Work Text:
The breaking point is reached through a sequence of minuscule accidents, with which Bilbo has had no deliberate hand in whatsoever.
At least not in the beginning.
He can admit that he, in the end, began to see the entertaining part of it all. When the otherwise cool and collected Thorin suddenly found himself a stuttering mess, or when he physically stumbled because Bilbo let a hand brush against his arm? That was funny.
Or, even deeper down, under the waves of desire and tension which Bilbo plunged himself into with a smile on his face, when Thorin’s hand flexed in restraint not to touch and –
Okay maybe Bilbo’s brought this upon himself. Can you really blame him though, when testing Thorin’s limits turned out to be so much fun?
Leaving the village is a much more difficult feat to accomplish than Bilbo imagines, mainly because all his new friends decide to come say goodbye.
Elenna, the ancient woman – whose name is actually Charlotte, he’s been informed – and the Local Cryptic stand before everyone else when Bilbo and Thorin exit the inn the next morning. His dwarf is a little grumpy, crowding close enough that it’s difficult to walk without tripping. Bilbo suspects his wound is hurting and he’s too proud – or stubborn, but isn’t that the same thing when it comes to Thorin? – to say anything. Or maybe he's just afraid the journey home will be cancelled.
Bilbo briefly considered calling him out on it earlier, but when they dressed and Thorin kept on his feet without turning pale, and when the trip down the stairs went without accident, he decided to let it go.
The dwarves aren’t the only ones eager to get home; Erebor’s call turns increasingly urgent the higher the sun rises in the sky.
Homesick or not, however, it doesn’t stop Bilbo from losing a tear or two when Elenna breaks free to envelop him in a hug. He vaguely notices Thorin stepping back, easily conceding Bilbo’s space to the woman. Which is good, because Bilbo might have had to punch him if he didn’t.
“Come visit,” Elenna whispers. Demands actually, and he nods, squeezing back. This little pearl he found when he thought everything had been lost holds a special place in his heart. He might just have found a sanctuary away from the mountain, should the need ever arise.
Which Bilbo suspects it will.
Behind them the dwarves are bickering about the ponies, Fili an Kili insisting on a harder ride than the one they kept on their way to retrieve him. Oin is consistent in his denial, while Thorin backs the princes viciously up and Gandalf occasionally interjects – annoyingly placid – not really picking a side.
“… It’s our wounds!” Fili sounds deeply offended as if the mere idea of taking care of his body is downright disturbing.
Thorin grunts his agreement. “And I’m king. I decide.”
“Yeah!” Kili half-shouts. Bilbo extracts himself from the embrace he’s been sharing with Charlotte. He’s pretty sure it’s a vein throbbing in his forehead. Or a headache, maybe. “Our wounds, uncle’s king and we want to –“
“You want to ride as slowly as possible if you don’t want to end up on the wrong side of my temper,” Bilbo grouses, whipping around to pin the line of Durin with a glare. The way they immediately straighten their backs is immensely satisfying. Making sure both princes has gotten the point, he catches Thorin’s eyes. “Now shut up. I’m trying to say goodbye over here and your whining is ruining the moment.”
Thorin, for once, gets the message, quickly nodding his agreement as he ushers his nephews a little away. Bilbo turns back to his friends. “Where were we?”
The Local Cryptic – Bilbo really needs to get a hold of his name (if he has one of course) – steps forward, whisper-thin arms stretched out. “I believe it’s my turn now, yes?”
Bilbo laughs, throwing his arms around the Cryptic’s middle. He’s almost as tall as Gandalf. “And I believe I have you to thank for how it all turned out in the end.”
“Oh?” The Cryptic sounds amused. “But I didn’t do a thing.”
“You reminded me that this is my story. And I decide the ending.”
“Bah. You knew that already, only needed the reminder,” he pulls away, leveling Bilbo with a serious look from under his eyebrows. “Little hobbit, your worth is yours alone. Confidence is only what people see; it cannot keep standing without its roots. So, stay true to yourself, promise?”
Bilbo is pretty sure it’s another riddle, one which answer will arrive much later in his life, in a moment of knee-jerking epiphany, but he likes it now too.
His self-worth greatly improved during the journey, but this last part of it – finding the village, choosing to trust his dwarves and wait for them – seems to have planted the last seed needed for him to truly appreciate what he has, and who he is. If he'd remained in The Shire, placing all he was in what used to be; his mother’s silverware, the family name, Bag End even, he most likely would have ended his days lonely and small.
Bilbo looks back over his shoulder, eyes travelling across Gandalf and the dwarves.
He may be little in size, but his story and his family make him feel bigger than the world.
“Promise,” he whispers, only vaguely noticing the gentle pat on his back and The Local Cryptic moving away, because Thorin is looking over at him again. The sharp edge in blue eyes turns soft when Bilbo catches his attention, and before he can manage a blink Thorin is at his side.
He reaches down, gently grabbing one of Bilbo's hands. Thorin's are rough from years of hard labor, the sensation still new to Bilbos since they haven’t touched like this before. “Ready to go home?”
He shivers at the rumble. They’re standing so close Bilbo can feel the vibrations traveling through Thorin’s chest to his own. Going onto his tiptoes, he presses a soft kiss to the corner of Thorin’s mouth. The coarse-yet-soft feeling of beard is a new sensation too. He wonders how many of those he’ll discover.
“Yes,” he whispers, face splitting in a smile that hurts something good. “More than ready.”
The thing is, that hindsight this time around is pretty entertaining.
Usually Bilbo hates it; in hindsight he should have confronted Thorin at the first signs of Dragon-sickness, in hindsight he should have known Mirkwood would be a challenge too big without Gandalf, in hindsight he should have made sure the dwarves didn’t treat Bard so badly.
This time though…
In hindsight, agreeing to ride with Thorin that day was a tremendously good idea, since it kicked off the chain of circumstances that would serve as the first playful spark to the eruption of a long-awaited detonation. Perhaps it’s also a good thing Bilbo didn’t know it then.
They’re halfway to Erebor when it happens the first time. He’s sitting in front of Thorin, holding the reins to Marigold (the pony, Bilbo cannot ride one without naming it, and that’s that on that) back snug against his dwarf, chatting with Bombur about dinner.
“I haven’t had your stew in a while,” Bilbo pouts. “If you feed me soup, I’ll shrink.”
Bombur rolls his eyes. “Hardly. I’ll put meat in it.”
“Thorin,” Bilbo sighs, wriggling a little so he can look him in the eye. “Could you please tell Bombur it’s treason against the throne or something to – are you okay?”
Instead of looking at him, Thorin keeps his gaze firmly locked on the horizon. His mouth is drawn into a tight line, the delicate wrinkles around his eyes deepened. There’s even a faint blush high on his cheeks like he’s running a fever, but when Bilbo puts a hand to his forehead it doesn’t feel hot. “Huh, it doesn’t seem –“
“I’m fine,” Thorin interrupts, catching his hand to gently move it away. “But Amrâlimê, could you keep still I –“
Realization hits Bilbo like an Orc’s club to the face. “Oh Eru, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think about that at all. You won’t even notice I’m here.”
Thorin mumbles something Bilbo can’t make out, but before he can ask, Thorin says; “I don’t think that’s possible.”
“What?”
“Not noticing you.”
Bombur – who Bilbo quite honestly has forgotten is there – makes a gagging noise and urges his pony on and away.
A soft smile warms Bilbo's face. “Your sappiness scared off our cook. Now I’m definitely having soup for dinner.”
“I’ll happily make you dinner.”
Bilbo scoffs. “In your pristine condition? I think not. Besides you’re the worst cook I have ever met.”
Thick arms, which has otherwise been circling his waist gently, tightens, drawing him even closer.
“Now,” Thorin laughs. “Is that any way to speak to a King.”
Bilbo smiles, letting his head fall back to rest on a shoulder. Long locks tickle his skin when he turns to nuzzle against Thorin’s neck.
“Would you rather I be a docile flower in your windowsill?” He tugs at Thorin’s beard for emphasis, earning himself a strained growl. The arms around his waist tighten even more.
