#shepherd marble sky

[xx-theblack-vixen-xx]

uhh making a new pfp for my sideblog,, with a blue BG and a NB flag alt BG-

MARBLE SKY belongs to @somerandomdudelmao , (GO READ THEIR COMIC NOW RAAAGHHH!!) character by them-!

[xx-theblack-vixen-xx]

HOLY SHIT OLD DESIGN FOR SHEPHERD

Cass Cass please tell us more. Do you have drawings. I'd like to see a weird alien carnivore thing and its human, if you please.

These are not their final designs but okay, yeah, why not:)

[pancake-crab]

I like Shepherd! But there's one thing...

Do you know what this mf reminds me of, lowkey?!

LOOK!!! >:[ \j

@somerandomdudelmao, this is her man... 😔💅💞💕💝💕💞💗

[cat2draw]

The best terrifying alien out there :]

Character by @somerandomdudelmao from their comic, go read it, its so so so good and have been taking over my mind recently

Some small doodles of the sculptor and the shepherd :]]

[starrynightskies-art]

Actor AUS are neat, and it gives me an excuse to draw Sculptor and Shepherd from @somerandomdudelmao Marble Sky comic smiling and goofy!!!!

I definitely want to do more Actor AU stuff for sure though!

[xx-theblack-vixen-xx]

oof yeah,,

Yuri beams your male characters

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: CLAIM AND COUNTERCLAIM DIVINE WHISPERS: Claim and Counterclaim | divine whispers: claim and counterclaim⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽 ❘ 🇩‌🇮‌🇻‌🇮‌🇳‌🇪‌ 🇼‌🇭‌🇮‌🇸‌🇵‌🇪‌🇷‌🇸‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌

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The wind hadn't even settled behind you before Hermes was already elsewhere.

Not just physically—though, yes, his sandals had carried him far beyond the balcony's reach and through the folds of the sky—but in mind, too. In curiosity. In that familiar ache he never let anyone see.

The glimmer of Ithaca's waves faded beneath him, replaced now by the golden, glistening marble of Olympus. Soft clouds drifted lazily beneath his feet as he stepped lightly into Apollo's private hall, barely making a sound.

Music met him before anything else.

A soft, melodic strumming of an oud. A rich, wordless hum accompanying it—low, smooth, and lined with longing. The kind that curled under your ribs and stayed there, uninvited. Hermes lingered in the doorway, one brow slowly raising as he took in the scene.

There was his brother. Golden as ever.

Apollo was reclining on a lounge chaise, half-draped in sunlight spilling through the arched, open window above him. The eternal rays lit his skin like a statue come to life, the gold of his curls glinting as if kissed by fire.

His white tunic had fallen slightly off one shoulder, the fine fabric loose and crumpled in that effortlessly staged way only gods could achieve. His fingers moved with practiced ease over the oud's strings, coaxing out a melody soaked in something unspoken.

Melancholy? Regret?

No. Hermes narrowed his eyes.

Longing.

Gods, but Apollo could be theatrical.

He stayed quiet, watching for a few beats longer, not quite ready to announce himself. There was a stillness in the room he didn't want to break just yet—an unguardedness that was rare for his sun-bright brother. He looked... softer in this light. Not golden and divine, not sharp with ego or singing of victories.

Just Apollo.

Hermes tilted his head.

Funny, really. So many mortals saw Apollo and thought him the epitome of perfection: sunlit and warm, beautiful and noble. But Hermes knew better.

He had grown up with that gleaming exterior, seen the cracks in the gilded armor. Apollo was many things—brilliant, yes, powerful beyond measure—but also fickle. Impulsive. Possessive in ways he'd never admit.

Dangerous, in all the ways people forgot light could be.

And right now?

He looked like a boy nursing a crush.

Hermes couldn't help the scoff that slipped past his lips. "Pathetic," he muttered, though not loud enough to be heard—not yet.

The smirk that tugged at his mouth came easily, like muscle memory, practiced and effortless. A shield and a knife, both. He gave the music one more beat to linger—one last note to drift off into the quiet—before his wings beat once, twice, and he pushed off from the ground.

He soared through the archway, slow and exaggerated, floating on his back with his hands laced behind his head.

"Apolloooooo," Hermes drawled loudly, voice echoing through the chamber, disrupting the still air with his usual, overbright lilt. "Singing again? Gods, you've really got it bad."

Apollo didn't look up.

But his fingers lagged a bit.

Hermes grinned wider, flipping midair to hover above his brother, upside-down like a smug little starling.

"So," he said, lazily circling. "Who's the muse today, hmm? Let me guess—another seer doomed to madness? That nymph who tried to drown you in spring wine? Wait—was it that shepherd boy with the voice like a dying goat? No, no, no—" He gasped, as if struck with realization. "Don't tell me you're still writing sonnets about Hyacinthus. Again."

