Chapter Text
Waiting is a form of pleasure, Bilbo thought, stealing a glance at Thorin.
Such pleasure Bilbo experienced in the weeks following Thorin Oakenshield’s arrival in the Shire.
Since that afternoon, Thorin had kept calling at Bag End every day, with Bilbo’s consent. They had not agreed in so many words about the necessity of taking some time to mend things between them, but Thorin seemed to have taken for granted that he would need to slowly persuade the hobbit of his affection. And Bilbo, in truth, was enjoying that: Thorin’s passionate nature had always been particularly appealing, yet the dwarf’s efforts to be patient and not to press his desires on Bilbo were quite endearing.
Oh, Thorin was still Thorin - stubborn, proud, even arrogant. From time to time they quarrelled, whether about the past or some minor misunderstanding. There were days when Thorin was clearly in a bad mood, and his longing for Erebor became so painful that it clouded his thoughts; and there were days when it was Bilbo who could hardly stand the sight of the dwarf without burning with resentment. One day Bilbo had practically fled to his pantry, because his breath had become a bit too short and his eyes had been prickling in a very inconvenient way. In the pantry Bilbo had paced back and forth, listening for Thorin’s steps - fortunately the dwarf had understood and left him some time to recover himself: sometimes it was just too much. But those were short-termed humours, which were usually dissipated by their mutual fondness and the pleasure they found in each other’s company.
Thorin was still keeping his lodgings at The Green Dragon, and Bilbo guessed that the dwarf’s presence would feed rumours for months, if not for years. Dwarves in the Shire were not an unfamiliar sight, the Blue Mountains’ settlements being not too far; but dwarves did not spent weeks in the Shire without some commercial purpose, nor did they knock at Bag End’s door every day. That Master Baggins of Bag End was cracked was already a popular saying, and Thorin’s visits only confirmed the neighbours’ worst suspicions. It was Bilbo who had to suffer the worst from the other hobbits’ nosiness; they were still too shy of Thorin, and the dwarf did nothing to appear less rude or menacing when it came to hobbits prying into his business. On the contrary Bilbo had to bear the more or less direct inquires of his relatives and non, and he avoided thinking how much worse it would become should Thorin have spent a night at Bag End. For, at least for the moment, Thorin had always gone back to The Green Dragon for the night.
A couple of times they had had dinner together; after that then they had talked for a long time on the threshold of Bag End, both unwilling to conclude their evening and worried to spoil the moment with an untimely move. But most of Thorin’s visits took place in the afternoon; Bilbo served tea with scones or other treats, and they spent their time talking about many things or simply bathing in the other’s presence.
Considering the clamour provoked by Thorin’s abdication, it was clear that only the Shire’s traditional resistance against what was going on in the great world had made possible for Bilbo to remain ignorant of it. Talk of Erebor had followed Thorin in his journey to the Shire; but he and Gandalf had avoided other travellers, and gone as unnoticed as possible on the road.
“Gandalf knew of your arrival!” Bilbo had commented then, realising he was not surprised at all.
“I wonder if there’s something he doesn’t know, sooner or later,” Thorin had replied, sounding half-apologetic and half-annoyed. “But yes, he knew. It was his wish to accompany me: he said that it would be a good chance to check the state of the roads, but I suppose it was an excuse to keep an eye on me,” the dwarf had grunted.
Bilbo planned to have some serious talk with Gandalf and his habit to meddle; but in his heart his displeasure against the wizard was fading along with his bitterness for Thorin’s deceit. In fact, the hobbit was pleased to know that Thorin had not been alone on his journey, and suspected that Gandalf had wanted to offer his help against Thorin’s regrets as well as against the dangers of the road. But, at least from Thorin’s account, their journey had been exceptionally devoid of delays and obstacles. The dwarf and the wizard had parted at Bree, and Bilbo suspected that Gandalf had thought wiser not to find himself between a certain furious hobbit and the former King under the Mountain.
The other dwarves had been, in Thorin’s words, not pleased with the trial. Actually, Bofur, Bifur and Bombur had gone as far as to move to Dale to express their disapproval. Ori had written a long letter to Dain, quoting an array of oddities about dwarvish laws and trials of the past - Dain had been quite amused, but not Thorin. Balin, instead, had been informed of his King’s plans soon after Bilbo’s departure; he and his brother Dwalin had supported Thorin’s decision despite the fact that the latter strongly disagreed with it.
Some months before his abdication, Thorin had gathered the Company and made his announcement. It had taken a while to convince most of them that it was his true wish, and even more time to persuade the dwarves that he would not need any of them on the road. Dwalin had been particularly insistent, but also Bofur and Ori had kept asking to travel to the Shire with Thorin. It had taken Balin’s patience to restrain their astonishment as well as their questions; Thorin still remembered the splitting headaches he had earned from his meetings with the Company in those last months of his reign. The official announcement to the dwarves in Erebor, to the representatives of Dale, and to Thranduil himself had not been easier. But Thorin was not particularly interested in dwelling upon those details, not yet.