“I don’t think you could, even if you wanted to. But no –“ Thorin raises a hand to capture his chin. A moment later soft lips claim Bilbo’s in a sweet kiss. “I love you exactly as you are.”
Before he can move away Bilbo surges forward and reclaims his dwarf’s lips. This kiss is a lot messier, deeper, a little depraved, and have them both panting when they finally break away. Thorin's eyes are hazy on his. “Besides… There are no windows in Erebor so –“
Bilbo laughs, refocusing on the road. “You’re something Thorin Oakenshield. Now sit still.”
His answer is an amused chuckle.
For a long time they’re quiet, except for Thorin humming a soft melody under his breath. He won’t tell Bilbo what it is however, when he asks. After multiple futile attempts to make the stubborn bastard speak Bilbo accepts defeat and instead focuses on the feeling of the song.
It’s gentle, a little somber, but with promising hope in the higher notes like a flower in the middle of a battlefield. Surrounded by death and stone but living, nonetheless.
In the end even the melody comes to a finish, and they fall into a comfortable silence.
The road they’re traveling is quiet, still high enough in the mountains not to have many other travelers come by. Middle-Earth explodes beneath them, like an ocean of green, blue, and gold, and hills, forests, and mountains as far as the eye can see. It’s devastatingly beautiful, demanding your undivided attention. Bilbo gets a little lost in it all, mind wandering far, far away.
Right until his ass goes numb, at least.
“Blast,” he grumbles, raising himself a little to get into a better position. Behind him Thorin groans, and Bilbo immediately stills. “Oh no, I’m so sorry! I thought I could do it without disturbing yo –“ He interrupts himself with a sigh. “It feels like my legs are about to fall off. Did it hurt a lot?”
“No,” Thorin chokes. “That’s not the problem.”
Not the problem? Are his wounds not the problem? Why if Bilbo has ever met anyone as stubborn and hardheaded! He turns, already frowning, readying a mighty reprimand so the fool will finally understand the importance of his health, only to stop dead when his ass brushes against something hard.
Is that… Bilbo wriggles experimentally, and Thorin hisses. This time he notices how the sound lacks any indication of pain.
Oh my.
“Bilbo please, keep still.”
“Are you –“ He slaps a hand over his mouth to keep a startled laugh in. None of the others are in their immediate sphere at the moment, but Bofur has ears like an elf (don’t tell him that) and he’s only a few feet away. “Are you hard?”
“Painfully,” Thorin groans, hands settling on Bilbo’s hips and squeezing. The hold is heavy and clear in its meaning; he is to stay where he is.
“On Marigold? Really?”
“It isn’t exactly on purpose Amrâlimê. I haven’t had my way with you yet, and If you weren’t so –“
“Delectable? Beautiful? Mouthwatering?”
Thorin chokes out a laugh. “Amongst other things, yes. So, to save the pony – I’m sorry, Marigold – any traumatic experiences you will have to... well, not move, preferably.”
“Can I speak?”
“Can you not?”
Bilbo pretends to think on it for a minute, then cheerfully says; “that's impossible.”
“Thought so. Are you having fun with this?”
The answer to that question is a laugh that draws the rest of their Company back to them, effectively putting a stop to all shenanigans. Not that Bilbo ever considered doing something indecent on top of his poor pony, but especially not in front of all their friends.
They end up taking a break for a few hours, close enough to Erebor that they normally would have kept going. However, three of them are still injured, and while Thorin isn’t too marked by the day’s ride, Fili and Kili are starting to look a little pale.
“Wonder how you would be feeling had we ridden at your preferred pace, hm?” Bilbo sings, waltzing past them with two bowls of soup (he places all blame on Thorin for that)
Kili groans, making half-hearted attempts to bat Oin’s hands away.
“Shut up Bilbo,” Fili hisses. He looks like he’s a second away from falling asleep. “We’re suffering already, your smugness is redundant.”
“My smugness is merited. How is it, it goes – ah; you reap what you sow, yes?”
Kili throws a half-eaten apple at him, which he easily avoids, laughing the rest of the way over to Thorin. Their king is resting against a tree, half-lidded eyes following Bilbo’s every movement. Thankfully the hardheaded mule didn’t argue when Bilbo deposited him there, declaring he would go grab them both a bowl of food.
“Are you tormenting my poor nephews?” Thorin doesn’t seem the slightest bit offended. In fact, there is a wicked gleam in his eyes that tells Bilbo his sass is greatly appreciated. Which, good for him, because that's for sure not gonna change.
“Hardly, they enjoy the attention.” Bilbo rolls his eyes, plopping down beside him and hands him a bowl. “How are you feeling?”
Thorin huffs, “Well enough that you can stop worrying, my love.”
“If you say so –“
“Eat Bilbo. We can’t have both of us frail and brittle.”
He eats.
The grove they’re camping in is peaceful, almost ethereal. Everything is a lush green bordering on emerald, and the beams from the late afternoon sun which manages to fight their way through the heavy overgrowth accentuate everything with a soft gold.
Birds are singing quietly, several notes higher than the steady rumble of conversation from the others. Gandalf’s smoking Old Toby, and if Thorin hadn’t just offered a spot under his arm to catch up on sleep, Bilbo might have gone over to share a smoke with him.
As it is, spending time with Thorin is much more interesting than smoking, and so the two share a quiet nap instead, wrapped up in each other and all the life around them. He wonders if it’s too much to hope that his life, from now on, will always stay this soft and peaceful. The big hand currently splayed across his stomach, drawing lazy circles around his navel, promises him just that.
“I love you,” Bilbo whispers, and Thorin hums.
“An honor,” comes the rumble, then a soft kiss to his temple. “I love you too, Ghivashel.”
Turns out that Bilbo’s life doesn’t stay as quiet and soft as the moment in the grove.
No more than two days later a new kind of tension enters his life, although it isn’t technically bad. At all. In fact, Bilbo thinks he quite loves the way Thorin’s heavy gaze is trembling with the barely contained urge to take.
“What do you mean,” Thorin’s voice is strained. “No?”
Putting both hands on his hips, Bilbo raises an unimpressed eyebrow. He has to fight to keep a shiver at bay, not wanting Thorin to realize how much he’s affecting him. It’s difficult, though, especially with the powerful arms caging him against the cold stone of Erebor, and that big, hot body a shocking contrast against his front.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? I mean no, as in no, Thorin. No physical… business of any kind before you stop wincing in pain every fifteen minutes. It’s hardly a difficult feat to accomplish.”
Sky-blue eyes turn deep azure as Thorin leans in closer, brushing their noses together. “So it is not because you do not want –“
“Please,” Bilbo means to sound annoyed, but all he can manage is a shaky scoff. Thorin’s hands have travelled down, kneading at his hips, and it’s taking all of Bilbo's self-control not just to give in.
But he can’t. Sure, letting his hand rest on Thorin’s thigh during dinner with the others, and rubbing small circles into his skin (Bilbo only did that because it made Thorin look blissed out. He isn’t the only one with urges, okay?) and then not let Thorin follow up on it after mght not be the nicest thing to do but –
“I do want to. A lot, which I’ve told you, what, five times by now? But Thorin, you panted your way down seven steps to the extent I’m a little worried about the state of your lungs, so excuse me if I don’t think you’re up for something a little… ah, harder.”
“I don’t like your reasoning.”
Bilbo chuckles. “Of course not. It makes sense.”
“Exactly,” Thorin sighs, letting his head fall onto Bilbo’s shoulder. He raises his hands to wind them into thick hair, peppering his dwarf with small kisses. Thorin groans at the ministrations, lifting his head until their lips meet. “Can I at least kiss you?”
Instead of answering Bilbo presses their lips together.
He will never tire of it; the soft give of Thorin’s mouth when they meet like this, the way he sighs, melting into it, all that tension that seems to be as much a part of him as his bones, disappearing. The gentle scrape of a neatly kept beard, only just coarse enough it gives the kiss an edge, intertwining and accentuating the softness like it's always meant to be like this between them.
Thorin crowds closer, hard body for once not hidden by endless layers of clothes pressing against Bilbo’s. When they’re keeping to the mountain, all dwarves wear less and softer clothes compared to the tough armor they usually don. It makes him arch his back, body slotting itself naturally against the curves and planes of Thorin.
