Lasl ra Kha’i

Lasl ra Kha’i

Bilbo Baggins may have been a Submissive and a masochist, born to be a channel for Yavanna’s Green Magic in Arda, but he had never once seriously contemplated accepting a Collar from a Dominant. The rights of Collared Subs ebbed and flowed in the Shire with the installment of each new Thain and so Bilbo had come to the conclusion, while in his tweens and still discovering his sexual appetites, that binding himself to a Dom in any kind of permanent fashion would never be worth the trouble that it could potentially cause him down the road. It certainly helped that he had not encountered a single individual, or pair, in the entirety of the Shire who interested him enough to tempt him into desiring their Collar.

That resolution had withered dramatically the night that Thorin Oakenshield came barreling, most unexpectedly, into what had been his respectable and well-organized life. Bilbo had only needed to glimpse the Dwarf – a King even in exile – and he had known, known right down to the deepest facets of his soul, that Thorin was the One whom the Green Lady had meant for him to be with. And, though Bilbo had never felt the urge to Kneel before, when Thorin sang, oh, Bilbo would have dropped to his knees right there in his Dwarrow-invaded sitting room, before all and sundry, if he had imagined for a single moment that the Dominant would have welcomed it.

His relationship with Thorin had come a long way since that night – when Thorin had seemed so disgusted by Bilbo’s very presence in the world. Bilbo learned, eventually, that Thorin had been reacting, poorly, to the idea of having his heart’s match come along on what was sure to be an inexorably dangerous quest full of Orc and Goblin-shaped perils, but at the time the other’s palpable disregard for Bilbo had hurt the Hobbit enormously.

Thorin had more than made up for it though – in thoughtful gestures, both big and small, in nights filled with ardor and the most exquisite pain, and in the unwavering trust he had gifted to Bilbo – and two isolated hearts had slotted, flawlessly, together into one perfect whole. So when Thorin presented a Collar to him in Lake-town, his hands steady in their offering, even as his sapphire eyes betrayed his nervousness, Bilbo had Knelt without hesitation.

“It’s not what you deserve,” Thorin said wryly and with a hint of self-flagellation. “I would see Mithril and a rainbow of precious jewels around your throat and a diadem upon your head to match, but until the Dragon is dead gifting you with such finery as you ought to have is, quite simply, an impossibility.”

Bilbo looked at the Collar in Thorin’s hands, the seven thin strips of forest green leather braided together in a sturdy and most complex pattern with dozens of Khuzdûl runes carved painstakingly into every inch of it – Ghivashel, Khajmel, Laslel, Ûrzudel, Lukhudel, Atmel, Madtithbirzul, and others which he could not yet recognize on sight – and the intricate golden lock that held the two ends together – three of Thorin’s beads were missing from his hair and Bilbo knew exactly what beads and braids meant to Dwarrow – and he felt his heart swell in his chest.

“I hardly need such things, dear heart,” Bilbo assured, “I just need your hand in mine and the promise of your love for evermore. And this is the most beautiful Collar that I have ever seen.”

It was not a lie, for Collars in the Shire were simple in design, most often fashioned out of brass links threaded with ribbons and were fastened with simple knots instead of lock and key. His father’s Collar had been engraved copper with a matching lock and had been considered one of the most expensive and extravagant in the Shire.

Thorin’s smile was breathtaking to behold, like the long-awaited dawn after the Winter’s Solstice or the first brush of Spring as life returned to the land after its long slumber, “You have my promise of such devotion and this one as well, that my hands shall hold none but yours until the end of time and beyond. Will you accept this Collar from me, as a symbol of my love and my oath to protect your body, heart, and soul from all dark things?”

“Yes, Thorin,” Bilbo blinked back tears of incandescent joy as he agreed, “Of course I will.”

Thorin leaned forward then and settled the Collar around Bilbo’s throat, his fingers tenderly brushing against Bilbo’s skin, before clicking the two ends together at the nape of his neck and locking it. It caught Bilbo off-guard, how distinctly right wearing Thorin’s Collar felt. The rush of wonder and satisfaction was a heady thing and Bilbo all but melted against Thorin’s legs.

“Oh,” Bilbo gasped.

“Bilbo?” Thorin questioned in concern.

“I’m alright,” Bilbo murmured into the fabric of Thorin’s trousers.

“You’re half in Subspace already, actually,” Thorin pointed out, running a hand through Bilbo’s riotous curls.

“But not all the way,” Bilbo claimed, pouting just a bit. “You should fix that, darling.”

Thorin laughed and pulled Bilbo up onto his lap, nipping Bilbo’s bottom lip in a quick kiss, “I would be honored to do so, my Hobbit.”

“Wait,” Bilbo shook his head to clear away the haze, a bit ruefully for it had been quite the pleasant thing, “I have to give you something first.”

Bilbo clasped his hands together and sang a short, sweet tune in Greentongue, letting the Mother’s magic move through him. When he parted his palms, a large lavender-hued rose was resting between them and only a mere moment later, as he and Thorin watched, the flower began to crystallize. An everlasting bloom for his Dominant, his King.

“Here you are, Khaeluh,” Bilbo held it out to Thorin, who claimed it reverently.

“I will cherish it always, Nanginguh,” Thorin swore. “Though, not nearly as much as he who gave it to me.”

Bilbo smiled in utter delight, “Kiss me.”

And so Thorin did… along with much, much more.

Being a Dominant was an incredible and practically sacrosanct responsibility for any Dwarf, made more so when the aforementioned Dwarf was also a sadist.