It was hard for Bilbo to look upon the enormity of Thorin’s decision. The dwarf had spent in exile most of his life, and most of his exile had been spent in fighting. And then Thorin had forced himself out of his Mountain, out of his home.
“Are you sure of this?” the hobbit had asked one day. “You are - were a king.”
“I had thought of nothing else for months, Bilbo,” Thorin had said, in a gentle tone of reproach. “I am sure, and I’d like to prove it to you. And this is my other reason for having travelled only with Gandalf at my side - I needed time to myself, but I also need time for this,” he had made a vague gesture. “I guess I am, again, selfish. But I do not wish other dwarves around while I’m courting you.”
Courting. Bilbo had found that ridiculous and charming at the same time. Yet Thorin had not pressed further, and his courtship - if courtship was - had been discreet and patient.
Thus the 21st of September came, and Thorin was sitting at Bilbo’s table while the hobbit was taking care of the tea. It was a fine afternoon - maybe they would take a walk later, as they had done more than once, instinctively avoiding the most trodden paths in favour of quieter places. The following day would be Bilbo’s birthday; they had talked about it a few days before, and Thorin had been quite disappointed discovering that hobbit customs required the birthday’s guests to receive presents rather than giving them. Not that Bilbo had planned anything for his birthday: he supposed he could not exclude Thorin from a party, but it would have been extremely awkward to include him - beside, given Bilbo’s reputation after his absence, there was no chance to celebrate his birthday without any embarrassment.
Anyway, Bilbo did not mind - this birthday promised to be better than the last two, one spent in Lake-Town with a cold which had made him miserable, and the other drowning his sorrow in one too many cup of Old Winyards. Thorin had been even more distressed at that remembrance, and probably Thorin’s frown had not been suggested just by the idea of Bilbo’s poor last birthdays - rather, by the memories of a time when the dwarf had felt so close to his goal.
Bilbo shook his head, as if to dispel the echo of those days. He filled Thorin’s cup with hot tea, aware of the dwarf’s eyes on him. When he put down the teapot, Thorin surprised the hobbit, taking his hand and kissing its palm - as he had done three weeks ago.
Bilbo’s breath caught - oh, he knew that Thorin desired him: he saw it in Thorin’s eyes when he nudged the dwarf’s head with his other hand and Thorin raised his gaze to his. The dwarf was not smiling; but his handsome face was alight with contentment, and a queer shyness as if he was somehow uncertain about what would come next. Thorin just kept holding Bilbo’s hand, stroking it with his rough thumb.
He’s mine, Bilbo thought.
The hobbit moved his hand tentatively, brushing his fingers against Thorin’s beard. He saw Thorin tilt his head, basking in his touch while the blue of his eyes almost disappeared under dark lashes. He’s mine, Bilbo repeated in his head, and his heart swelled from it.
“Scones or honey cake?” Bilbo asked, with his voice reduced to a tender whisper.
Thorin’s eyelids fluttered open. The faintest smile tugged at the dwarf’s mouth.
“Scones,” he replied, in the same tone - as if they were exchanging sweet nothings.
They parted, both straightening their back. Bilbo’s heart was beating so loudly that the hobbit was sure the dwarf could hear it: a deep, silent agreement had passed between them, and the hobbit was moved by the way Thorin had understood his wish and not questioned it.
There was something different between them; the day before they had kissed.
Bilbo was still not sure how it had happened. Since the beginning he and Thorin had been dancing around it. The hobbit had admitted - to himself, not to Thorin - that his physical desire had been hardly quenched by their separation; and if Thorin’s glances were anything to go by, the dwarf would have greatly enjoyed devouring him at any moment. But they had almost abstained from touches - they were taking it slow, weren’t they? There had been more or less casual brushes here and there, but they had both pretended to not notice how flustered they grew at those.
Then, the day before, Bilbo had been trying to teach Thorin how to play conkers. They had been sitting out Bag End’s back door, after Bilbo had been taking care of his garden under Thorin’s watchful eyes. The dwarf devoted a ridiculous care to observing Bilbo in his ordinary activities, from tending to the garden to washing the dishes. He also offered his help, but the hobbit had always refused up to then; there was something frightening intimate in the idea of letting Thorin polish the silver spoons or fetch some water from the well. It would have been a domestic delight which Bilbo still did not dare to taste.
Playing conkers, on the other hand, seemed less compromising.
Thorin was incredibly bad at it, and he had looked so frustrated with his poor results that Bilbo had felt compelled to chuckle and call him with some endearment he did not really remember - because Thorin had wiped away all memories of it when he had looked at Bilbo strangely and then leant toward him to press his lips to the hobbit’s. It might have been a chaste kiss, if not for the fact that Bilbo had buried his hands in Thorin’s tunic and opened his lips under the dwarf’s mouth. On his part, Thorin had been quick at taking the hint and his tongue had slipped in Bilbo’s mouth. They had kissed passionately, both short of breath and patience; clinging to each other they had licked, bit, sucked - Bilbo had felt Thorin’s beard scratching his chin and lower lip, but he had not minded while the dwarf was plunging his mouth so passionately.
