Beneath The Stars Chtuluchilipie

Summary:

Bilbo Baggins was no fool.

He knew exactly what it meant, what he was doing. No matter the guilt and confusion that would be spurned from it by others, he knew what he was doing, and more than that; he wanted it. He knew precisely who Thorin Oakenshield was the first moment he laid his eyes on the impressive figure. The tallest dwarf he'd ever seen, with long jet hair and piercing blue eyes and a lovely beard. The dwarf was none other than the King of the Underworld, and he was simply awful. He was a fearsome sight to behold. A tall and beautiful creature dripping in his own majesty. Hair darker than the night, eyes so sharp and blue they felt like an iced lake, piercing with a thin layer of intensity covering the depths that lingered below. His hair was a tangled mane of long strands that blew gently in the wind, tangling in his face, covering small amounts of the blood splattered there. This King, this dwarf was awful, and vile and terrible; the master of death. And Bilbo wanted him.

Where Darkness Lies

Bilbo Baggins was no fool.

He knew exactly what it meant, what he was doing. No matter the guilt and confusion that would be spurned from it by others, he knew what he was doing, and more than that; he wanted it. He knew precisely who Thorin Oakenshield was the first moment he laid his eyes on the impressive figure. The tallest dwarf he'd ever seen, with long jet hair and piercing blue eyes and a lovely beard. The dwarf was none other than the King of the Underworld, and he was simply awful. He was a fearsome sight to behold. A tall and beautiful creature dripping in his own majesty. Hair darker than the night, eyes so sharp and blue they felt like an iced lake, piercing with a thin layer of intensity covering the depths that lingered below. His hair was a tangled mane of long strands that blew gently in the wind, tangling in his face, covering small amounts of the blood splattered there. This King, this dwarf was awful, and vile and terrible; the master of death. And Bilbo wanted him.

Oh Gods! How he wanted him.

Bilbo did love his flowers and his garden and the warmth of his home, but he hungered for something the Shire could not provide to him. The warmth of the earth was certainly lovely, and the gentle hum that surrounded him in his mother's forests was calming, but it was not enough. Bilbo was different than the other hobbits, he craved the darkness, danger and the adventure that came with it, he desired it more then anything. This dwarf was everything Bilbo ever wanted. A life closer to the darkness that always called to him, a step closer to the danger he admired, the freedom he desperately craved, all wrapped up neatly into a beautiful package that was Thorin.

It wasn't just the darkness itself, the tight shroud of shadows that called him to Thorin. It was everything that the dwarf was. After one glance Bilbo had known that Thorin was everything he ever wanted. It was pure attraction, infatuation and lust, all this had been created with a single glance, a simple meeting of their eyes.

Bilbo was called to a summit meeting at Mount Olympus, sitting next to his mother Belladonna as he gazed around the room, bored. He observed the King of them all, Thrain, the God of Thunder, hammer in his hand as he called for order. The dwarf sat with a rigid spine, voice crackling through the room with a brilliant flash. The great hall silenced immediately, and all eyes were drawn to the King of Gods. The dwarf waved his hand with a flourish, and intoned gravely, "You may bring forth your complaints now, King of the Woodland Realm."

Bilbo loathed the regular meetings like this, the ones where all the greater Gods and Goddesses were drawn fro their realms and forced to argue and listen to each other's complaints. The meetings like this one were the worst though, the ones were Thranduil- the king of Dryads showed up just to whine at the Gods.

Bilbo sighed, wishing more than anything for a cup of wine to settle his nerves and distract his thoughts. A flash of gold sparked in front of him, a large and finely crafted cup landed just in front of his hand filled to the brim with a deep red wine. Bilbo chuckled and cast a glance at the cause; Frerin the God of pleasures and wines, son of Thrain. Frerin winked at him, taking a long drink from his own cup, turning his head to the side to speak to the dwarf who sat next to him.

Bilbo found his eyes were unmovable from the dwarf who sat at Frerin's left, and Thrain's right. He was bathed in shadows, they pooled around him, tainting the air around him a dark shade that clung to his every move. He was dressed in regal blues and obsidian blacks, skin glowing in a way that made his godly nature obvious. He wasn't any different or more grand than any of the others Gods Bilbo had met, but he found he was unable to cast his eyes away, even for a moment.