Growing up as the future ruler of the greatest and most prosperous kingdom in all of Arda, Thorin had been fiercely proud of his dynamic and more than willing to do anything and everything required to fashion himself into the perfect Dom. The education that was required of him to achieve such a status had been intense and even, upon occasion, both physically and emotionally painful, but Thorin’s determination had known no bounds. By his sixty-sixth birthday, he had completed five rigorous eleven-month training sessions and had been rewarded with the top-tier Master’s Marks from two of Erebor’s Elite Pleasure Houses – a feat which had never before been accomplished by so young a Dwarf.

There had been talk of him beginning a session at a third House – as was tradition for those of Erebor’s Royal Family; they had to set a good example for their people, after all – and Thorin would have accepted further and more diversified instruction without complaint. How could he possibly have protested, when every lesson the House Masters meticulously inculcated within him and every skill that he diligently honed was for the sake of the Submissive whom he would one Collar? How could he not have done whatever was necessary to be all that the One he Longed for needed?

Of course, it was shortly after such talk that the Dragon came.

Smaug, in one single day and night, stole Thorin’s home, obliterated both his sense of security and what was left of his innocence, and brutally massacred over half of his people. From that point forward, life became little more than a bitter, cold, and dark process to endure with only the briefest flashes of warmth and light to sustain him – he was a prince of Durin’s line and the wellbeing of his people came before his own happiness, always.

For many years, Thorin managed to convince himself that he was fated to never find his One – he could not have known of the treasure he would unexpectedly discover hidden behind a round, green door. A treasure with riotous copper curls and glimmering aquamarine eyes and a spine crafted from the purest Mithril. Meeting the Hobbit on the cusp of the Quest had been nothing less than an absolute shock, but – Thorin admitted with no small measure of shame for his earlier doubt as he held his One protectively in his lap as they both recovered from their earlier, amorous exertions – Mahal had clearly known exactly what he was doing when he had forged his son’s soul together with one of Yavanna’s brightest and most beautiful children’s.

Thorin had known many Submissives over the course of his life – he was a hundred and thirty-five years past his majority – but none of them could have held a candle to Bilbo Baggins. No other Sub had possessed a dynamic that meshed so perfectly with Thorin’s own, had garnered Thorin’s true deference and veneration, or had been able to tempt him into offering a Collar. No other Sub could have, for they were not his heart’s match, they were not his One. Bilbo was… and what immense satisfaction Thorin gleaned from seeing his Collar secured around the Hobbit’s sun-kissed throat.

Having Bilbo, Thorin determined, was worth everything he had suffered before – even the knowledge that a Drake lay before him could no longer temper his pleasure.

“Are you well?” Thorin asked, his voice barely more than a murmur as he gently ran his fingers over the criss-crossing welts that had risen across Bilbo’s back, which was, Thorin had learned, a major erogenous zone for his Sub.

Bilbo shivered in obvious delight, pressing his bare chest flush against Thorin’s and his voice dream-like as he answered, “I’m wonderful, couldn’t be better.”

Still deep in Subspace then.

“I need to unbind your hands and apply Habanûrzudaz Amùmach to your wrists and back,” Thorin relayed softly, tapping at the complicated knots which kept Bilbo’s hands exactly four inches apart and behind him.

Bilbo looked up at Thorin through his eyelashes and pouted alluringly, “You don’t need to. I’m perfectly fine.”

“I will do almost anything for you, Ghivashel,” Thorin returned, letting just enough Dominance seep into the words that Bilbo fidgeted where he sat, “But forgoing your Aftercare is absolutely out of the question. I could not insist upon checking your health when we played before tonight, but as long as you wear my Collar you will submit to such.”

“Yes, Khaeluh,” Bilbo conceded, before nuzzling at the tattoo on Thorin’s left shoulder. “I like your wolf; did I ever mention?”

“Once or twice,” Thorin smiled down at him as he worked to remove the ropes, “Or every time you’re this deep in Subspace and drunk on Green Magic.”

“Mmm, all your inkings are lovely, but your wolf is my favorite.”

“It is the Master’s Mark of the Khael House, the second Pleasure House I trained at. I did three sessions there – it is the only Dwarven House that offers more than two and is considered the elite of the Elite, though it is not the Royal House.”

“Have you told me this before?” Bilbo’s nose scrunched up in bemusement.

“Once or twice,” Thorin repeated, kissing Bilbo’s nose and setting the ropes to the side. Carefully, he shifted Bilbo off his lap and onto the bed, “Lay on your stomach for me, Khajmel.”

Bilbo obeyed without protest, sighing only a bit when Thorin began to spread the healing paste over the welts, replacing their sting with a sensation mellow and warm. On that, Thorin would not compromise – pain had its place, but not when it interfered with much-needed rest.

“I love you, Thorin,” Bilbo spoke a few minutes later, nearly asleep.

“As I love you,” Thorin replied, “For now and for always.”

THE END

Translations (Khuzdûl)           

• Lasl ra Kha’i – Rose and Wolf
• Khaeluh – My Great Wolf
• Ghivashel – Beloved
• Khajmel – Gift of all Gifts
• Lasle­l – Rose of all Roses
• Ûrzudel – Sun of all Suns
• Lukhudel – Light of all Lights
• ‘Atmel – Breath of all Breaths
• Madtithbirzul – Little Golden Heart
• Nanginguh – My Flower
• Habanûrzudaz Amùmach – Gem of the Sun Spread, or Paste [Dwarven healing ointment that I made up for this universe]