That did it.

The oud's song died instantly, the last note ringing like a held breath.

Apollo slowly lifted his head, golden hair catching the light like a halo he hadn't earned. His fingers stilled against the strings, jaw tightening just slightly. He didn't smile.

"Leave," he said flatly. "Before I turn you into a smear on the floor."

Hermes giggled.

He spun once midair, then drifted down in slow, lazy spirals, landing gracefully with a soft thud of his winged sandals against the marble.

"No hello? No how've you been?" he teased. "Come on, brother. It's been days since I last saw your face."

Apollo's glare darkened. "What do you want?"

Hermes waved a hand. "Just stopping by. Delivering. Messaging. Visiting."

His smirk sharpened.

"...Ithaca."

Apollo's gaze flicked up fast—too fast.

Hermes watched the way his brother's posture shifted, just slightly. Not quite stiffening, not yet—but the kind of reaction Hermes had learned to read eons ago.

The god of prophecy didn't like surprises.

"And what," Apollo said carefully, each syllable sharp as polished bronze, "would business in Ithaca require from you? Delivering letters to your descendants?" He tilted his head slightly. "Or are you breeding more?"

Hermes laughed, full of unbothered delight. "Tempting! But no. Not this trip." He strolled forward now, light and aimless, as if he hadn't come here for anything important at all. He passed a pillar carved with sunbursts and laurel leaves, tapping it idly with his knuckles.

"I was just... near the palace," Hermes said airily. "You know how it is. One errand leads to another." He shot a glance over his shoulder, voice dropping just a little. "One face leads to another."

Apollo said nothing.

But his eyes followed.

Hermes came to a stop beside the chaise, reaching down to pluck one of the strings on the oud. It hummed under his fingers, sharp and dissonant.

"Oh," he said suddenly, as if just remembering. "Speaking of faces—gifts, actually—guess what I saw while I was there?"

Apollo didn't answer, but Hermes didn't need him to.

He leaned forward, his voice light and false-curious.

"There was this little piece," he mused. "A choker. Gold, marble inlays. Laurel pendant." He tilted his head. "Sound familiar?"

He didn't wait for Apollo to answer.

"Oh, silly me," Hermes added with mock innocence, tapping his chin as if trying to remember something very difficult. "It was on someone... what's the title now? The mortals gave her something recently... Oh! Right. Ithaca's Divine Liaison."

Apollo's smirk returned before the sentence even finished forming; he leaned back into the light like it bowed to him, like it belonged to him, that familiar pride settling on his face like a crown. His fingers curled around the oud's neck, not playing it anymore, just holding it—like a memory, like a comfort.

"It looked gorgeous on her, didn't it?" he asked, voice warm with pride. "A centerpiece. Something soft and radiant." His eyes gleamed. "Like her."

Hermes raised a brow. "Mmm," he hummed. "Or a leash."

Apollo's smile didn't falter.

But the air around them shifted—just slightly.

Hermes' teasing smile stayed, but it didn't quite reach his eyes now. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a sharp pull that looked almost like amusement—if you didn't know better.

He did.

It was forced. Hollow. Covering something else.

His fingers drummed lightly against his hip as he stepped away from the window. Just a small shift in posture. A casual movement. But even he felt it—his own muscles coiling tighter than usual.

And then his voice—still sweet, still light—cut the quiet with something colder just beneath the surface.

"So..." he said, tilting his head, "you just gave her the pendant, then? As a gift?"

Apollo once again kept quiet.

Hermes kept his eyes fixed on him. Still smiling. But his voice dropped just slightly, enough to scrape against something bitter in his chest.

"Or is that little laurel more than decoration?" he asked, feigning curiosity. "Do you know what it does, Apollo? Or maybe you do know. Maybe you made sure."

Apollo's hands had stilled. The oud quiet in his lap. But he hadn't looked up yet.

Hermes stepped closer, boots soft against the cloud-marble floor.

"Funny thing, really," Hermes said with a quiet scoff. "I touched it earlier. Just for a second. Could feel your essence clinging to it like sweat. Divine imprint, binding, warmth in the gold that doesn't come from the forge. And I thought, huh. That's strange."

He leaned in, just slightly, voice low. Dry.

"I didn't realize you were putting a claim on her."

Apollo's fingers twitched around the neck of the oud—just once—but it was enough.

Hermes felt it.

That invisible ripple of tension. The sun heating a little too much against his skin. The air humming faintly. The pressure building like a storm waiting to break.

Apollo's grip on the oud tightened. Not as a musician. Not as a lover of melody.