A calloused hand slips under his shirt, thumb brushing over an already hard nipple. Bilbo gasps, and Thorin immediately licks into his mouth. “Thorin –“
The kiss turns filthy. Bilbo’s hands pull so hard at Thorin’s hair it has to hurt, but he doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead he growls, hands slipping from Bilbo’s chest to his ass, under his trousers, squeezing and kneading like he did his hips.
It’s maddening, and when they pull away to catch their breaths, and Thorin attacks his throat with openmouthed kisses instead, Bilbo whines. “You –“ he gasps, unable to get a proper breath down. “Thorin I can’t –“
Immediately all movements stop and he’s gathered close. A minute later their positions reverse so Thorin leans against the wall, and Bilbo in turn can put most of his weight on him. A deep rumble, part laugh, part groan, travels down Bilbo’s spine.
“At least I’m not the only one.”
The bastard earns himself a slap for that.
When it happens the third time, it really is with no deliberate interference from Bilbo’s side. Initially of course.
“Who does that stuck-up, vain, tool of an elf king even think he is?” He spits, pacing up and down the floor in Thorin’s newly renovated office.
Or, well, renovated might be a strong word for what they’ve managed to do within the last four days or so, but there’s a desk and chairs, and since the floor is no longer covered in rubble, and Bilbo therefore can pace viciously back and forth in anger, he deems the place functional. “A dinner?! I think not. Never mind we weren’t treated to dinner when he threw us into his dungeon, the selfish fuck didn’t stay to help after the battle! Just left a bunch of his poor subordinates to –“
“But he did have his healers help Thorin, my dear friend,” Gandalf reminds him good-naturedly from the corner. When Bilbo whips around, making poor Balin jump in surprise, the Wizard merely raises a bushy eyebrow. “That should at least be held in his favor.”
He’s right. Bilbo knows it. And Thranduil isn’t all bad, he knows that too, it’s just that the terror of losing Thorin is still rooted deep within his belly, poking its ugly head out every time Bilbo is reminded of the battle. And while the elf isn’t there to it hear it, well –
“He’s still a rat bastard and will remain so until we’ve gotten a proper apology.”
Thorin grunts from behind the desk, but when Bilbo turn to look at him he's quick to avert his gaze. “To be fair – and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but because of circumstances –“ Thorin takes a deep breath, mouth drawing into a tight line. “I think it’s only appropriate for me to apologize as well.”
Honestly it sounds like Thorin swallowed a bucket of glass and was told to enjoy it, but he still says it, and when he finally meets Bilbo’s eyes there are no lies to be found on his face. Thorin is serious, and he’s admitting that growth is a necessary factor moving forward.
“Are you serious?” Dwalin who’s otherwise kept quiet beside his brother, looks like his eyes are about to pop out of his face. On the contrary Balin looks as proud as Bilbo feels. “We have to get on our knees for that –“
“I don’t think anyone said anything about begging, Dwalin,” Bilbo reminds him gently. Thorin’s declaration has tempered his anger, and he moves behind his dwarf to embrace him from behind, humming when a hand reaches up to grab one of his own. Bilbo rests his chin on a broad shoulder. “I’m not his biggest fan either, but Thorin is right. Good manners aside, Thranduil might be worked into an alliance of some kind. Even if it will take time.”
Dwalin scrunches his nose. “Rich coming from the hobbit chewing the tree-jumper out mere seconds ago.”
“Oh don’t worry dear friend, I still thinks he’s an egocentric maniac and an asshat of the highest caliber, but that doesn’t mean I won’t give him a chance to right the wrong.”
Balin sighs. "Bilbo is right -"
Under him Thorin has tensed a little, and when the others bicker on, Bilbo bends close to speak without being heard. “Are you alright?”
Thorin sighs, the hand with which he’s holding Bilbo’s intertwines their fingers. “Yes. Just... you cursing so much, it's -"
“What?” Bilbo frowns. “I thought you of all people… Oh.”
He interrupts himself when Thorin wriggles, eyes falling to his lap and the prominent bulge there, hidden from their friends’ gazes only by the desk. Wicked delight shoots through Bilbo, and he can’t stop himself from laughing quietly. “So, me bashing Thranduil does it for you?”
“It’s not so much the bashing, as it’s the cursing,” Thorin grumbles, desperately trying to hide the blush on his cheeks. Unfortunately for him, Bilbo is in a mood now and has no intention of stopping. He leans even closer, letting his lips brush the tip of an ear.
“You like it when I say fuck?” Bilbo whispers, reveling in the full-body shiver that transfers through Thorin. It’s so indecent, and not at all what a proper hobbit should say, but this isn't the Shire, and while he still appreciates a sophisticated vocabulary, cursing does hold its merits. Especially when it affects his dwarf so much.
“You little tease,” Thorin groans grip tightening. “And when I can’t hold you up on it, no less.”
“That’s too bad.” Then, because he wants to see what Thorin will do, he pushes all thoughts of decorum out of his head and says; “A fucking pity one might say – hngh!”
Without warning he’s suddenly pulled forward, falling into Thorin’s lap with a startled yelp. In front of them Dwalin, Balin and Gandalf are too engrossed in their argument to take note of what is happening, thankfully, he might add, because Thorin deposits him across his thighs until Bilbo’s straddling him. He then proceeds to grab his hair, not hard enough to sting, but firmly, so he’s still able to bare Bilbo's neck and – and bites him.
“Thorin!” Bilbo gasps, partly in indignation, but mostly because the sting of teeth sends a sharp tingling all the way down to his groin. A broad tongue swipes across the abused point on his throat a second later, effectively turning Bilbo into a whimpering mess, the crossing sensations clash in a heady harmony that has him seeing stars. A series of openmouthed kisses travels up his throat to his jaw, over his cheeks, until lips claim his mouth in a quick, hungry kiss.
“Careful, Amrâlimê, my patience is running thin.” Thorin’s voice is low like thunder in the distance, a rumbling threat promising electricity in the air. Bilbo keens softly, reduced to a puddle of pleasure and that disarming feeling of safety Thorin’s arms always bring him. When he’s wrapped up in his dwarf like this it feels like nothing can get to them, the smell of pinecones, stone, and home, a wall against the world.
Bilbo fiddles with the hem of Thorin’s shirt. “You think it’s gonna be long before you’re properly healed?”
“Oh,” Thorin cocks his head, a smug smile exposing all his teeth. “Are we getting desperate now?”
“Desperate is a big word,” Bilbo scoffs, but can’t help falling into the hand Thorin runs up and down his spine. “Excited perhaps.”
“Mhm. Well, I personally feel very healed as it is, so the only things that’s stopping us from getting what we both want, is this ridiculous idea that I can’t handle it you’re insistent on upholding.”
Thorin sounds so self-satisfied that Bilbo immediately trades the need for physical attention with the need to prove wrong. Narrowing his eyes, he pokes Thorin in the belly, an inch or so away from the beginning of the wound, quick as a viper. It’s not even that hard, Bilbo would never hurt him like that, but Thorin immediately flinches away, hissing in pain. “Yes, you seem perfectly well.”
Instead of annoyance, a brilliant grin splits Thorin’s face through the discomfort, “When did you become so mean?”
“Always has been, it’s just that he used to be scared shitless of ya,” someone grumbles, and they both turn to find the three other occupants of the room (Bilbo has once again, forgotten all about the audience), regarding them with three, very, different expressions. Gandalf looks deeply amused, Balin a little flustered but with a soft smile on his lips, and last but not least, Dwalin, who looks like he’s about to throw up. He shoots them a venomous glare and continues; “Don’t ya dare do that in front of me again. Lost me appetite.”
Gandalf laughs. “I’m afraid you’ll be starving from now on then, dear Dwalin.”
“Do you enjoy tormenting me Bilbo?”
Thorin sounds wrecked, and okay, maybe Dwalin is right, and Bilbo does in fact have a mean streak in him, because his first thought when he sees the desperate haze over Thorin’s eyes is; more. He wants to see more.