When they had parted for breath, Bilbo had tugged at Thorin’s tunic and almost pulled the dwarf over him - something that would have probably ended with them both rolling down the steps and onto the tender earth of the garden, staining their clothes and ruining Master Holman’s good work with the strawberry bush.
But Thorin had grabbed Bilbo’s wrists as if to steady himself, and he had backed away.
“Look at me,” he had demanded. Bilbo had not even realised he had closed his eyes. He had found Thorin with his lips red and swollen from the kiss, and his blue eyes darkened with desire. “I do not want to ruin this moment,” the dwarf had continued, with his voice thick and rough from lust. “In a few moments I shall take you in my arms, and carry you to your bedroom to ravish you. But this can’t be a tryst, Bilbo: I want you whole, body and soul; for the days, months and years to come. If you’re not sure of it, I won’t blame you, nor will I pressure you into anything. Still, I have to know that you will have me in the same way.”
Bilbo had panicked. Doubts and remembrances had come rushing to his mind, and he had lowered his head without knowing what to say at that nor what did he truly wish.
“All right,” Thorin had murmured. His voice had been quiet, but strained.
Thorin had already been at the main door when Bilbo had reached him, and invited him to come back the day after for tea. Thorin had nodded at that, and gone back to The Green Dragon.
“Do you miss Erebor?” Bilbo asked, when he and Thorin were seated at the table.
The question had been on the hobbit’s tongue for a while, though he knew it was too soon to ask.
“Always,” Thorin admitted, stiffening. He had taken some time before answering, as if he was sensing that his reply would be attentively considered. “But I’m not regretting my choice. I have returned my people their home and given them a good king. I have more than I have ever had, even if I can’t go home.”
Bilbo nodded, but he thought that he would have liked to hear Thorin call Bag End home. Yet the hobbit knew he could not chase away Thorin’s longing for the home he had lost twice; he could only wait for the sorrow to subside, and in the meanwhile he would do his best to keep his dwarf’s mind at peace.
Bilbo blushed at the recollection of his own thoughts: Thorin looked so out of place in his kitchen; yet it was so easy to fall in love with such a sight.
The hobbit took another scone, and covered it with clotted cream and jam before placing it on Thorin’s plate. The dwarf’s brow rose slightly, and Bilbo could almost hear the words - you are fussing, Master Baggins. Oh, he definitely was - he was pampering and spoiling Thorin, and Yavanna knew how much Bilbo enjoyed it. The dwarf did not complain too much, and he was clearly partial to Bilbo’s scones.
The sounds Thorin made to show his appreciation for Bilbo’s culinary abilities were even a bit too threatening for the hobbit’s self-control. Now, for example, Bilbo’s eyes were lured by the sight of Thorin’s tongue catching a bit of cream on his lower lip. Thorin still had the bad habit of eating in terms of wolfing and gobbling down his meals rather than taking his time with them; but it was still very pleasant to eat together.
“I’ve some meat pie left. And I was thinking about mashed potatoes with cheese and ham, and I might bake something for dessert...” Bilbo stopped, noticing that Thorin was looking at him inquisitively.
“Am I invited to dinner?” the dwarf asked.
“If you are not opposed to it,” the hobbit replied, blinking.
“Quite the contrary,” Thorin assured, smiling broadly. “I was looking forward to an invitation.”
The dwarf’s voice was soft, vibrating in his throat like the purr of a great cat.
“You know, the Shire is beautiful in this season; but it shall be magnificent in Autumn,” Bilbo blurted out, making to grasp his cup and failing. “I’ve got it,” he murmured when Thorin startled at his clumsiness.
The hobbit was not sure of what he had got precisely, but Thorin did not linger on the subject.
“I have to admit that I’m not paying too attention to the scenery,” the dwarf said.
“It’s not surprising that you have lost your way twice then,” Bilbo teased him. “I should show you my favourite pond, before the days become too cold. If you would like, that is.”
“As long as I don’t get lost,” Thorin replied mockingly, but with some tenderness.
“You won’t,” Bilbo promised. I would never lose sight of you, he was tempted to add; but it sounded too old fashioned and romantic for a hobbit kitchen. “You know, I’ve been thinking of replacing the garden’s old fence,” Bilbo said instead.
“I would like to help you,” Thorin said, though he looked a little baffled by the change of topic.
“Really?” Bilbo asked - Thorin Oakenshield, working in his garden: the idea warmed Bilbo’s belly.
“I’m not a gardener, and I know little of domestic plants,” Thorin admitted. “But you are quite fond of your garden, and I’m quite fond of you.”
It was the first time after Thorin’s arrival at Bag End, that the dwarf referred to his feeling in such plain terms. Even if the statement had been delivered in a mildly amused tone, Bilbo blushed to his hair-line. Then he remembered something that he had completely forgotten when he had welcomed a smiling Thorin in his home - he remembered that he was supposed to be annoyed with the dwarf.
“Speaking of gardening,” Bilbo began, frowning, “I have a message for you from Master Holman.”
“Do you?” Thorin asked, looking every inch guilty.