Like a man holding a blade.

"What are you implying, brother?" Apollo asked, quiet and dangerous, not looking up yet. A warning.

But still, Hermes didn't back down. His smile vanished like it was never there.

"Don't play coy," he snapped, louder now. "You know what I mean. I know what divine favor feels like. And that choker? That wasn't a gift. It was a tether."

Apollo's head turned. Slowly. His eyes locked on Hermes.

Hermes took another step, laughing bitterly as he threw a hand up, gesturing as if to a chalkboard no one could see.

"And now I'm wondering," he said. "All the rest of your gifts—every single flower, every relic, every 'pretty little token' she thinks is harmless—do they all carry pieces of you too?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

He hissed it like a joke that tasted wrong in his mouth. "No wonder she reeks of you."

That was when the silence snapped.

The light shifted.

The sun that had been soft in Apollo's hall turned sharper—gold becoming white, glow turning to glare. The shadows near Apollo's chaise deepened unnaturally, curling long across the floor like claws reaching for the edges of Hermes' boots.

Apollo stood slowly, his oud set down with care he didn't mean.

His expression wasn't amused anymore.

No smirk. No song.

Just shadow behind gold.

He stared down at Hermes, jaw tight, eyes unreadable—but there was something behind them now. Something gleaming too bright to look at directly.

And then... he laughed.

A short, bitter thing.

"Oh," Apollo said, voice colder than it had any right to be, "that's what this is."

He stepped closer, his smile returning—but it was a different kind of smile now. One that didn't reach his eyes. One made of teeth, not warmth.

"You're jealous."

Hermes didn't flinch, but lip ticked once.

Apollo tilted his head, curls shifting like golden vines over his brow, is grin sharpened into something crueler. Something knowing. "Don't tell me, little brother," he purred. "That you've set your eyes on my muse?"

Hermes' jaw clenched.

A small movement. Barely there. But it betrayed the storm beginning to churn beneath the smirk he still wore like armor. A crack in the performance.

Because he knew what Apollo was doing.

His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, gold eyes gleaming with something sharp as his brother's words echoed back at him.

"My muse."

What a possessive little title, dressed up in poetry. He should've expected it.

Apollo always did have a knack for taking things that weren't his and branding them with sunfire.

The sun god lounged back, all golden indifference and slow, poisonous amusement, his fingers lazily brushing across the strings of the oud still resting in his lap. A low chord hummed in the air like a held breath.

Apollo's smirk widened, eyes never leaving his brother's face. "It's already bad enough her attention's been divided lately," he said casually, voice smooth like silk stretched over broken glass. "Flitting around like some lovesick swallow. That little prince she's been hovering over? What is it? Telemachus?" He clicked his tongue, mock-pity threading through every syllable. "A mortal with more weight in his scowl than in his legacy. Hardly worthy of her... affection. But now you?"

His laugh was low, darkly amused, but Hermes didn't move.

"You, little brother? Trying your hand at romance?" Apollo continued, like he hadn't just twisted the knife, "you want to try your luck with her too?"

The air thickened. The golden light from the windows seemed to pulse—too warm, too close.

He didn't give Hermes room to speak.

"I should've known. It's always the ones who go unnoticed who get the hungriest, isn't it?" Apollo tsked, shaking his head like a disappointed father. "Poor thing. Must be exhausting—carrying everyone's stories, and never starring in one."

"I mean, you always did flutter too close to things that weren't meant for you. Letters, souls, hearts..." Apollo he mused, eyes narrowing with a cruel kind of clarity. "It's too bad too. You were always... entertaining," Apollo went on, lifting one hand to admire the light as it danced across his palm, his tone flippant and cutting. "Useful, too. Quick with words, quicker with your feet. But never quite the one they chose, were you?"

Hermes' fingers flexed against his staff; he said nothing, but his silence wasn't empty. It crackled.

Apollo's gaze flicked down, his smirk sharpening. "You watch the way she glows in a room, the way she laughs when no one else is brave enough to. And you think maybe, this time, someone might look at you like that. Like you're the center of their story."

Hermes' chest rose, slowly.

Apollo tilted his head, faux thoughtful. "But... she already has me."

There it was again—possessive and proud, like a crown fitted too tightly on a sunlit head.

The air pressed hotter against his skin, not from Olympus' glow, but from Apollo's radiance sharpening—like the sun threatening to burn even his divine flesh.

That old pang surged in his chest, the one he thought he’d buried centuries ago. The one that whispered he’d always be the footnote, never the tale. A god of arrivals and departures—never the destination.

And Apollo, golden bastard that he was, had the gall to hum afterward. A slow, self-satisfied sound.