Hot water splashes as Bilbo rearranges himself in the bathtub. It’s big enough that a dwarf will have to take three steps to get from one side to the other, which means a hobbit can swim around if they so desire. What Bilbo desires, and does for that matter, is to put his arms onto the edge and raise himself enough to feel a chill breeze caress the uppermost part of his ass.
He smiles lazily.
“Whatever do you mean? Have I done something wrong, love?”
Thorin groans, deep and guttural.
“The only wrong thing you have done, Ghivashel, is denying me permission to join you.”
“Ah,” Bilbo widens his eyes in mock innocence. “But your bandages have just been changed, Thorin. Didn’t Oin say –“
“I know what Oin said.” There’s no heat behind the words, even if his dwarf's pupils seem to expand, turning his otherwise luminescent eyes dark and hungry.
Bilbo shivers. It’s a battle not to reach down and take a hold of himself, even more so when his eyes fall on Thorin’s lap. Continuing with the shenanigans might be equal to poking a dragon, but Bilbo has done that once before and escaped more or less unscathed, so he can’t see the harm. Besides, this time the consequences will be a lot more pleasurable, he's sure.
Taking a bath right after the weekly change of bandages was wholly on purpose, and he isn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. Especially not when Thorin closes the last distance between them, placing his hands on the edge of the tub, on either side of Bilbo’s elbows, so he can lean in. Their foreheads bump together, noses rubbing, and Bilbo lets out a pleased hum.
“You did this on purpose.”
Not an accusation, not with the hint of exasperated amusement woven into the exhale.
“Maybe,” he whispers, brushing his lips against Thorin’s.
“Hmm.”
That sound, half amusement, half threat, thunders down Bilbo’s spine, spreading across the small of his back into his groin, and this time he can’t stop himself from grinding into the edge of the tub a little. A small sigh escapes him at the relief.
Out of the blue one of Thorin’s hands slip from edge into the water and before Bilbo can do or say anything, deft fingers wrap around his cock. The action comes as such a surprise that he can’t stop the sigh from turning into a moan.
“So you are enjoying this,” Thorin whispers, attaching his lips to Bilbo’s neck. His breath his hot and wet, and soon joined by the broad lick of a tongue. His hand tightens, pulling once in an agonizingly slow drag. “How cruel.”
“Thorin,” Bilbo whines. With the pace he's setting – leisure strokes on Bilbo’s hard cock, pulling, brushing teasingly over the head, a barely-there touch – he’s tempted to reciprocate the accusation. Because it is cruel; the way Thorin is so slowly drawing out pleasure, heavy gaze focused on Bilbo's parted lips.
Water squelches around them, soaking through Thorin’s sleeve which he hasn’t bothered to pull up. It’s plastered so close to his skin that Bilbo can see the way the muscles flex. His hand is warm, fingers keeping a tight hold, which together with the rough patches of skin on his palm makes for exquisite sensation every time he pulls up. Bilbo is gasping for breath almost immediately, unable to keep his hips still as he chases the release he can feel is headed his way.
Flicking his hand at the top, Thorin chuckles at the needy whine escaping Bilbo, surging forward to claim his mouth in an open kiss. It’s deep, absolutely depraved, tongue’s battling before Bilbo gives in and allows himself to be completely consumed by Thorin, biting down on his dwarf's bottom lip when he pulls away, wrestling a growl from him.
“Please,” Bilbo hisses, and is honestly quite indifferent to the fact he is reduced to begging. The pace on his cock is still so slow and he needs it faster, harder, more.
Thorin’s lips against his pull into a sly smile. “Please what, Amrâlimê? What is it you want?”
“Faster!”
“Hmm.” The bastard sounds amused, and then his hand slows even more before it comes to a complete stop, squeezing tightly around the bottom of Bilbo's cock. “I don’t know.”
“Thorin,” Bilbo whines, pushing his hips forward to try and regain friction, but another hand joins the first in the water, only this one settles around his hips and suddenly he can’t move at all. The knowledge that Thorin is keeping him in place with a single hand is maddening, and he tries to move again. “Thorin please, you have to move.”
Thorin pulls away, regarding Bilbo with a dangerous smile. “Ask me again.”
This rude - Blibo is gonna cry. “Please!”
The hand immediately starts moving again, and finally, finally the pace is better. It’s better than better actually, it’s mind-numbingly good; quick, hard strokes has Bilbo close to the edge in a matter of seconds, and together with the big hand on his hip keeping him in place he's soon reduced to needy sounds hardly making any sense.
“Yes, Eru, Thorin, it’s so good –“ His head falls forward settling on Thorin’s shoulder. Pleasure coils in the small of his back, hotter than the gold they melted to trap Smaug, keeping his cock ramrod stiff and aching. Teeth scrapes against his throat a moment later, wet kisses placed between praises uttered in a low rumble.
“So beautiful Amrâlimê, you’re doing so well.”
Three rapid strokes come in such quick succession Bilbo is quite sure that it's actual stars dancing behind his eyelids.
“That’s it, let me please you.”
Thorin closes his lips above his collarbone, sucking hard.
“So good for me.”
As Bilbo approaches the point of pleasure that will no doubt tip him over the edge into an orgasm better than any he has ever experienced before, Thorin’s hand on his hip finally slips away and he is once again free to move his hips in rhythm to the fingers around his aching cock.
“Yes, yesyesyes, Thorin –“
All at once the pleasure stops mounting, and it takes Bilbo a few moments to realize Thorin has let go.
Hazily, and very confused, does Bilbo raise his head from the crook of Thorin’s neck to meet an amused tilt of lips.
“Why –“ he has to stop and clear his throat before he's able to continue, and still his voice is a broken whisper. “Why did you stop, Thorin I –“
When thick arms retreat entirely from the tub, Bilbo interrupts himself with a whine, reaching out to get them back in. But Thorin moves away before he can manage to grab onto him, continuing until he hits the single chair in the bathroom and plops down with a sigh.
Realization comes slow but surely, and frustration starts replacing pleasure.
Thorin prop his chin on a hand, shit-eating grin battling with the heady lust still present on his face.
“Is it not fun? Being denied pleasure?”
Bilbo growls. “This is far more than what I have denied you!”
“Hardly. Considering how long you have teased me I think it builds up to the same. We can of course remedy this and allow each other what we very clearly need.” The last part is delivered with such a hungry stare Bilbo almost comes right then and there however, the bastard has officially pushed the button that makes Bilbo’s need to win flare to astonishing levels. So, instead of giving in, Bilbo bares his teeth, reaches down into the water and holds Thorin’s gaze as he jacks himself off.
None of them say anything as Bilbo fists his cock, Thorin merely keeps their eyes locked, look dark and filled with want. The way he’s sitting, leaned back in the chair, powerful legs spread wide, only adds to the fire coursing through Bilbo's veins. He looks every bit the king he is; authoritative, demanding attention.
When Bilbo finally tips over the edge, hot come spurting into his palm, he tries to keep the disappointment he feels from his expression. That would have been much better if Thorin had delivered it, and from the smug smile slowly taking over Thorin's lips, Bilbo knows he failed in keeping his feelings locked up. Scowling, he raises himself from the tub. The water isn’t clean anymore, and the ache in his bones can only be cured by the infuriating dwarf currently eating him up with his eyes.
“Game on, Bilbo. Game on.”
What happens after that is a game of wills and sexual frustration. It involves a lot of dirty promises whispered in the darkest nooks of Erebor, or much more boldly at dinner with the others when all attention has left them. Stray hands here and there become the norm; the fleeting caress of a thumb against parted lips, a pinch to a thigh, the faintest brush against a crotch.
One specific morning when Bilbo is already cranky because he barely slept (he’s still adjusting to the mountain and all the new sounds that follow), Gloin brings up the issue of Thranduil and a possible dinner party, and Bilbo commences a grand tale of many words, all describing where that giant heap of stinking bastard can stick his dinner party.
Thorin – who was evidently telling the truth and has a thing (a big thing) for Bilbo cursing – grabs him an hour later, pushes him into an empty corridor and swallows down his dick.