“He says that you won’t find him at home because he will spend the entire afternoon at the market; but he has spoken with the Gamgees as you asked, and they would be willing to rent you a room. That’s all,” Bilbo concluded, quite coldly. Thorin cleared his throat, but the hobbit preceded him: “I wonder why you should live with them. It’s hardly an accommodation fitting a king.”
“Former king,” Thorin underlined, looking displeased by Bilbo’s comment. “Besides, my lodgings at The Green Dragon are hardly better.”
“Why do you want to stay there?” Bilbo asked heatedly. “You really don’t need to...I am aware that you’ve made quite an impression upon the Gamgees, especially upon young Hamfast. And I’m not saying that they are anything but very good hobbits, or that there’s something wrong with them; but living in their house would be really insensible. I don’t even know why you talked about this with Master Holman; he’s but a distant relative of the Gamgees, and his business is about gardens, not lodgings and...”
Bilbo knew that he was being unreasonable, but he did not like the idea of Thorin living with other hobbits. The Green Dragon was one thing, but staying at the Gamgees’...
“I want to live closer to you,” Thorin growled. “I didn’t want to upset you or keeping it from you. I would have talked to you as soon as Master Holman would have confirmed that there was room for me at the Gamgees’.” Bilbo could not help but stare, befuddled. “I just want to know that I live nearby, and if you should need...”
Bilbo chuckled then, and Thorin stopped. He was scowling more than ever at the interruption.
“I’ve lived most of my life without a dwarf at my disposal,” Bilbo reminded him, “and now I have to think what I am supposed to do with you.”
Thorin looked as if he did not know how he had to take the hobbit’s words.
But he did know when Bilbo got on his feet and stretched his hand toward him. Thorin took it and rose from his chair as well. The hobbit dropped his gaze on the floor, inhaling sharply.
“Look at me,” Thorin’s voice was suddenly closer. “Please,” he added roughly. Bilbo obeyed: Thorin was keeping his arms close to his body, as if he was not daring to touch him; but the tension was there, bright as a spark in darkness. “If you wish to wait, I’ll wait. I’ll wait all the time you need and more.” Thorin’s body swayed slightly, still he did not touch Bilbo. “You deserve to be courted and I deserve - well - nothing. But you must know,” Thorin added, his tone falling deeper, “that I’ll have to toss off behind the first tree.”
At that, Bilbo could not help laughing. The tension seemed to abandon his body, although his cheeks turned a deep red; even Thorin had the graciousness of looking a little embarrassed with himself.
“Aren’t you scandalous enough as it is?” Bilbo asked, tugging at Thorin’s hand and prompting the dwarf to follow him down Bag End’s tunnels. “My neighbours would move to another farthing if they knew!”
“Let them,” Thorin replied, letting out a breath he must have held since he had spoken so shamelessly.
When they reached Bag End’s master bedroom, Thorin did not even pretend to be interested in the fashion of the room; he had no eyes for the embroidered curtains nor the little trinkets on the mantelpiece: Thorin’s gaze was fixed on Bilbo, as if the hobbit was a particularly delectable morsel. No wonder if Bilbo felt his mouth dry, and almost staggered backward.
Then, without lowering his eyes, Bilbo pulled the braces down from his shoulders, and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them down, past his thighs and around his ankles; then he stepped aside. The intake of Thorin’s breath made Bilbo’s knees a little spongy, and the hobbit had to sit on the edge of the bed to take another look at the dwarf. Thorin was still; but it was an unnatural and fragile state. Under Bilbo’s scrutiny, the dwarf seemed to lose some of his tension, yet he did not move - he is waiting, Bilbo thought. And he relished in that knowledge, while he began to unbutton his shirt with numb fingers.
Bilbo stripped of his white shirt, which fell on the trousers. He felt the colour rising again to his cheeks, then spreading to his neck and chest - there Summer had painted a veil of freckles. Bilbo’s nipples tickled, hardening in his nakedness; it took him a good deal of self-control to avoid covering himself with a pillow. Instead, he slipped again on his feet and approached the dwarf. Thorin gave a husky moan and hid his face behind his hand. Only when Bilbo called his name softly, did Thorin lower his hand: he looked almost overwhelmed, as if Bilbo’s nakedness was too much to bear, and too great a gift.
Bilbo raised his hands and touched the braids falling down the dwarf’s shoulders. Thorin quietly leant over the hobbit, making easier for Bilbo’s fingers to linger on the precious beads and the dark hair.
“I shall forbid you to wear such monstrous boots in our bedchamber,” Bilbo mused, pursuing his lips.
Thorin was startled by the comment, then he grinned and kneeled on the floor to take away his boots.
“As you command,” he said, in a dangerously low voice.
The hobbit bit his lip, because Thorin had just shot him a warm glance from his kneeling position. Bilbo still wore his plain underwear, but he could feel it tightening over his erection - the dwarf could not have missed it, and the smile on Thorin’s lips was obvious and lascivious enough.