"I mean," Apollo purred, "she is beautiful. Can't blame you, really. That mouth... those eyes. The kind of beauty you'd immortalize in a statue—or start a war over, I suppose."

The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It hung in the air like a blade.

Hermes blinked once. Slowly.

And then he smiled.

Too wide.

Too bright.

His body straightened, floating slightly off the ground as if weightless again. That cocky tilt returned to his brow, his sandals catching a glimmer of light as he hovered just slightly above the marble.

"Oh, no argument here," Hermes said lightly, smoothing a hand through his curls. "She's the kind of girl who could rival Helen herself—only difference is, she wouldn't start a war."

He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. "She'd end one. With a smile."

Apollo's brows pinched, but it was Hermes turn, and he didn't allow him the chance to even attempt speak.

"Softest arms I've ever held," Hermes added, gaze distant now—almost wistful. "Do you know she cries quietly? Doesn't want anyone to hear. But she let me. She leaned into me. Let me stay." He chuckled, eyes flashing gold. "That kind of trust? Can't be bought. Or gifted."

Hermes let the words linger for a beat. His gaze drifted to the space where sunlight spilled across the marble, and for just a moment, the usual mischief in his eyes dimmed.

"I've delivered a thousand love letters, heard a thousand prayers. But none ever sounded like her voice when she said my name."

He drifted forward, lazy, languid in his movements—like a shadow of smoke curling too close to fire.

"Her stare could turn a god to stone if she wanted to," Hermes continued, tilting his head. "But it didn't. Not when she looked at me. She looked at me like I was something worth holding onto."

Apollo's expression was unreadable now. Taut. Quiet. Dangerous.

Hermes smirked. "Now, I'm sure you've given her gifts. Gods know you love your grand gestures. But affection?" He raised a brow. "That's earned."

He shrugged casually. "You can't force what she wants. And if what she wants... isn't you?" Hermes' voice dipped into something colder—quieter. "Well. That's not a flaw in her. It's just your curse."

He turned in a slow circle, rising higher.

"May the best god win, brother," he sang sweetly.

And with that, Hermes spun on his heel mid-air, red cloak flaring behind him like a flare of dusk-colored fire.

But as he soared toward the open archway—his back to the sun god—his smile faded.

His face, caught in the shadow of his own departure, darkened.

Because he'd seen it.

That flicker.

That edge of something terrible and old building in Apollo's eyes.

And for the first time since this game began, Hermes wasn't entirely sure he'd stay ahead.

Not if Apollo stopped playing.

And started hunting.

A/N: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to 36 ┃ 𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐬; y'all are so amazing 🥹🥹 so many comments reminding me to take care of myself/get some rest 😭😭😭the way y'all know my habits/tendency to dive-into stuff, i swear it's like y'all knew i was running on fumes 🤣 anyways, i know i've been posting lots of 'divine whispers' but i hope they help give more insight for the characters etc. ❤️ enjoy (also, since i don't usually post fanart in the 'divine whispers' i'll have them in the next chappie (YALLL THEY LOOK SO GOOD,)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[bardic-tales]

The Song That Withers Flowers - a FF 7 / FWC fic

Summary: Bianca Moore confronts the spirits of Zack and Aerith in the Lifestream, rejecting redemption and choosing Sephiroth once again.

Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!OC) / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Zack Fair, Aerith Gainsborough

Possible Trigger Warnings: Abandonment, body horror (implied through spiritual effects), death, emotional manipulation, existential dread, gaslighting, genocide (referenced), mind control themes, obsession, psychological trauma, religious imagery, self-destruction, spiritual violence, threats of violence, toxic relationships, war crimes (implied), weaponized grief

The light here was wrong.

It filtered through the sky like dust through a cracked shell-shaped building's ceiling: weightless and heavy all at once, a haze that draped over everything with oppressive softness.

Bianca Moore stood on cracked, overgrown stone, seeing the spiritual pulse of the Lifestream beneath her boots but not within her. It hummed like a lullaby she could never fall asleep to: constant, beautiful, and cold.

This was the Forgotten Capital, or something wearing its shape. Spiraling ruins lifted like fingers clawing at the heavens, swathed in bioluminescent vines and ghostly green motes that drifted lazily through the air like ash from a sacred pyre. The water in the ruined pools shimmered not with reflection, but memory: faces, laughter, screams. Echoes. Cloud. Aerith. Blood. Sephiroth.

“I hate this place,” Bianca muttered, grinding her boot into the vine-choked marble. “Smells like hope and rotting forgiveness.”

The Lifestream swirled nearby, thick and alive. Green tendrils of spirit energy floated through the cracked earth. It did not touch her. Could not. She wasn’t born of the Planet. She was something else. Something the Planet could not claim. Something that the Planet did not want to claim.