Bilbo moans quite loudly before he can stop himself, and afterwards has to bring his shirt into his mouth to shut it up. Thorin’s tongue is attentive to say the least, and committed. Not an inch of Bilbo’s aching cock is left alone, tongue flattening on the way out of the king's scorching hot mouth, swirling on the way back in. His lips, quickly red and puffy, are locked around it in an obscenely beautiful stretch.
When Bilbo hits the back of Thorin’s throat he just about loses it, begging for release…
So of course the asshole pulls off, shuffling out of reach.
“No!”
Thorin smiles sweetly. “You only have to say the words Ghivashel.”
And because he is nothing if not stubborn, Bilbo once again finds himself chasing his own release with Thorin a maddening distance away, looking on with heavy eyes.
Bilbo reciprocates that same night, once they’re in the privacy of Thorin’s bed.
“Mahal,” Thorin whispers, eyes glassy, hazed, but pinned on Bilbo’s hand moving up and down his cock. The pace is quick, merciless, powerful thighs twitching with barely controlled tremors. Bilbo uses his thumb to catch pre-come from the angry red, head of Thorin’s dick, smearing it around to make the glide easier. When his dwarf tenses and a choked groan works its way through his throat, Bilbo lets go. Leaning down, he places a soft kiss on the broad, angry-red tip, before righting himself.
Thorin blinks at him, a little dazed. “You’re not going to finish me, are you?”
Bilbo laughs at the resigned yet fond tone, before wrestling them both down into the blankets. “Sorry, doctor’s orders.”
Accidentally the aforementioned breaking point arrives at a dinner party, a week and many more frustrating encounters later, but thankfully not one in honor of an egocentric elf king.
The rebuilding of Erebor is still far from finished, out of the thousand rooms that need rebuilding only ten or so stand finished, but the throne-room and the adjoining dining hall are entirely done, so Thorin decided to invite the people of Lake Town. Or, Dale to be exact, since the men too are in the process of rebuilding their home.
Bard accepted the invitation with a small smile and no comment. A week prior Thorin had gone into their camp, bend a knee, and asked for forgiveness. It was granted immediately, and Bilbo kissed him silly just because he’d been so endlessly proud.
Anyway. It’s all Bards fault. Bard, and Dwalin and too much ale, and Oin.
Bilbo has finally managed to unglue himself from Thorin’s side after staying with him most of the evening – it’s a joined effort between the two of them, since the tension by this point has reached staggering heights, and both like to always keep the other close – and is involved in a very interesting conversation with Bofur and Ori about possible adjustments to the, currently, dried out springs, when it begins.
“They used to be filled all the time I’ve heard,” Bofur says. Neither him nor Ori was alive before Erebor fell to Smaug, but since they at least have grown up with tales, whereas Bilbo has only been told a handful, the two dwarves are the experts.
“Which is why –“ Ori gesticulates excitedly with his arms, almost hitting Bilbo in the face. “I was thinking! The room is much larger now because Smaug managed to melt quite a lot of the walls away. If only we can get the springs going again, I think we could make more.”
“Or find some other way to transport the water there,” Bilbo muses.
“But it needs to be hot.” Bofur throws out his arms. “Which means engineering! Tell me a better way to let dwarves bond than mining and building, and at least some of the men from Dale will be interested in helping, I know it.”
To say his dwarves are making him proud would be a gross understatement. There is no word powerful enough to describe the emotion that fills Bilbo when they talk of alliances with men, and even the occasional elf. The amount of emotional growth within the group is staggering.
Bilbo lets a hand fall to Bofur’s shoulder. “That sounds like a tremendous idea.”
Ori practically beams under the praise. The young dwarf flourishes in their newly reclaimed home, as if Erebor is breathing something into him he’s been missing. Letting his hand drop again, Bilbo cocks his head. “You’ll have to tell Thorin before the next meeting with Bard, I’m sure he will remember to bring it up.“
“Aye,” Bofur snickers, suddenly eyeing him up and down, sly smile revealing white teeth. “If we can get a minute where you two aren’t eye-fucking each other so bad the room might catch on fire.”
“Bofur!” Ori exclaims, slapping a hand over his mouth. The poor lad turns as red as a tomato.
“Please.” Bilbo rolls his eyes. “It isn’t that bad.”
This time Ori laughs, only to slap the other hand over his mouth with a startled look, as if he can’t quite believe he did that.
It makes Bilbo frown. “Is it that obvious?”
While Ori immediately starts denying such a thing, trying to soothe Bilbo, Bofur goes straight for the kill as per usual. “Oh definitely. Everyone doublechecks a room before entering in case you two are already in there, boning like a pair of mad –“
Bofur thankfully never manages to finish that sentence.
“’Aight then ya better prove it! Or is it all in the mouth with the likes of ya!?” The boisterous, and very, very, drunk voice of Dwalin travels through the room, effectively stealing all attention. Everyone stops talking, turning to look at where he's staggering onto his feet. Dread settles in Bilbo’s stomach when he sees the angry frown on his friend’s face, and the way his knuckles go white with how tight he’s holding his mug of ale.
However, he never manages more than a step in their direction (to do what he isn’t sure, but it might have involved knocking Dwalin out cold), because he catches sight of Thorin’s expression, and instead of anger or annoyance his face is lit up in amused delight. A moment later Bard stumbles to his feet as well, also very clearly drunk off his ass, and announces;
“I’ll prove it! I can dance the Fire Hymn as well as any dwarf!”
“Oh Eru –“ Bilbo exhales. Dwarves. And men, as it turns out.
Realizing what is happening is merely a pissing-contest between two males deep in their cups, he relaxes. Especially since it’s apparently about who can dance the Fire Hymn best, which means the number of disasters that can happen is at the bare minimum.
With grand steps, deeply exaggerated considering the situation – but oh well, the wonders of a drunk mind – Bard and Dwalin steps in front of each other, taking up the starting position of the dance. The Fire Hymn is only one of many folk dances in dwarven culture, but probably the most popular. Nori, who’s allegedly the best at it in the company, has tried teaching Bilbo the steps a few times, but the dance is intricate, and his feet are a little too big to work well with the movements. It's very beautiful, though.
Leaning against a column, Bilbo tones out the resumed conversation about hot springs and possible adjustments between his friends, letting his eyes follow Bard and Dwalin as they try and out-dance each other.
They’re doing a really great job at it, considering how drunk they are. It involves a lot of stomping, and legwork in general, some clapping here and there to accentuate the steps. Turns and swirls galore made Bilbo nauseous the few times he tried it out but doesn’t seem to affect neither dwarf nor man as they spin endlessly around themselves and each other. As it drags on, Bard’s movements turn sloppy, and Bilbo can hear him panting for breath, even several feet away. Dwalin has noticed as well, it seems, because he crowds closer, clearly trying to topple Bard over, not realizing the consequences in his intoxicated state.
“Dwalin don’t!” Bilbo warns, about to step in and pry them apart but Thorin is already moving from his seat, realizing what will most likely happen too if they aren’t stopped.
Apparently that isn’t a very good idea. “Dwalin maybe you shouldn’t –“
“HUH? Ya wanna go too –“ Maybe Dwalin’s motoric skills aren’t as controlled as Bilbo first thought them, or maybe it’s just the cognitive part of his brain that has shut down and gone to bed, leaving his body to decide things on its own. It isn’t really important in the end, because no matter the reason why, Dwalin swings his body towards Thorin, arms following and gaining a tremendous amount of speed… and slams directly into Thorin’s belly.
And directly into his wound.
He goes down with a wheeze, knees buckling as all air seemingly leaves him. Had Bilbo not been swallowed up by fear he might have been able to laugh at the way Thorin’s eyes bulge out of his head like a fish. He is, however, terrified, so instead he races towards him, arriving only a second before Oin and is already in the process of ripping the shirt from Thorin’s body.
“Thorin! Are you okay? Shi –“
Oin swats at Bilbo’s fuzzing hands, bodily maneuvering him away so he can get to Thorin’s stomach. Bilbo is too afraid to look, and keeps his eyes on his face instead. Thorin wheezes again, looking quite shocked, like he doesn’t truly understand what just happened, but after blinking a few times his eyes focus on Bilbo.