The hobbit was almost disappointed when Thorin stood up again; but he placed his small hands on the dwarf’s belt and unbuckled it. Bilbo would have folded the belt neatly, if Thorin had not taken his hands and guided them under the hem of his tunic to slide over his bare stomach beneath. The belt hit the floor with a loud clang, but Bilbo moaned at the warmth rising from Thorin’s chest. He moved his hands up, dragging the tunic with them, until Thorin lifted his arms and bent to help Bilbo’s manoeuvre.
Bilbo slid the tunic over Thorin’s head, and a moment later he found himself pressed against the dwarf’s impressive chest, with Thorin’s hand over his head.
“Ughwashâ,” Thorin said on Bilbo’s mouth, while his fingers slightly tightened their hold on Bilbo’s curls. “My greatest treasure,” he translated before the hobbit could ask.
Bilbo inhaled the scent of Thorin’s body, musky and warm. Bilbo’s hands were almost lost over the broad expanse of Thorin’s chest: his fingers slipped on the dark hair of his chest, retracing the well-known pattern of scars, and making the muscles flicker under the surface. He grazed the dwarf’s nipples and Thorin gave a low groan, arching instinctively into the touch. Bilbo’s desire burnt higher and brighter then, and he brought his fingers lower, to Thorin’s trousers. A few moments later Thorin’s erection was freed and Bilbo took a step back.
They had never been together in such a light.
As most of the quarters in Erebor, Bilbo’s rooms had not included a window; the only sources of light for their love-making had been the fireplace, and lamps and candles. But now their nakedness was revealed in the pearl light of the afternoon, coming in from the round window of the master bedroom.
They stood there, looking at their bodies; Thorin’s breath was loud, and Bilbo trembled when he rose on his toes to put his hands on Thorin’s cheeks. He felt the weight of Thorin’s hands on his hips, then the faint taste of cream on Thorin’s tongue. The kiss was gentle, slow; it was plain that Thorin was controlling himself, though his body felt feverish with desire. Bilbo knew what it meant - Thorin wanted to prove that he could put his body and his heart in Bilbo’s hands, and wait as long as it was needed to win the hobbit’s trust.
And in truth Bilbo should have doubted, shouldn’t he? Thorin had lost so much - his nephews, his throne, his home. Would those wounds ever heal? After all he had always reacted badly to sorrow; sorrow and disappointment led Thorin to hurt those closer to him. He would soon grow bored with the Shire; he would regret his decision; he would...
“I’m hurting you,” Thorin murmured. Bilbo shuddered: his mind had been drifting, and he suddenly realised that they were no longer kissing. Still Thorin’s arms were firm around his body. The hobbit tried to argue against Thorin’s comment, but the dwarf shushed him. “I’m not blind. You’re...closing up, like a flower does when night comes.”
It was not the gentleness of Thorin’s tone that impressed Bilbo, but the image he had chosen. Bilbo had expected that a dwarf’s imagination would run to stones and gems, not to flowers. Yet Thorin was trying to reach him with words a hobbit might have appreciated better.
Pushing aside his doubts, Bilbo crushed their mouths together and closed his arms around Thorin’s neck. Thorin gasped in his mouth, but he soon recovered from the surprise and pressed the hobbit against his bare skin. Bilbo felt his toes curl in delight when Thorin sucked his tongue, and the pressure of the dwarf’s erection on his stomach set Bilbo’s loins on fire.
Their kiss became quite chaotic, and soon they were no longer keeping themselves to lips and tongues: Thorin’s teeth scraped Bilbo’s neck, before sucking a light bruise at its base; while Bilbo kissed Thorin’s cheek, the corner of his eye, his temple - he tasted the saltiness of Thorin’s skin and pressed his nose into his dark hair.
Suddenly, Bilbo found himself hauled up from the floor: he protested; but Thorin laughed and kissed him again, until Bilbo was too drunk on kisses to word his displeasure at being carried like a child. Yet, as soon as Thorin placed him on the bed, Bilbo wrapped his arms and legs around the dwarf. Thorin huffed, trying to keep his balance and avoid crushing the hobbit under his weight; but, when Bilbo’s hands caressed his back, he purred against the hobbit’s throat and nibbled at the tender hollow at the base of Bilbo’s neck.
In the blink of an eye, Thorin moved his hand to Bilbo’s loincloth and tore it off.
“Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo exclaimed reproachfully.
The dwarf did not seem impressed, not by Bilbo’s scowling tone: Thorin’s cheeks had grown red and his pupils were blown out - he looked ravenous with desire for the hobbit lying under him.
“What do you want?” Thorin asked, spreading his fingers on Bilbo’s chest as if seeking his heartbeat. “We can go on with kisses,” he said, demonstratively placing some kisses along Bilbo’s jaw, “or I could use my hands and my mouth on you: I would like to reduce you to whimpers while I’m tasting you. Would you like this, my Bilbo?” Thorin’s eyes were bright and hot like embers. “Tell me what you wish - I’d grant you any desire, anything I can do to you or you to me. And we can stop here, if you wish for nothing,” Thorin concluded, deadly serious.