Not that she wanted its grubby little tendrils in her head, she thought.

“Still monologuing, huh?” came a familiar voice. Upbeat. Too upbeat.

Bianca rolled her eyes without turning around. “Great. The golden retriever’s here.”

Zack Fair materialized from the shimmer of spirit-light like a dream given shape. He stood tall in his old SOLDIER First Class attire: black turtleneck and armor, spiky ebony hair, and that absurdly massive Buster Sword slung across his back. His mako-blue eyes sparkled with that trademark infuriating optimism. “You’re just mad I have better hair.”

She scoffed. “You look like a cosplay reject. I’ve seen chocobos with better posture.”

Zack laughed, easy and unbothered. That was always the most annoying thing about him. He didn’t seem to take her seriously, even when he should. Even when he was dead.

“Bianca,” came the second voice: softer, melodic, but laced with a strength like steel. Aerith Gainsborough stepped lightly across a crumbling stone path cutting through the water, as if gravity itself bent to her whim.

Aerith's pink dress fluttered around her ankles, her staff held gently at her side like a shepherd’s crook. Her smile was bright, and her green eyes held the weight of someone who knew exactly how dark the world could be. In another time, Bianca and she might have been friends.

Even so, she greeted Bianca with a warmth that made Bianca’s skin crawl.

“I was hoping you’d come," Aerith said.

“Spare me the flower girl routine,” Bianca snapped. “I’m not here for your weekly therapy circle.”

Aerith’s smile didn’t falter. “Then why are you here?”

Bianca’s gaze drifted to the swirling green water, just beyond reach. “Curiosity. Pity. Boredom. Pick one.”

Zack crossed his arms, his tone sobering. “We keep seeing you, y’know. Every time you get close to the Lifestream, you leave a wake behind. Spirits unsettled. Whispers. Screams.”

Bianca turned, slowly, like a predator sizing up prey that wouldn’t shut up. “Aww. I’m leaving an impression. Maybe I’ll sign autographs on the way out.”

Zack’s expression hardened, just a touch. “You don’t belong here.”

“Tell that to the voices calling my name, Fair.” Her lips curled into a crooked smile. Her fangs flashed behind her plump, painted lips. “They’re dying to talk to me.”

Aerith’s eyes narrowed slightly, the illusion of soft gentleness sharpening to something more defiant. “They’re not calling you out of love. They’re warning others.”

“And yet, here I am.”

Bianca’s voice held no fear, only boredom and a rising pinch of irritation beneath her skin. The longer she stood here, the more the Planet whispered, like the wind hissing through a cracked ribcage. Warnings. Accusations. Regrets. None of which applied to her. None of which she could actually hear.

Zack stepped forward, holding up a hand. “Bianca, whatever this is between you and Sephiroth, it’s not love. It’s obsession. It’s destruction. You don’t have to—”

“Oh, shut up.” Her eyes flared, violet and slitted. “Don’t give me the ‘you can still be saved’ pep talk. I’ve chewed through more priests than you’ve had awkward flings.”

Zack hesitated, but just long enough for Aerith to step in: calm and confident. “You don’t have to walk this path. There’s still a chance. Even now.”

Bianca laughed. It wasn’t kind. “You think this is some fairy tale? That I’m cursed and just waiting for your redemption arc to kick in? Get over yourselves. I’m not a failed Cetra. I’m not some broken little doll for your Planet to sew back together.”

Her voice dropped to a venomous hush. “I chose him.”

The air crackled. The Lifestream recoiled.

Zack clenched his fists. “You chose genocide. Madness. Him.”

Bianca bared her fangs in a grin. “I chose a god.”

The air changed. The wind stilled. The water’s surface froze into mirrored stillness. The world held its breath.

CRACK.

From the sky, he emerged, Masamune in hand. Sephiroth. No grand entrance this time. Just inevitability made flesh, stepping from the rendered sky like a god returning to his altar.

The sword gleamed in the soft green light, freshly drawn from the chasm. The very air seemed to bend around him, drawn toward him like all things eventually would be, as he floated down beside Bianca.

Bianca’s breath hitched and then exhaled in relief. “Took you long enough.”

"I have arrived precisely when I meant to." Sephiroth didn’t look at her yet. His gaze fell on Aerith and Zack, ice and judgment.

Zack immediately raised his Buster Sword. Aerith stepped in front of him without hesitation, staff braced.

“You’re not taking her,” Aerith said.

Sephiroth didn’t answer. He lifted Masamune and drove it into the ground.

SHHHHK.

The ground behind Bianca split open in a jagged, monstrous line. Stone shattered. Dust flew. From the gash, shadows spilled like ink from a wound. The world trembled.