“Ow,” he says.
“Are you okay?” Bilbo doesn’t even care how much of a mother hen he must look like. Thorin blinks again, sitting up a little to take stock of the situation. When he notices Oin hunched over his stomach and Dwalin standing shell-shocked a few steps away understanding lights his face.
“Ah.” He nods. “Well done, Dwalin.”
“Sorry,” the other dwarf finally gets out on his third try. “Didn’t see ya there.”
Thorin laughs. “I bet you didn’t. Stop looking at me like I’m dying, Bilbo, it doesn’t feel like it.” When Bilbo narrows his eyes at him, Thorin just leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. Then his eyes travel back to Oin. “How bad is it doctor?”
Which is when the dam breaks.
During the last three days everyone has been so busy that Thorin’s weekly bandage-check-slash-change has continuously been pushed a little aside. Mostly because he hasn’t been complaining about any pain (not even when Bilbo threatened him), but also because they were all needed fifty different places in the mountain, and Bilbo and Thorin used most of their free time tormenting each other. In the end it slipped all of their minds. Which should really be all the warning Bilbo needed.
“Actually.” The doctor cocks his head. “I think you’re completely healed.”
Thorin stills. Bilbo still doesn’t get the warning signs.
“As in completely out of the danger zone?” He asks, just to be sure Dwalin hasn’t accidentally murdered their king. That would be a hot mess. One of Thorin’s hands settles around Bilbo’s wrist as he slowly raises himself. And Bilbo thinks he’s a good burglar. Burglars get the blasted warning signs.
“Yes. Dwalin put all his strength into that swing, and since nothing seems to be ruptured on the inside I’ll say all physical activities can be resumed –“
Which is when Thorin jumps to his feet, pulling Bilbo with him, and he finally, finally, understands what is happening. “Oh good gra –“
“Everybody have a wonderful night,” Thorin says, almost dryly. The tight grip he has on Bilbo’s hand belies the easy nonchalance in his voice. “I’m afraid Bilbo and I have elsewhere to be.”
“Where to I wonder?” Kili pipes up from somewhere.
Fili snorts. “Wouldn’t hang around uncle’s quarters tonight guys. I have a feeling you'll end up traumatized.”
Ignoring the snickers and comments they hurry through the dining hall – or Thorin does, Bilbo is still trying to gather his wits, heart picking up speed at the understanding of what exactly is about to happen – and as soon as they hit the dimly lit hallways of Erebor, Thorin’s entire demeanor changes. With a growl he tugs Bilbo even closer, arm snaking around his shoulders.
“Thorin please –“ Bilbo gasps. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s asking; for them to slow down a bit, or hurry even more, and soon he doesn’t care, because Thorin grabs him about five turns away from the party and presses him against a wall. A second later their mouths clash, hot and wet and victorious. Perhaps it’s because they know it isn’t gonna end soon. That they can keep going, together this time. Thorin pulls away as abruptly as he attacked, hauling Bilbo over a shoulder. It takes him a good minute or so to realize he’s supposed to be annoyed by this. “Is this the only way you’re capable of transporting me? I’m not a sack of potatoes!”
“It’s only for a moment.” That Thorin's voice has gone breathless and a little raspy at the edges immediately have all annoyance evaporate. That and the hand that lands on the small of Bilbo’s back, rubbing soothing circles.
Another corner, and then Thorin is pushing open the great oak doors to his bedroom – theirs really, Bilbo technically has his own room but he rarely uses it – and before he knows it Bilbo is bouncing on the luxurious bed. “Did you just throw –“
Thorin stalks onto the bed, falling to his knees and crawls until he’s hovering over Bilbo, who shuts up immediately. The heavy bulk of Thorin seems massive with the way he’s looming, long hair falling around them like a curtain. It's a heady thing, hiding in Thorin, away from all that is proper and expected. Here, gone from the world, Bilbo can be whoever he wants. Can do whatever he wants. “I’ll ask you again,” Thorin whispers. His eyes are so intense, locked with Bilbo’s. It almost seems like they’re glowing, lightened by filthy, dark promises. “Can I make love to you, Amrâlimê? Bilbo?”
Touched that his dwarf still asks him instead of just assuming, Bilbo snakes his arms around Thorin’s neck, pulling him down. The move is clearly unexpected, and Thorin loses his balance so his body falls on top of Bilbo’s. The move pushes their crotches together, and Bilbo can’t stop himself from losing a startled moan at the pleasure it brings. Thorin hisses something in Khuzdul, hips rolling down to meet his with languid movements. Even through layers of clothes, Bilbo can feel him.
“You may,” he whispers, voice only trembling slightly. It’s not that he’s necessarily afraid of what is about to happen. He was young too once, and Bilbo has fooled around like anyone else would. He remembers the burn from the stretch that sooner or later will turn pleasant. Knows he only has to give it time. It’s just… Thorin is big. He knows because he’s had him in his hands. And of course Thorin notices the trepidation in his voice.
“We will go slow.” His eyes are soft again, the sharp burn turning to embers instead, as he languidly slots their mouths together. Bilbo can’t locate his voice after they part, not with Thorin filling up all his senses, so he merely nods.
“Good,” Thorin hums, pulling himself up until he’s kneeling again. Without breaking eye contact, and with a smile that is a little wicked, he reaches down to unbutton Bilbo’s shirt. It’s a lengthy process since he’s adamant about taking his time; whenever another button is out of the way, Thorin lets a finger skim slowly down every new exposed part of skin. Occasionally a nail joins the caress, bringing the echo of a sting with it, and Bilbo shutters with the goosebumps that follow. When the last button is opened Thorin slides the shirt off, almost reverently, and Bilbo decides he’s waited long enough.
“Hurry,” he whimpers. Thorin looks up, clearly amused judging from the way he narrows his eyes and his mouth twitches.
“Of course, Ghivashel, but remember you asked for it.”
Before the warning truly registers in Bilbo’s mind, Thorin settles his hands in the waistband of his trousers and soon cool air is brushing over Bilbo’s very naked body. He squeals, caught by surprised at the chill, but then big, warm hands slide up his thighs, skimming just around his cock that's already half-hard just from the way Thorin is looking at him.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, and this time the look on his face is undoubtedly awed. Like a man starving for air, he leans down to nose at the softness of Bilbo’s belly. His beard catches momentarily, the scratch making Bilbo arch in pursuit of the feeling.
“You’re not too bad yourself.” He means for it to come out sarcastically, but in all honesty he sounds like he’s just run away from yet another thing adamant on killing him with the way he’s trying to get air into his lungs. “Although I’m sure you’ll look even better – oh Eru – without all those clothes in the way.”
A rumbling laugh is all the answer he gets, and then Thorin’s tongue joins the show.
Bilbo throws his head back with a cry, the wet drag across his overheated skin, right above his – still – untouched dick, is downright maddening. Thorin lets his tongue slide in languid strokes from the sensitive part of his hip, all the way to his navel where he dips in. Bilbo drops his hand to Thorin’s head, tangling his fingers around the braids there, babbling pleas of more a waterfall running from his lips.
“Please what?” Thorin peeks up from under his lashes, tongue back to circling the lowest part of Bilbo’s abdomen. He looks deeply content. “Ask, Bilbo. I will give you everything you want.”
A kiss here and there, and the occasional coupling with another hobbit has done nothing to prepare him for the masterpiece that is Thorin in bed. He asks for something Bilbo has never even thought of giving anyone else, and yet he can’t keep himself from offering it. Vision swimming, Bilbo gathers the words onto his tongue.
“Please take your clothes off,” he whispers. The words are barely audible, and he’s pretty sure his face is startingly red. Thorin’s face softens back into a look of pure adoration and without another word he pulls the first layer off. He needs to go through two more before a solid chest, littered with beautifully curled hair, is finally revealed.
Bilbo has seen Thorin without his shirt on before. He has, alright. On more than one occasion did he help Oin change the bandages, and even though they have stopped before doing anything too strenuous the last couple of weeks, they have laid together almost naked, touched each other’s almost bare bodies. But this time it isn’t gonna stop at a bare chest. And Thorin… Thorin really is a work of art. His upper body is broad, thick with muscles that isn’t too hard when Bilbo lets a hand run down him. They give just the right amount and coupled with the soft hair it gives a rush of different sensations, all of which ties together in the end to something that just makes sense. Because Thorin just makes sense.