“Silly dwarf,” Bilbo muttered, moved by the rough sweetness of Thorin’s words. “Fuck me.”
Thorin stared, dumbstruck. But, before Bilbo might have time to blush, Thorin’s hand moved down from Bilbo’s chest to his stomach. His fingertips caressed the base of the hobbit’s cock, making him bit his lips to suppress a moan; then Thorin cupped lightly his balls and brushed them with his thumb, before dipping down to reach under them. Bilbo instinctively spread his legs.
But Thorin, rather than continuing in that direction, straightened his back. A moment later Bilbo was flipped onto his stomach, and Thorin’s hairy chest was pressed against his spine.
“Are you well clean?” Thorin’s breath was hot on Bilbo’s nape, and the hobbit arched to feel Thorin’s cock slide against his lower back. The dwarf grunted and pushed him down against the mattress, then he repeated his question.
“Yes,” Bilbo breathed, then he frowned: “What? Why?”
Thorin’s answer was slipping down Bilbo’s back until he was kneeling just behind him. The hobbit felt Thorin’s hands on his cheeks, gently parting them and - oh, Thorin! Bilbo did not realise he had shouted until he heard Thorin shushing him and promising more to come; something which materialised in Thorin’s tongue darting again over his puckered entrance. Bilbo trembled, and his shoulders slumped down.
“You shouldn’t,” the hobbit managed to articulate, while Thorin was peppering kisses on the curve of his back.
The dwarf did not answer in word, but his thumb traced the outline of Bilbo’s balls and again he pushed his tongue between the hobbit’s cheek. The double sensation - the stroking of Thorin’s thumb and the wet, unexpectedly strong pressure of his tongue there - made Bilbo lightheaded. He felt Thorin moving, and a moment later a pillow was gently pushed under his stomach, to make him rest more comfortably on the bed.
Then Thorin resumed his teasing: his tongue ran over Bilbo’s hole, slickening and tickling it in a way which Bilbo found both disorienting and exciting. Part of the hobbit’s mind was still worried about the very concept of having Thorin’s tongue in such a place and wanted to stop the dwarf; but it was very difficult to complain when the other part of Bilbo’s mind was wild with excitement. And it grew louder and stronger every time Thorin’s tongue pressed against his hole: the swirl of Thorin’s tongue over the muscle kindled stars under Bilbo’s eyelids.
A thumb, wet from Thorin’s spit (oh, the idea had Bilbo moaning!), pushed in - just the tip, but there was a soft twinge of pain; then more tongue doing foolish, wicked things to Bilbo’s body.
“Yes, love,” Thorin murmured, licking his way up Bilbo’s spine, “I will fuck you soon, ughwashâ.”
Oh, dear. He had not asked again to be taken, had he?
Bilbo hid his face into the mattress, while Thorin was gently biting his thighs and then his back; for each light mark he left on Bilbo’s fair skin, the dwarf soothed the bruise with a swipe of his tongue. At last, when Thorin covered Bilbo with his body, he rubbed his nose against the hobbit’s neck and murmured sweet, intoxicating words.
“Bedside table,” Bilbo replied at last, rolling his bottom against the dwarf’s groin - he was rewarded by Thorin’s teeth on his ear shell and his cock nudging its way between his cheeks.
The dwarf moved aside and reached the drawer and took the ampoule of oil out of it.
“On your hands and knees, ghivashel, “ Thorin said in a voice thick with lust. “Nicely spread for me, my treasure of all treasures, will you?”
Bilbo whimpered at the warmth those words stirred in his body. When he tried to comply, his hands were shaking so much that he slipped twice on the sheets before being able to arrange his limbs into position. He heard Thorin groaning behind him; Bilbo gingerly turned his head, and found Thorin watching him with the same measure of hunger and adoration. The dwarf’s fingers ran over the back of Bilbo’s thigh, then a kiss was placed at the bottom of Bilbo’s spine.
“Lovely, my lovely bunny,” Thorin murmured, while he opened the ampoule and coated his fingers in oil.
The smell of the oil had Bilbo shivering with anticipation. When Thorin’s index finger traced the path between his cheeks, Bilbo’s hips bucked and Thorin chuckled before biting his tender flesh. Then the dwarf repeated the caress, this time smearing with oil the way down to the entrance. The third time Bilbo pushed back, and Thorin’s finger found the tight muscle, still damp from his spit. At the lightest scrape of Thorin’s nail, Bilbo mewled.
The hobbit took chewing at the sheet, trying to suppress the embarrassing sounds rising in his throat. But what was the point when Thorin was clearly trying to drive him mad? When the dwarf thrust his finger in it was almost a relief; at least Bilbo would have gotten some relief, if Thorin had not kept on with such a slow rhythm...
“Now, please; more,” Bilbo mumbled.
“As much as I would like to bury myself inside you right now, you need some preparation, my love,” Thorin replied, though his voice was uneven. “You’re so tight, and I would take you fast and hard. Let me open you.”