Her black hair, interwoven with purple strands at the end, fluttered violently in the violent gale. Strands whipped across her cheeks, bridge of her nose, and lips.

The crack split wider, and from it rose Black Whispers: robed, dusty specters with no faces, no eyes. In the middle of their faceless void was single black orbs resembling the Black Materia, itself. They surged up in a silent scream, forming a barrier between Bianca and him and the spirits.

Zack charged. A whisper caught him mid-swing and flung him backward. He landed hard, skidding across a moss-covered stone.

Aerith gasped, reaching for Zack. The bracelets on her arm jangled, as a second whisper blocked her path.

“They won’t hurt you,” Bianca said sweetly, stepping toward Sephiroth. “Unless you try to stop us again.”

Zack sat up, coughing, bleeding spirit-light. “You don’t have to do this—”

“Yes,” Bianca said. She turned back one last time. Her eyes sought Zack's. “I do.”

Aerith stepped forward. “Why? Why throw everything away for him?”

Bianca tilted her head, reminiscent of a bird. Her gaze turned molten. “And who should I support? Humanity? You spread your seed across the cosmos, hoping for change when it's the same every time. Your kind burn, rape, and pillage Existence. Your kind needs to subjugate what you don't understand.

"Humanity has taught me one thing: pain." Bianca lowered her hand to Noctemaris' hilt. "Well, I'm not that scared little girl I was anymore. I am humanity and Creation's reckoning. My will will be done."

After those words, the whispers shielding both Bianca and Sephiroth shrieked. Aerith and Zack covered their ears tightly with their hands, as they watched Bianca leap up and spread her wings while Sephiroth slowly levitated off of the ground.

Slowly, they became a black and silver pinpoint against the bright kaleidoscope background until they were gone.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

[whorinsmokenshield]

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.

[somerandomdudelmao]

OH MY GOD YOU FOUND THIS I THOUGHT THAT POST WAS LOST FOREVER AHAHA

The left one is from these Cass' sketches

[lvmimis]

cw: god/mortal au, goddess!reader

mortals should consort with mortals only, the intelligent, more omniscient parts of you whisper gently into the space in the back of your mind, attempting to lodge its wisdom into the softer part of you, your ever-beating heart, the part of you that carries compassions for humans and their folly just as much.

you don’t want to listen anymore. your heart forms a barrier, although it doesn’t need to, for the mortal of your desire sits there peacefully, non-budging, not unlike the shepherd that is his mirror image on earth, quietly gazing at the night sky. his legs are pulled into his chest, and he is pensive as he traces the stars in the sky, and you wonder - is he thinking of you? does he see you differently than the others who come to worship at your altar? does he dare take your kindness and favor as divine affection, perhaps something as silly as love, or is he smart enough to content himself with the fact that he lives and that his mother lives by your grace and ask for nothing more?

after all, what kind of fool falls in love with a goddess?

you sigh.

if he asked, in the voice whose sweetness to you now rivals the ripest fruit, with the gentle regard that could sustain you for eons, many, many times his life over, you’d move all the stars in the sky for him, you’d surround him in polished marble and cloth more fine than wool, and the fattiest meats and the most exquisite of wines. you’d prepare a place for him as long as it were by your side and as long as he promised to never leave you, to never look at his own kind with half as much fervor as he does you.

alas, he knows his place, and you should far better know yours.

the expanse of heaven now seems like prison to you, and yet you cannot appear in front of him again, walk the earth he walks that should be so beneath you.

he sighs, and you watch as a sheep strays from the flock and settles into his lap, as though to comfort him. how you wish to be that lowly creature, cared for by someone only slightly greater in the grand scheme of the universe, and yet so grand to you.

he caresses the animal, running scarred fingers through unruly fur, whispering a word of thanks. you wonder if you were to run your own gilded finger tips through the curls of his verdant locks, if he would thank you the same.

that is what he is designed for, gratitude and worship.

he cannot love you.

and you cannot love him.

- and yet, you do.

[xx-theblack-vixen-xx]

tried to make a marble sky lineup with ALL of the characters,,, not sure how accurate it is but i mean it's the closest we have so far ahah

(LIKES DO NOTHING. PLEASE REBLOG MY WORK! /nf) :D

[somerandomdudelmao]

Part 8 :l

If you look closely, you can pinpoint the exact moment at which the hot weather got to me ahahsjdfl

Ecliptica is unlucky enough to have the friend who is the worst hugger alive

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Masterpost

[dumb-but-happy-trist]

Unplayable characters I've encountered (but I probably missed a ton)

Beast III/R

Dahut

Galahad

Goetia

Gorgon (Enemy)

Jean d'Arc alter (ruler)

