him of all those long lessons in flower language from his mother when he was a faunt, reciting from memory what he’d been taught.

Red Dahlias. Red for inner strength, perseverance, and the ability to overcome hardship. Dahlias for commitment, for a bond that endures.

An enduring relationship in spite of hardship. A bond in spite of betrayal. A commitment to forgive in the face of deep, passionate love.

Thorin mistook his silence. “Too much?” he asked.

“No!” Bilbo said at once. He was fighting the urge to sniffle. “No, no, it’s…that…that would be perfect. More than perfect.”

“And the dahlias…they’re-”

“Perfect,” Bilbo whispered. He wriggled in Thorin’s hold, twisting around until they faced each other. “Who told you?”

Thorin looked falsely wounded. “You assume that I didn't learn for myself the language of your people?”

"No I- oh, I didn't mean it like that, you ass." Bilbo flicked his chest. Then he contemplated for a moment. "Did you? Learn it yourself, I mean."

"I had...some help. Mostly so I didn't insult you by accident. But the bulk of the research was mine. I wanted to surprise you."

"You did," said Bilbo. "Even I can't think of another flower that would be more perfect for us. You did well."

Thorin inclined his head, and pressed his kiss to Bilbo's brow. He held his lips there like he meant for the moment to be carved in stone.

“Thank you, úkradimê.”

Bilbo tucked his head beneath Thorin’s chin, reveling in the scrape of his beard, and drifted away in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~

Translations for the Khuzdul used:

Labthûnimê- my adoration (adoration-of-me) Galthûn- ‘delicious one’ Àrsûn- ‘hot one’ Amrâlimê - my love Úkrad; úkradimê- ‘greatest heart’; ‘my greatest heart’ Íbinimê; íbinel- My gem; gem of all gems Marlel- love of all loves Masaddazulmuzm; Suzmazumimê- rabbit; my bunny (little rabbit)

Thanks for reading! Let me know if and how you like it. You can read the Ao3 upload at the link above at my main acc Sullen_in_Love.

#the hobbit #thorin oakenshield #bagginshield #bilbo baggins #fanfiction #my writing #hobbit fanfic #smut #bilbo x thorin #thorin x bilbo #body worship #year of bagginshield

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