Chapter Text
I.
Thorin squeezed his eyes closed and wished that he was dead. His Gods-damned sister had ‘borrowed’ the private jet to hop across to the Maldives with her sons on a whim, and had ‘forgotten’ to tell him about it. Again.
Save that this time, Thorin had actually had an urgent business meeting to attend, over in bloody New York, and flying commercial was a personal trial on many levels. Firstly. Bloody Heathrow. Secondly. The teeming masses. Not even Singapore’s Changi Airport, which had a hotel lobby-like First Class check-in facility, had quite worked out how to minimise contact with the hordes of humanity, and Heathrow certainly fucking hadn’t. Thirdly. The godsdamned holiday season and its unashamedly commercial thrust of lurid ‘good’ cheer, obnoxious jingles and all.
He was going to murder Dís whenever he next saw her.
Considering that Thorin was paying the equivalent of the cost of a small car to fly in one of the Suites on Shire Air, it was incredibly… frustrating how he could still hear the squalling crescendo shrieks of some brat hellspawns in Business Class. Fuck the rising middle class, or whatever circumstances had conspired to allow parents with little squealing goblins to fly Business Class with impunity.
Take off was a trial that Thorin ground his teeth through, as the ascent of the plane seemed to excite the creatures, but even when they were in the air, and he could finally shut the fucking door, he could still hear the little monsters. Good lord. Couldn’t the airline designers have made soundproof compartments? Rubbing his fingers over his temples for a moment in a futile attempt to soothe his headache, Thorin finally gave up, exhaling as he pressed the button for attendance.
There was a moment’s pause, then there was a light knock on the door. “Come in,” Thorin said brusquely, and the door slid open, just enough to show the slight figure of a… remarkably cute air steward, neat and trim in the dark green and white blazer and pressed shirt uniform of a Shire Air steward, his mouse-brown hair a mop of unruly curls over brilliantly large eyes that held only a strange sort of calm amusement.
Thorin also couldn’t tell, on a first glance, what aspect the steward was: he exuded calm, like a Second, but there was a steely self-confidence to his poise that felt like a First’s prerogative. Frustrated and tired and nursing the start of what was likely to be another resounding headache, Thorin tried to make it out for a moment more before giving up.
“Mister Durin?” the air steward asked mildly. “May I help you?”
Thorin had almost forgotten the reason behind pressing the attendant button in the first place, until the air was split again with the ascending, operatic wail of yet another spawn of Satan. He closed his eyes in irritation, and when he reopened them, the air steward had arched an eyebrow, and the amusement seemed more pronounced.
“If it’s about our very young guests in Business Class,” the air steward drawled, “I regret to advise that I may offer no assistance other than perhaps a selection of hard liquor and a set of headphones.”
Thorin scowled. “Can’t you talk to the bloody parents?” he snapped.
“Unfortunate as-“ The steward’s words were briefly drowned out by another wail, and the steward paused for a moment before adding, “Unfortunately, it is against airline policy to advise grown adults on parenting techniques, tempting as it may be. If I may offer you the wine list-“
“Fuck liquor,” Thorin growled. “Why can’t you move those little monsters further down the plane?”
The steward’s smile grew a little fixed, and to Thorin’s growing irritation, he stepped into the suite, closing the door neatly behind him. Flying apartments in the air his arse - the Suites were smaller than the bathrooms of his Mayfair house, and with the steward crowded into the shoebox of a room, it felt even more cramped.
“My dear sir-“
“Don’t take that tone with me!”
“Unfortunately,” the air steward continued firmly, “Those ‘little monsters’, as you so eloquently put, are part and parcel of commercial air travel.”
Another faint squeal, like the despairing cry of some goat getting tortured, drifted through the walls, as if to punctuate the steward’s point, and Thorin grit his teeth, another retort on the tip of his tongue: only to freeze up as the steward reached over and grasped his wrist.
“Would you please be calm,” the steward said, his tone not changing a whit but now Thorin felt it, the pressure and the authority behind the steward’s voice, ironclad, inexorable, like an unravelling, a release so… refreshing that it was utterly sensual: Gods, it had been so long since he had met a First with a presence that was absolute enough to overwhelm him.
Thorin’s breath left him in a ragged rush, a choked and strangled sound, and the steward let go of him as though scalded, his eyes widening. “Oh, I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to press that hard… I thought you were another First… um, not a Thir... I mean, I’ll help you get cleaned up,” he added awkwardly, opening the tiny ensuite bathroom and pulling out a set of handtowels.
Belatedly, Thorin realized that he had… in his trousers… and his cheeks grew hot even as he tried to pull up from the sense of balance that he felt, of peace, and he grabbed the steward’s wrist as the steward came closer. “What’s your name?” Thorin asked roughly.
“Um.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not about to make a complaint.”
“Well,” the steward said wryly, “You actually could if you wished. I’m Bilbo. And I am very sorry about this, I really did think-“
“Yes, yes,” Thorin said, with a touch of impatience: his brusque nature didn’t quite lend itself to his aspect, which was one reason why he wasn’t yet mated. He had never found a First quite strong enough to truly… affect him.