Bilbo pauses at the soft pink scar running over his stomach. Gently, afraid to touch and break something, no matter how irrational it is, he brushes the tip of a single finger against it. “I love you,” he says softly. “Kiss me again.”
Thorin, of course, obliges without question, and then their chests are pressed together when he suddenly switches their positions, leaning against the headboard with Bilbo straddling his thighs. Between nips, and licks, and the never-ending slide of lips against each other, Bilbo flattens his hands against Thorin's sides, teasing a soft shudder from him, one which only gets more pronounced when Bilbo lets a finger slip under his waistband.
“Can I?” He mumbles.
A pleased hum, and then Thorin is lifting his hips, uncaring for Bilbo’s added weight, helping him slide the trousers down and away and… and then they are completely naked, together. Bilbo settles again, keeping his gaze locked with Thorin. He’s almost afraid to look down. This union has been something both of them have anticipated for so long, and he isn’t sure he won’t just combust if he sees it. Almost being the key word here; with a deep breath he lets his eyes fall down until they land on where Bilbo’s legs are spread across Thorin’s heavy thighs.
Thorin lays thick and hard against his stomach, head glistening with precum. Bilbo is nestled close, also hard although smaller. Swallowing a sound, he reaches down to let his fingers skim over both of them.
“Still want to?” It’s soft, and not accusatory in the least. Bilbo peeks up, smiling shyly when catching Thorin’s eyes.
“Yes,” he breathes, and before he knows it their lips are moving against each other again. Thorin’s hands land on Bilbo’s hips, gently lifting him up and closer until their cocks are pressed together. Bilbo’s breath shudder, and he moves his hips softly, trying to mimic the languid rolls Thorin has begun.
“So good,” Thorin sighs, hands moving to Bilbo’s ass. With a squeeze he presses them even closer, automatically turning the pressure rougher. Their hips move in tandem, grinding, pulling punched-out moans from Bilbo’s open mouth. It quickly gets too much, and he drops his forehead to rest against a broad shoulder.
“More,” he gasps, winding his hands around Thorin’s neck, to try and up the pace, but the Thorin is stronger than him, the hands on his hips keeping the steady rhythm. “More.”
“Top drawer,” Thorin whispers against his throat, momentarily abandoning the quest that is decorating Bilbo's skin with as many hickeys as possible. His arms loosen only enough to give Bilbo the space he needs to stretch towards the drawer beside the bed, pulling out a vial of oil. Moving back he pushes the thing towards Thorin, expecting that he wants to do it, but a large hand closes around his own. “Will you open yourself up? Show me, please.”
With the way he’s leaning back against the headboard, a deeply satisfied look on his face – the one you only get when your muscles are lax and loose – Bilbo doesn’t think he could deny him anything. And good gracious he doesn't want to. Actually, the deep timbre in which Thorin’s request was uttered makes him forget his initial shyness and he finds himself nodding surely. Pride, heavy and hot, settles in Thorin’s gaze. “Thank you,” he whispers, brushing a finger over one of the many marks he’s put upon Bilbo’s skin. “Turn around.”
“Around?” Bilbo doesn’t understand, he can just as well – oh. The meaningful look that is directed at him brings a blush of epic proportions to his face, but also lust curling viciously in his lower belly.
Fine. If Thorin wants a show, he will get a show. With a huff he turns around but makes sure to still settle his legs on either side of Thorin’s thighs. When he leans forward onto his elbows, a sharp intake of air reaches him. Smiling slyly, Bilbo hums. He knows what he looks like, knows how the position spreads him open for Thorin. He gathers nothing is left to the imagination, exactly as he wants it. Reaching for the vial, he wets two fingers, and because it has been a long time since anything else than his own hand has done the job, Bilbo makes sure to put on a gracious layer. He doesn’t think Thorin is gonna take another interruption well. Himself neither for that matter.
With a deep breath, he trails wet fingers back, searching only for a moment before making contact with his rim. A shudder goes through him at the coolness, and if he takes his time, trailing his opening a few times, then that’s his business and nobody else’s.
“Bilbo,” Thorin groans, large hands settling on an asscheek each. He pulls them apart stretching the skin, before pushing back. The move, along with his fingers massaging the supple flesh of Bilbo’s ass only manages to increase the pleasure. It’s so indecent, so far from proper that all the other hobbits would never dare look at him again in fear of ending up the same way, should they ever know. But he doesn’t care. Because this is Thorin, and with him pleasure doesn’t feel like it needs to be hidden in the dark. Here, the smoldering light of low flames feels like a blessing; the way they dance across Thorin’s skin, glinting in the thin layer of sweat, the way they allow Bilbo to see the blissed opening of his love’s mouth when it falls at the sight before him.
With a gasp Bilbo pushes the first finger in. Apparently, he’s more relaxed than he thinks, because it sinks to the knuckle immediately, and when a few tentative thrusts only bring the barest whisper of pleasure and no burn Bilbo pushes in the second one. “Oh.” His face drops to the bed between Thorin’s parted shins. One of the hands on his ass travels up to the small of his back, fingers spreading.
“How does it feel?” Thorin rumbles. “Tell me.” Bilbo opens his mouth a few times, but all he manages is moans. He’s set a steady pace, hips moving back slowly to meet the thrusts of his fingers. The stretch still isn’t too bad, but he can at least feel it now, and for a good while he loses himself to the feeling.
“Amrâlimê.” It isn’t a warning, per se, but the low hum is demanding, and before he can think it through, Bilbo pushes in a third finger. Because of the generous amount of oil, the glide doesn’t hurt, only soft echoes of pain, like lowly burning embers. Filthy, wet sounds fill the space between them, and he finally manages to gather his words.
“So good,” he moans, speeding up. “Hot and so good!”
Thorin hums. “One more. Can you do that for me?”
With a whine Bilbo nods, unbothered by the tears starting to gather in his eyes. What else can he do when Thorin asks him like that? In a voice that promises sweet relief, conveying a love so unconditional Bilbo feels immortalized, as it is truer than the very stones surrounding them. With a sigh he pushes a fourth finger in, mouth dropping open so soft moans find no hindrance on their way out. He needs to pause a moment this time, to let himself accommodate. It still doesn’t hurt – partner or not, Bilbo has always enjoyed pleasure even though it’s been confined to the privacy of his bedroom at Bag End, or a good distance away from the Company, in the middle of the night – but it does sting.
The hand on his back slips back down to his ass, the warmth radiating from it easing him the last bit up. With a whine Bilbo moves his hand, reveling in the stretch and pleasure it brings. “So good. So beautiful,” Thorin whispers, kneading carefully. Bilbo can feel his eyes on him. “I don’t deserve you, Ghivashel. No one does.”
I don’t deserve you. His voice breaks on the word deserve, and Bilbo stills his fingers. After a few tries he manages to raise his head so he can look back at Thorin.
“Do not tell me,” he croaks, because his voice has been lost to sounds of pleasure. “That you do not deserve me. That is not up to you.” Tentatively he pulls his fingers out, whining a little at the sensation, but not breaking eye-contact with Thorin. His dwarf immediately reaches out to help him back so they’re once again face to face. Once seated Bilbo pokes him in the chest. The wary look on Thorin’s face is actually hilarious, if one disregards the situation. “One day I’m coming for all that guilt you’re hiding in there, Thorin Oakenshield, and it will have nowhere to hide from me. Until then I’m gonna need you to remember something.”
Thorin’s gaze doesn’t waver, but it turns fragile, eyes gleaming. Bilbo leans in until their lips are only inches apart.
“I love you. Because you curse in your sleep. Because you brush my knuckles when you hold my hand. Because you’re good, and kindhearted. Because you’re warm. Because you’re strong... and because you’re weak.” He pauses to let the words sink in, before continuing. “Because you messed up and hurt a lot of people but had the good grace to apologize. Because you learn from your mistakes instead of letting them define you. Because you got hurt but woke up again.”