Megalos

Minotaur

Solomon

Agravain

Lev Lainur

Fafnir

Makiri Zolgen

Goddess Rhongomyniad

Kingu

Laḫmu

Christine Daaé

BB/GO

Ritsuka alter

Goddess Columbia

Victor Frankenstein

Grendel

Pierre Cauchon (theirs art of Him as a pretty girl)

Bombay

Rushd

Siduri

Cavall II

Onui

Randolph Carter

Patxi

Gozul the Strong

Makule the Quick

Zayed the Base

Shadow Servant

Dragon tooth warrior leader

Oprichniki Slaughter infantry Leader

Alexei Nikolaevich

tatiana nikolaevna romanova

Gentile da Fabriano

Heaven's Hole

Albrecht Dürer

Zepar

Robin Z_

Robin ZZ_

tech fairy H.C.A.

Jörmungandr

Kraken

Mable macintosh

Cthulhu

Amelia Earheart

Chandraputra

Rudolph MacLeod

Big bad wolf

Amakusa Shirou Tokisada (avenger)

Shima Sakon

rider of kalustura hell,

Jeanne des Armoises

Pierre d'Arc

beserker of Samgata hell,

Assassin of paraíso

Fuuma shadow clone

Archer of inferno

missionary in western clothing

princess Kiyohime

Otama

Lancer of purgatorio

britney spears

William Frederick Cody

Wyatt earp

Davy crocket

Nagasaki

kronos

dazai osamu

dark ushiwakamuru

anchin

Xerxes

Ibn al-Haytham

Watson

Alexander Graham bell

Queen Seondeok of Silla

"Most evil man in history"

Phenex

Raum

Naberius

Baal

Halphas

Good Moriarty

Barbatos

Haagenti

Sabnock

Glasya-Labolas

Great God Amun-Ra

Clan Calatin

Round-Faced Priest/Father Brown

String-Fiddling Old Man/The Old Man in the Corner

Shaggy-Haired Professor/Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen

Straight-Laced Gentleman/Dr. Thorndyke

Belgian/Hercule Poirot

Doppelgänger

Romeo and Juliet

Macbeth

Eye patch Musashi

Mrs pickman

Old giles

Lavinia whataley

Osbourne

Reverend

Mothman/Bomb beast

Jeanne d'Arc lancer

angrboda

Helter skelter

William Shakespeare

Sita (Grand order version)

Mirror to the underworld

uruk gaurd

Mušmaḫḫū

Orochi

Bel Laḫmu

Ziusu-dra

King of Men Goetia

King of Demon Gods - Goetia

False Solomon

True Solomon

Dark idol Elisabeth bathory

lost man

young fergus

Mr kaburagi

Murasaki Shikibu

Fran(saber)

Queen Yamlika

Prince of Marble

Iry-Hor

H.P Lovecraft

Goliath

Baba Yaga

Hassan of the Serenity alter

Wendigo lord

Sheriff's Assistant

Anubis

Galahad

Oceanus

Arima KiyomSukeroku

Katsushika Hokusai

Franz Xaver Süssmayr

Miyamoto Musashi

Franz Xaver Wolfgang Mozart

Ludwig van Beethoven

Xerxes

tanned mash

Yashkia(Rebel soldier/Cartographer)

Theseus

Werejaguar chieftain

blackbears Chief Navigator

blackbeards Helmsman

david alter

"first artist"

Nitocris' Mirror

Hassan of the Intoxicated Smoke

Nitocris of the netherworld

Nitocris of the sky

hassan of rhe Quaking Pipe

Shadow-Peeling hassan

Shaytan

Enforcement Knight

Percival

Kay

Gaheris

Palamedes

Sir Balin

King Pellinore

Vivian

Cath Palug

Vortigern

Yohimen bride

Ozymandias (Front Shadow)

Ozymandias (Rear Shadow)

Ozymandias (Real Shadow)

Serhan

Uridimmu leader

Ušumgallu leader

Bašmu leader

Mušḫuššu leader

Phantom of the Black Shepherd

Lucha libre spriggan

Ugallu leader

But, I Still Want To Eat Meat

Pterosaur king

Netherworld's Royalty

Soul That Lost Its Confidence and erased its own name

tiamat brain

Mysterious Citizen X

Laḫmu lord

BNaberius

Forneus

Amon

Andromalius

Enigma

Ivan the Terrible (elephant)

ivans crown

Golem Keter Malkuth

orochi tree

Priestess of the Alien God

.

[sgiandubh]

Sunday sounds: Third Advent Gaudete Sunday - Joy

This severely traffic jammed Sunday may be plagued with hustle, bustle and the final scramble to Christmas, but it is time to light the pink Shepherds' Candle.