Until now.
And perhaps it was mutual. When Thorin dropped his stare, he could see a crease growing in Bilbo’s pressed trousers, and he had to concentrate not to lick his lips. Bilbo had gone quiet, attentively so, his gorgeous eyes tracking over Thorin’s face to the wet patch in his ruined trousers, and eventually, Thorin said quietly, “Perhaps you should clean up the mess you made.”
“That might compound the problem,” Bilbo breathed, though Thorin could tell that he was tempted, from how his shoulders tensed up and his gaze dropped back to Thorin’s crotch. “Are you, ah. Under the influence?”
Thorin rolled his eyes. “You’re not that strong.”
“About that,” Bilbo said, then he smirked faintly, and, Gods-bless, finally went down on his knees before the unwieldily plush flight seat, his lovely eyes darkening with lust. “Maybe if you behave, Mister Durin, I’ll see to proving that wrong. I could put you under, I think: what a pretty sight that would be.”
Sarcasm died unspoken as Bilbo unbuttoned his breeches, deftly, then tugged down soiled trousers and boxers just enough to wipe down what he could off the fabric. “Mm,” Bilbo murmured. “Very nice.”
It had been a while. Even this scant praise made Thorin’s next breath stutter in his throat, though he tried to hide it by saying sharply, “Get on with it.”
“We do supply pyjamas,” Bilbo noted mildly, as though Thorin hadn’t spoken, as though Bilbo was doing nothing more untoward than serving tea, “If you would like to change. Sir.”
Thorin shivered. Hearing a First drawl the word sir like that felt so wrong, somehow, deliciously so. “You’re not done yet,” he said, a little breathlessly; Thorin’s spent cock was still wet, pressed against his belly, and as Bilbo’s smile went hungry, Thorin sucked in another soft breath.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Bilbo asked, folding away used towels into a set of clean towels, “How, ah, long have you… abstained from something like this?”
“Aspect play? I don’t often meet people strong enough to try it.” Thorin didn’t add that the people he did know who were strong enough were usually business partners, and therefore it wasn’t appropriate in the least for either party. “You?”
“Not too often. It’s not fun when the Second or Third doesn’t have the strength to… push back,” Bilbo noted, his tone mild as ever, though there was a note of challenge in his voice, and his gaze flicked back down over Thorin’s cock, as though irresistibly drawn.
“We’ll see about that.”
“Hm,” Bilbo grinned, mischievous and gorgeous as he splayed his palms lightly over Thorin’s thighs. “Then I am at your service, Mister Durin.”
It wasn’t what Thorin had expected a First to say, and for a moment, he could only stare, openly puzzled, but when Bilbo’s eyes began to crinkle up with mirth, Thorin scowled. “I told you to clean up your mess,” he said flatly. “Well?”
A defensive edge crept into Thorin’s voice despite himself, and Bilbo tilted his head. “I won’t press again unless you tell me to,” he said gently, and leaned over for a languid, utterly shameless lick, from the root of Thorin’s limp cock to the tip. Thorin let out a strangled gasp, then hastily pressed his fingers into his mouth to stifle a cry as Bilbo began to lap up his come as though licking up a treat, enthusiastic and sloppy and alternating the occasional toe-curling lick with a sucking kiss at the crown of Thorin’s firming cock.
“Fuck,” Thorin breathed disbelievingly. He was hungry for it again, for Bilbo’s mouth, for that beautifully inexorable pressure of Bilbo’s will, anything; just the thought of what Bilbo could possibly do to him had Thorin leaking gently against his belly, almost staining his rucked up shirt. Maybe Bilbo was strong enough to put him through the Influence, take him under, pull him apart-
“That can’t do,” Bilbo tutted, though he pressed his tongue briefly against the leaking slit. “Does sir have a change of clothes?”
“In the overnight bag,” Thorin’s hips twitched off the seat at the teasing squeeze that Bilbo gave to the root of his aching cock. “Fuck you, stop teasing.”
“Sadly, while I’m not averse to being fucked,” Bilbo sidled up, bracing his weight against one blush arm rest, his gaze as inexorable as his will as he leaned close, until his lips were a hair’s breadth away from Thorin’s, “That would need rather more prep than we have the facilities for, Mister Durin.”
The kiss was swift, hungry, and near violent in its intensity, shoving Thorin against the seat, Bilbo’s tongue pressing into his mouth with a confidence that left Thorin desperate for more, whimpering as he thrust up into Bilbo’s tight grip on his cock and scrabbled at Bilbo’s shoulders. His shirt and jacket felt far too small for him, all of a sudden, and Bilbo groaned, but didn’t move his damned hand, seemingly content to kiss Thorin until he was pliant and dazed.
“Please,” Thorin gasped, “Please-more-“
“Since you asked so nicely,” Bilbo whispered against his mouth, and when the pressure came again it was just as absolute, just as damning; Thorin came so hard that spots danced against his vision, blinking as Bilbo hastily caught the spend in a fresh hand towel.