The dwarf turned and he looked at Bilbo, bright blue eyes glowing. Bilbo's breath caught in his throat, and his stomach fell to his feet. In that single glance, he had known. He had known. This was Thorin. The king and master of death. He felt a deep hunger growing in him, an insatiable hunger for Thorin Oakenshield, king Under the Mountain, King Under the World. Bilbo wanted, by the power vested within him, he wanted. A steely resolve settled in his stomach as the dwarf glanced away, casting his heady glare on someone else, filling Bilbo with a brief fire of jealousy. By the end of the meeting, Bilbo decided the dwarf would be his, no matter the means.

Bilbo had heard of Thorin's terrible habit of using the land outside Bilbo's realms as a quick gateway to his own. And Bilbo knew what was to happen, when the time came Bilbo waited in the grain field, merrily whistling away as he waited for the earth to crack open. The earth did split, precisely on time, shadows pooling out of the crevice.

Thorin's chariot rippled across the field, and Bilbo watched, his heart joyfully pounding when the dwarf slowed, his eyes widening as he looked down upon Bilbo. Bilbo wanted to leave, and he would ensure that it would happen, but Thorin was a prideful God, he would not take Bilbo if the hobbit begged.

So the hobbit had blushed under Thorin's gaze and batted his eyelashes, biting his lower lip and letting the king think it was his own idea. He trembled helplessly, and stared up with wide eyes, waiting for it happen. When the King's mouth opened a little, Bilbo had almost grinned his success. Thorin had been helpless. He had hoisted Bilbo up then, intent on claiming him, clutching the hobbit to his chest as they entered the Underworld with a loud resonating crack, and Bilbo had smiled. It was he who was claiming Thorin, not the other way around. But he would let the king have this small victory.

He had eaten the pomegranate willingly, chewing slowly, letting the red juice dribble down his chin and stain his lips. He licked his stained fingers of the crimson juice, looking up at Thorin from underneath his golden eyelashes, marveling at the lust in those supreme blue eyes. Chills erupted on the surface of his skin and he had smiled, because his own desire was matched in Thorin's. He then stood from where he sat, and slowly sidled up the dwarf with the grace of a great cat, his gaze unwavering.

He purred into Thorin's ear the words he'd always wanted to say, and he adored the affect it had on the king. He smirked as Thorin swallowed and shuddered, turning lust-heavy eyes towards him, waiting for Bilbo's hum of approval.

Bilbo had laid in the center of the king's bed, completely naked and aroused, moaning and mewling as the king stood in front of the bed, awestruck and lost. Head tilting to the side as he contemplated the sight of Bilbo, eyes large in wonder and awe. He whimpered and whined, rolling his body around as Thorin stared.

"Thorin." He whispered, locking his gaze onto the king's. "Come here."

Thorin looked remarkably helpless, swallowing and blushing as the hobbit keened, pressing his fingers into his tight little hole, moaning Thorin's name all the while. He began to stroke himself, and then it had been too much for the dwarf. Thorin was suddenly above him, fully clothed with glittering eyes as he gazed down at Bilbo. His shadows touched Bilbo first, crawling over the surface of the hobbit's skin, wrapping him up in the darkness he had always craved.

Bilbo had kissed him then, in sweet and long lingering movements, sliding the king's furs off his shoulders and cupping Thorin's swollen member beneath the layer of his breeches. The king was an absolute wreck, eyelids lowered and tinged purple, hair disarrayed, lips swollen and stained from Bilbo's pomegranate kisses, breathing labored as he slowly pressed himself into Bilbo with a gentle moan.

They had coupled multiple times, Bilbo bathing in affection and shadow, smiling as he drew Thorin to whimpers and sighs. He kissed Thorin, exploiting the flavors and tastes of his mouth, mapping it out, pressing it all into memory. He drew himself from the King of Death's bed, pressing the dark sheets to his naked body, casting a small smile at his new lover. He roamed Thorin's halls and realm, grinning as he felt those supremely blue eyes holding onto the sight of his small body, never moving away. Each morning he rose from the bed that became theirs, kissing Thorin tenderly, humming into his ear, running deft little fingers through Thorin's jet tresses. Each night he slipped his pale golden cloak off, exposing his soft and pale body to his King, moaning as the shadows came crawling over him, spreading his legs and waiting for his King.

He was Bilbo Baggins. Son of Belladonna. A hobbit of the world above. A God of sunshine, fruit and the harvest. But he was more than these things. He was the Tempter of Kings, The Minx, The Ruiner, but most of all he was The Burglar who stole the heart of the King of Death.

Bilbo was very much proud of the title.