These Most Humble of Them All were also the first to be told something that forever changed our hearts and minds, and immediately sent them on the road to Bethlehem:

'And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.' (Luke,  2:10-12).

Despite and sometimes even against anything else, this Sunday is about an overwhelming, definitive feeling of Joy:

We do not need complicated words to describe what we think or feel on this particular day. This is why, and rather uncharacteristically, I have chosen John Rutter's deceptively simple and modern tune. It closely resonates with John Betjeman's Christmas poem - and I could never resist Betjeman:

The bells of waiting Advent ring, The Tortoise stove is lit again And lamp-oil light across the night Has caught the streaks of winter rain In many a stained-glass window sheen From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge And round the Manor House the yew Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge, The altar, font and arch and pew, So that the villagers can say 'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze, Corporation tramcars clang, On lighted tenements I gaze, Where paper decorations hang, And bunting in the red Town Hall Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad, And oafish louts remember Mum, And sleepless children's hearts are glad. And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!' Even to shining ones who dwell Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true?  And is it true, This most tremendous tale of all, Seen in a stained-glass window's hue, A Baby in an ox's stall ? The Maker of the stars and sea Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ?  For if it is, No loving fingers tying strings Around those tissued fripperies, The sweet and silly Christmas things, Bath salts and inexpensive scent And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells, No carolling in frosty air, Nor all the steeple-shaking bells Can with this single Truth compare - That God was man in Palestine And lives today in Bread and Wine.

[muichiro-tokito-1710]

✨SPECIAL!✨Chapter 7: With a Dream of My Own

AYYYY GUYS THIS IS THE SPECIAL CHAPTER! There will be Y/N lore + backstory and bcz it's so long I'mma make more than 1 post for this chap

Y/N and her best friend, Cassie, were inseparable. Their tie was so strong that the two souls seemed joined in a way that envied all who knew them. The girls spent all their lives creating and delivering secrets; one could hear their laughter throughout every day, making sure they formed real, unforgettable memories that very few people could understand and relate to. Close by, a great palace reared its majestic marble front towards the sky, as if it were the very crown and glory of the landscape that stretched beneath, commanding it in its prominent central position. The magnificent and imposing structure, with its uncommon architecture and commanding appearance, took their fancy, conjuring well-defined images of such unimaginable riches and an endless, boundless power that it seemed to them only just beyond their reach. More fiercely than ever before, the fire surged through their minds, as a stream of fanciful visions danced before their imagination, stirring it restlessly. Though Y/N had never felt a special attraction toward the prospect of gaining great wealth or the material things that some might consider worldly treasures, Cassie, on the other hand, had always nurtured a secret ambition—oftentimes tucked away from view—shepherding her to be more and have more than was readily available to her. Accordingly, neither of them was shocked, nor even surprised when Cassie began to act strangely, evincing an incredible interest in some of the beautiful gems that were inlaid into the walls of this enormous palace.It was on this night, so filled with weighted anticipation and a deep sense of expectation, that Cassie made one final decision fork in the road that would irrevocably change the course of her whole life and determine her future in ways she could hardly imagine. And so, that night, Cassie snuck inside the fabled royal vault—imposing, replete with secrets locked away for centuries—and a staggering repository of literally everything of value that that kingdom had ever owned. Thin, deft fingers, full of dexterity and confidence in every touch, were taking out of their velvet-lined cases a few sparkling, shining, dazzling pieces of jewelry that shone softly under the dim light, which scarce defined the outlines of this dimly lit room. Those who had enjoyed even the slightest hint of power and prestige among the people were well aware of one fact: the guards—very tall and strong as they stood patrolling around the palace grounds—were seldom alert or very interested in the treasures kept safe behind those high, foreboding walls. This Cassie knew only too well, like everybody else. And it was precisely at this juncture in the burglary—one that had been so carefully planned, with such meticulous and exquisite attention to detail—that an accident suddenly occurred: one of a calamitously intentional nature. Thus began a sequence of events so staggering, so unintended, leading those present on a journey none could have ever imagined, much less expected in any way. Be that as it may, one of the guards chanced to be present and on duty at that very moment, and he saw her in the thick of the chaos. With purpose and resolve, he slowly made his way toward her, edging closer with determination. All of a sudden, there was a tide of brilliant panic surging within her, infused with an immensely resourceful quality; from this tumultuous swell, there sprang forth an ingenious, smart little scheme, designed to entwine Y/N in a way that would naturally bring suspicion over them. With the utmost attention to detail and due care, she had so taken her time in setting up everything: the evidence against them artfully arranged in such a clever and astute way that no one could ever think her capable of such crimes—her bright scheming finally taking her to their arrest.