Thorin’s finger slipped further in, until it was in to the knuckle and Bilbo could feel it moving inside, teasing the inner walls. The dwarf’s other hand was pressed between Bilbo’s shoulders, to guide him down with his cheek pressed into the mattress and his bottom raised higher. Then Thorin worked his way in and out, withdrawing his finger until only the tip played on the rim, then pushing again inside. When the muscle felt loosened, Bilbo asked for a second finger.
“I hardly deserve this,” Thorin, while urging Bilbo to open up for his fingers. “I hardly deserve you.” They both groaned - Bilbo from the intrusion, Thorin from the sight of it. “So nice, so nice and beautiful,” Thorin praised him, twisting and shifting his fingers.
While he was seeking the hobbit’s sweet spot, Thorin savoured with kisses the damp skin at the base of Bilbo’s spine. The oil had been warmed by the friction and the movements were far easier then; when the dwarf’s fingers brushed over the tender spot, Bilbo moaned without any shame. Thorin brushed his fingertips over it; he tested the hobbit’s response and played with it, now withdrawing his fingers and now hitting that delicious spot again, until Bilbo’s breath became erratic. With his other hand, Thorin traced soothing paths on Bilbo’s naked flesh, caressing his waist and his shoulders, and going as far as to play with the hobbit’s honey curls.
“A third finger,” Thorin whispered. “Do you want it, âzyungâl, lover?”
“Yes, I do,” Bilbo muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes, please.”
“Ever the polite one,” Thorin teased, and Bilbo could tell the dwarf was smiling.
Oil slowly trickled down between Bilbo’s cheeks, and the hobbit took a deep breath; but he bit his lower lip at the burning of the new intrusion. Thorin was being careful, yet the discomfort was there: more than a year and a half had passed since the last time the dwarf had been inside him, nor had Bilbo taken any lover in the meanwhile. When Bilbo had conceded himself some pleasure - consumed in his bedroom late at night or in the first morning light - it had been something simple and even rude, no more than rutting against his own hand. Bilbo had often ended up with his hand sticky and his mind pained by the memories of Thorin’s lovemaking, thus spoiling the post-pleasure with the longing inscribed in his limbs and in his heart.
“Have you taken any lover in Erebor after my departure?” Bilbo asked abruptly.
Thorin’s caress stopped. Then he moved his fingers again, very gently.
“I had no wish for it,” he replied firmly. “I took comfort in nothing but my own hand,” Thorin explained, without any trace of embarrassment. “You know, yesterday, after we kissed, I could hardly return to The Green Dragon in such an improper state; I had to take the matter in my hand, quite literally: I decided to ease the tension behind some bushes. I realised only too late that I had ended up in some garden, and I was dripping over some of your neighbours’ flower pots.”
By the time Thorin had finished, Bilbo was laughing into the mattress. The tension he had felt a moment before vanished, and the discomfort turned into aching pleasure.
“Yes, there, my little bunny,” Thorin commented, sounding pleased.
After that Bilbo could focus only on the pressure of the dwarf’s fingers, and the way they left him pining for something more each time Thorin withdrew them from his tight channel. Then the oil scent returned and Bilbo guessed that Thorin was covering his cock in oil, probably contented with the result of his fingering.
Bilbo did not realise to be nervous until Thorin’s clean fingers landed on his cheek. The dwarf did not speak, but there was a question beneath his gentle touch. Bilbo turned his head to kiss Thorin’s fingertips and nodded. Only then Thorin arranged himself behind him, with a hand closed on the hobbit’s hip and the other guiding his cock toward Bilbo’s hole. Bilbo grasped the sheets and steadied himself. He felt the tip of Thorin’s cock sliding beyond the tight ring, and his body immediately clamped down on it. The dwarf hissed, and his hold on Bilbo’s hip shifted and became rougher.
Nonetheless, Thorin did not push forward immediately, waiting for the hobbit’s body to adjust. Then Thorin slowly thrust in; his movement was firm and almost smooth, and soon he was all the way in. Bilbo slightly fought back, sweating and tensing; but Thorin leant over him: his weight soothed Bilbo’s edginess and kept the hobbit from too brusque movements.
Thorin’s scarred, hairy chest scraped at Bilbo’s silky skin; when Bilbo moaned, Thorin drew back and then pushed; his thrusts were short but strong, enough to force soft shouts from the hobbit’s mouth. In turn, Thorin called him by his name: he let it fall on Bilbo’s bare skin; he traced it with his lips over the hobbit’s shoulders; he drew it with his fingers on Bilbo’s waist; he prayed it while he was driving into Bilbo as if he was planning to bury himself into Bilbo’s heart - so deep did he try to be, so close their bodies were.
Thorin’s hands explored Bilbo’s body, leaving no spot untouched: he caressed his stomach and his chest, twisted his nipples, and fondled his balls - Bilbo felt his skin shining, as if Thorin had wrapped him up in burning beauty. The dwarf kept chanting of his affection, pouring his soul over Bilbo’s with an urgency his body struggled to match. Thorin’s deep, rich timbre sliced through Bilbo’s resistance; such words took Bilbo apart piece by piece, and made him again - loved and cherished, thoroughly fucked.