“Bilbo,” Thorin says hoarsely and tries to hide his face on his shoulder, but Bilbo will have none of that. Grasping his cheeks, and two handfuls of beard, he keeps the fool’s face still.
“I. Love. You. All of you. That is my choice, do you understand?”
A single tear escapes from its confinement. It’s quick, almost like it doesn’t know how to be a tear – and how could it, when it has been denied for so long? – but before it can roll into hair and disappear Bilbo surges forward and captures it in his mouth. A sob, soft, almost imaginable, flutters through the air.
“Yes.”
Bilbo smiles. “Good. Now make love to me.”
It’s no longer slow after that; Bilbo is comfortably loose, enough so that Thorin, despite his impressive girth, slides in with little trouble. It’s still a stretch, for sure, but it’s a good stretch. It feels like he’s being filled up by Thorin, as if they’re finally one. They both moan when he finally bottoms out, and Bilbo can feel a drop of sweat fall from his nape to travel down his back. His hands are clammy too, when they meet behind Thorin’s neck, but he doesn’t care, and from the looks of it, neither does Thorin. His love stares at him, mouth slightly agape, head resting against the headboard. He looks so at ease, so confident and masculine, Bilbo can’t help but tighten at the sight. The reaction is instant; “Mahal.” Thorin gasps, hips thrusting up before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry I –“
White hot pleasure shoots through Bilbo as the heated skin of Thorin’s cock drags against his inner walls. “It’s – It’s fine,” he moans, raising himself on trembling thighs. “We can move.”
And then he drops down and Thorin is seated within him in one powerful thrust again. The sound that escapes Bilbo would normally have made him blush something terrible but at the moment he’s a lot more concerned about feeling that again.
Beginning a steady rhythm, with Thorin’s hands tight on his hips for support, Bilbo soon gets the hang of it, speeding up to get it faster, harder, deeper, bouncing in Thorin’s lap. The slaps of skin against skin is a powerful disclaimer of what they’re doing. Riding Thorin is an experience unlike any other; the burn in his legs quickly arrives but is so worth it. He can see his dwarf like this, can control the pace, have him melt under his fingertips.
“Yes,’” Thorin hisses. His hips roll up to meet Bilbo on the way down, and the effect is amazing. The thick cockhead hits his prostate almost head on, making those blasted stars dance before his eyes again. Another roll up, and then another, and suddenly Thorin is controlling the show. “You feel so good Bilbo – “ Two fingers reach up to pinch and twist one of his nipples. He cries out at the feeling, back arching, and cock slapping against his stomach, turning it even wetter than it already is. A second later Thorin’s mouth latch over the abused nub, sucking and licking and biting. “Taking me so well, Ghivashel, look at you.”
“Thorin,” Bilbo sobs. Tears are wetting his cheeks, falling into his open mouth.
With a growl Thorin’s thick cock slips out of Bilbo’s ass, but before he can complain he’s suddenly flipped around, landing on his back. Then Thorin’s there, looming over him, heavy weight settling between his spread legs.
Thorin is obviously taller than Bilbo, which has always been a bit of a thing for Bilbo, but widthwise… Eru, he could dedicate volumes to the feeling of Thorin’s strong stomach, close enough that Bilbo’s cock drags through the curly hair when Thorin takes himself in hand, guiding his dick into Bilbo again. His arms too, especially as they are now, holding his considerable weight on either side of Bilbo’s face, muscles bulging. His thighs are thick enough to spread Bilbo’s even further apart when he drives in with a long, smooth thrust.
“Like this?” Thorin whispers against his lips, and Bilbo cries his consent.
“Yes, yes, yes please move, please –“
He complies. Another thrust, still slow, dragging, burning Bilbo from the inside out. Thorin grunts, doing it again. It feels as if his cock fills him up entirely, the stretch sublime. “You’re taking it so well Bilbo,” Thorin whispers, still moving languidly. Bilbo thinks he might just lose his mind. “So well, letting me fill you up.”
“Faster,” he gasps, fingers wrapping themselves in long hair, pulling sharply.
Strong fingers close around his ankles. Thorin places Bilbo’s legs over his shoulder with minimal effort, hands coming to grab his waist so he can control the move. Pausing he catches Bilbo’s gaze, blue eyes azure again. He’s sitting on his knees now, looking more like the king he is than ever before. “Ready?”
Bilbo only whines, rolling his hips against the cock inside him. Thorin seems to get the message. “Good.”
Pulling almost all the way out Thorin waits only a second before plunging back in.
Bilbo almost screams. With the way they’re positioned Thorin strikes his prostate dead-on every time he moves. The thrust is so powerful Bilbo would have scooted up the bed, had Thorin not kept a tight grip on him, and then he can’t be bothered to worry about it anymore, because all restraints finally seem to snap in his dwarf. Thorin snarls, hips snapping forward at a brutal pace, cock ramming his prostate over and over and over again. It leaves Bilbo a sobbing mess, jaw slack, an endless litany of moans and pleas falling from him. His hands falls uselessly to the side, curling into the sheets under him in an attempt to gain the slightest grip on the reality Thorin seems adamant on fucking out of him.
“Fuck,” Bilbo curses, wrapping his legs around Thorin’s waist as well as he can. “Almost, almost there, Thorin.”
Despite the triumphant look he levels at him Thorin seems pretty out of it himself. Sweat makes his face gleam in the gentle light of the torches around them, breath leaving him in pants. “You will come for me Amrâlimê?”
At a particularly well-placed thrust, Bilbo throws his head back on a shout, baring his throat in the process and Thorin is there in an instant. Soft lips and sharp teeth alternate between caresses, hot mouth sucking yet another mark into his skin. “Do it,” Thorin urges, raising himself again, basically picking Bilbo up from the bed to ram him back against his cock. “Come Bilbo.”
Wet slaps, the ceaseless drag of a thick cock spearing his overheated walls and the ocean of praise spilling from Thorin – beautiful, so good, moaning so prettily for me – soon has Bilbo at the brink, and then Thorin wraps a single arm around his waist to let his other hand grip his neglected cock, and Bilbo is gone.
“Thorin!” He cries as the burning pleasure in his gut erupts, rutting against the cock inside him and the rough drag of Thorin’s hand on him, pumping him through his release. As his walls clamp tight, it pulls a punched-out moan from his dwarf and soon Thorin falls over Bilbo, thrusting three times more before his entire body tenses. Heat floods Bilbo’s insides. Maybe it should have felt disgusting, but in the bliss of his own orgasm he thinks it’s the best sensation he’s ever felt. Raising trembling hands Bilbo lets them run up and down Thorin’s sweat soaked back, muttering sweet nothings. It’s impossible not to enjoy the heavy weight of Thorin on top of him, and the occasional shudder at the careful attention.
Time drags on into eternity, that feels no longer than a second, and then Thorin rolls off with a groan. The extraction of his cock is uncomfortable and has both of them wincing, but before Bilbo can mourn the loss of the hard body against him (and freak too much out about the come leaking from his ass, ew), a thick arm wraps around his waist, pulling him back against the warmth and muscles.
“I hope you’re satisfied now,” he mumbles when he finds his voice again.
A deep, rumbling laugh, echoing around him like the softest thunder. “Hardly. You’re intoxicating Amrâlimê. I don’t think I will ever be satisfied.”
Bilbo rolls his eyes despite the giddy warmth settling in him. “Just a fair warning; my ass is gonna be too sore to do anything like this for the next few days.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Yes you will,” he says it jokingly, and then wriggles around until he’s face to face with Thorin. He smiles lazily, eyes falling to Bilbo’s lips.
“Hi,” he whispers.
Bilbo smiles, accepting the kiss brushed against his mouth. “Hello,” he chuckles. “Care to take a bath with me?”
“Ah.” Thorin pretends to ponder it so Bilbo has to pinch him. That earns him another trip over a shoulder, the bastard deaf to the indignant cries pointed directly at his right ear. He is of course forgiven the minute they’re submerged in hot water, Thorin gently massaging soap into his back.
Maybe – just maybe – teasing Thorin every once in a while will be worth it after all.