Breathing hard, Thorin stared as Bilbo blithely disposed of the towels, then padded back, pulling the small pile of pyjamas from where it was stowed and placing it on the sill beside Thorin’s arm. “You might want to change,” Bilbo noted, with a sly little smile.
“You haven’t yet…”
“Much as it’ll be a fine thing to take care of that with your mouth,” Bilbo leaned over for a playful peck over Thorin’s lips, “Or up that fine arse of yours,” he added, slipping a hand between Thorin’s thighs to catch a nail teasingly against the rim of Thorin’s hole, grinning as Thorin gasped and squirmed, “I am at work right now, and I do have to attend to my duties.”
“It’ll be a long flight.”
“Oh yes,” Bilbo noted, giving Thorin one last lingering once-over, then he kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Try to rest.”
There was only the smallest hint of pressure behind that suggestion, but Thorin found himself nodding in agreement and stifling a yawn. “You’re a menace,” Thorin managed, if sleepily, allowing Bilbo to help him with his shoes, then his soiled trousers and boxers, doing as little as possible to help as Bilbo tugged up the silk pyjama trousers.
“Enjoy the flight, Mister Durin,” Bilbo replied, sounding amused again, as he stepped quietly out of the suite.
II.
Disappointingly, Thorin didn’t see Bilbo for the rest of the flight. The decidedly mediocre breakfast was served by a stewardess, a Second who blushed prettily and ducked her gaze when Thorin stared at her for a moment too long for propriety, and he later found a phone number scrawled on the napkin that came with his coffee. Thorin considered pressing the attendant button again, but he couldn’t quite think of a reason to ask for Bilbo if it was someone else who answered, and his irritation stayed with him through the rest of the flight, distracting enough that he couldn’t quite concentrate on the book that he had brought along.
At least the hellspawns in Business Class were quiet, exhausted by their squalling, perhaps. Or perhaps some kind soul had finally spiked their milk with vodka. Or strangled the lot.
It felt like an eternity before the flight was finally over, and Thorin tried not to make it seem too obvious that he was looking about for a certain cute air steward when the suite doors had to be opened. The air filtering system, thankfully, had done an exemplary job of making sure the smell of sex in his suite was already gone, but Thorin felt like he had been given a taste of a drug that was nowhere near enough: he felt hypersensitized, frustrated and alert as the plane started its descent.
He should have given Bilbo his card earlier. Or something. Thorin grumpily got up from his seat when the seatbelt sign pinged off, and tried not to think of the soiled clothes stuffed hastily into his overnight bag, having changed into new trousers and underwear after breakfast.
As the other passengers started to amble towards the exit, Thorin’s heart rate picked up as he saw Bilbo’s slight form lined up beside the other stewards and stewardesses assigned to First Class, all smiling like dolls as they thanked their guests for having spent ludicrous amounts of money on air travel. Bilbo’s expression didn’t change when Thorin got close, and for an off-kilter moment, Thorin wondered if he had imagined it all along - but as Thorin frowned a little, Bilbo’s smile widened, secretive and amused, and Thorin very nearly tried to kiss him there and then, or something equally embarrassing.
Before he could regret it, Thorin fished his card out of his jacket pocket and pushed it into Bilbo’s hand, and left the plane before he could blurt out something along the lines of “Call me,” like some sort of awkward schoolboy.
Behind him, he heard the stewardess who was a Second say enviously, “Again?” but any reply Bilbo might have made was quickly swallowed up in the clamour of a commercial plane disgorging its passengers.
Having to deal with the draconian security checks, wrestle with the crowds at the baggage carousel, and finally stagger through customs meant that Thorin was in a foul mood by the time he met the company driver at Arrivals, whisked away to a string of back-to-back meetings, and as such, had quite forgotten about Bilbo when he slunk back into his hotel, wondering what had quite possessed him to build and run a multinational mining corporation.
As such, Thorin was glowering at the pathetic selection of liquor at the bar fridge when his phone rang, and he picked up without looking at the caller ID. “Yes?” Thorin demanded sharply.
“I do hope,” Bilbo drawled, “That you don’t always pick up your phone like that.”
“Oh.” Thorin blinked rapidly. “You called.”
“Well yes,” Bilbo sounded even more amused, “Unless I was only meant to email you, or just… admire your card? Gold foil on black stock, very nice.”
Cheeky bastard. Thorin couldn’t help his grin, though, even as he sat down on the bed and ran a hand through his hair. “So. I think you mentioned something about being able to put me… under. Just so that you’re aware,” Thorin allowed a hint of challenge to creep into his voice, “No one’s managed it before.”
Thorin smirked as he heard Bilbo’s breath catch. “Well then. Perhaps it won’t hurt for me to give it a go.”
“I’m at the Park Hyatt.” Impatience made Thorin’s tone brisk. “Room 22-04.”
“I’ll be there.” Bilbo’s voice dropped a register, and Gods, even like this, Thorin could feel the pressure to it. “Wear something that you won’t mind me ruining, Mister Durin.”
Bilbo hung up, and Thorin let out a shaky breath, then he pressed the heel of his hand tightly against his already thickening cock and started to toe off his shoes. Perhaps commercial air travel had something to it after all.