It was as it had been, and yet different. Thorin’s affection had often been restrained, even suffocate; and Bilbo’s feelings had been often disappointed. Truth was that they had never really allowed themselves to fall in love; they had fallen in love despite themselves. Thus they had loved each other through darkness, almost blindly. Now they were no longer holding back: all those words, all those touches Thorin had renounced to were there; all those words and touches Bilbo had imagined and never asked for, never dared to offer, were there.
They suddenly found each other as they had never done before, and Thorin had to reach for Bilbo’s chin, pressing his fingers under it to invite the hobbit to turn his head. Bilbo blinked: his gaze was unfocused, but he tried his best to offer his mouth to Thorin. The resulting kiss was awkward at best - a mess of lips and tongue and teeth; Thorin deep inside, Bilbo moaning in his mouth.
“I can’t,” Thorin growled then. “I can’t,” he repeated desperately, slipping out from Bilbo’s body.
The hobbit gasped and whined, pained by the sudden loss; he shoved his bottom against Thorin’s groin, but the dwarf only hissed and grabbed him by his waist. Thorin turned Bilbo onto his back, in the smoothest movement he could manage while the hobbit was writhing in his hands.
Bilbo’s grey-blue eyes had grown huge in his soft, heated face; curls were stuck to his forehead and temples.
“I have to see you,” Thorin murmured in a broken voice.
He closed his hands around Bilbo’s ankles and opened his legs, bending his body until Bilbo felt his muscles twitch for the tension they were enduring. He felt exposed to Thorin’s desire, and the need to have the dwarf inside him became almost intolerable. His body arched in a mute offer, and Thorin pushed inside him again, in a single drive that forced a moan from their mouths.
Finally Thorin was back to fucking him, with thrusts which made them shiver and sweat. Thorin no longer avoided that lovely spot inside Bilbo; but indulged on it again and again, revelling in Bilbo’s sweet shaking. They kissed, and Bilbo’s hands plunged into Thorin’s hair; the long, dark braids fell on Bilbo’s cheeks and chest, and Thorin’s mouth was the most delicious fruit to bite and suck. Bilbo called the name of his lover again and again; at the sound Thorin’s eyes burned and burned, filled with the desire for the creature who was calling him mine and whose nails were digging into his back. Bilbo’s fingers, scratching the dwarf’s neck and his shoulders, seemed to drive Thorin almost mad with lust.
Pushed over the edge, Thorin kept pounding into Bilbo through his pleasure; his hand held Bilbo’s cock and stroked him until the hobbit could not resist any longer. Thorin seemed enchanted by the way Bilbo’s hole fluttered around him, in rhythm with the waves of his approaching orgasm; Bilbo felt as if pleasure was devouring them whole, while Thorin’s thumb swiped over the tip of his penis.
Thorin prolonged Bilbo’s pleasure long enough to slid out of him and kneel between his spread legs. He took the hobbit’s cock in his mouth, when Bilbo was still spurting his seed; far from teasing, Thorin applied himself to sucking Bilbo with vigour, until the hobbit screamed his name and his movements were made chaotic and inelegant by the urge of the moment. Thorin’s hands closed on his thighs then, and the dwarf swallowed - once, twice - with the air of finding Bilbo’s taste delightful.
Bilbo yielded, spent and worn out, eventually falling back on the mattress. Thorin, in no better shape, climbed over Bilbo’s body, kissing his way up: sloppy, tired kisses landed on Bilbo’s groin, stomach, chest, nipples, neck, nipples again because - Thorin’s own words - they were just lovely, sugary, red berries made for his mouth. They were both exhausted, yet so alive.
Then Thorin rolled on his side, careful not to weigh onto his lover. Soon enough Bilbo was cradled against the dwarf’s broad chest.
“Stay,” Bilbo said, though his breath was still faltering.
Thorin moved his fingers through Bilbo’s tousled curls, and watched him from behind heavy eyelids.
“You don’t have to ask, Bilbo; my love; ughwashâ; ghivashel,” Thorin grumbled. Then he frowned and his expression softened. “I knew what craving something could mean, but I never suspected what craving someone might do to me.”
And, since the light in Thorin’s blue eyes seemed to suggest he was very satisfied with the discovery, Bilbo smiled.
“Don’t go to the Gamgees’,” Bilbo mumbled, into Thorin’s neck.
“Not going anywhere soon, you jealous thing,” the dwarf groaned. When Bilbo pinched his waist, he added: “I’ll stay as long as you wish me to. And I’ll do everything in order to persuade you to keep me by your side: kissing and gardening, sucking and cooking, fondling, fu...”
Thorin’s deep voice kept going on, charming Bilbo into sleep; it lulled him with the things Thorin would do to him, for him - talking...had Thorin really said talking? Bilbo smiled, eyes already closed.
*
It has been said that when the shadow fell on Middle-Earth and the Ring was suspected to be in the care of the most unexpected bearer, the former King under the Mountain walked again the Road to the East.
It has been said that a hobbit was in his company.
Whether they ever reached Erebor or were led elsewhere, their journey is not narrated here.