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It starts with a simple little word. One single syllable that Bilbo, ever since he'd first taken to hopping from one adventure into another in the company of thirteen dwarves, is by now well acquainted with. When he hears it from the lips of someone he does not expect, in a situation that can't be more unsuitable than this one, he frowns. There's something off about it. Little is he aware at that point of the size of the mess it will land him in.
"No."
Down on the bridge, Kíli pushes his chest forward, his head slightly tipped down. He looks up from under his hair to the towering malachite and azurite throne that centres the great hall. It's a majestic sight; banners of clans have been let down on both sides. They symbolise the unity of the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills after so many years. Any dwarf would be proud to stand before that throne and address the king under the mountain in person. His person is already becoming somewhat of a legend, having rid their once greatest city of the dragon. Except Kíli, who's not impressed. Kíli's very stance screams defiance, and he resolutely stands by that one word he's just spoken.
The thing is, though, that Bilbo usually uses that level of defiance only when what was asked or demanded of him is so unreasonable or outlandish that he feels morally offended. And Thorin's request - to scout the area based on rumours of a remaining pack of goblins after the gruesome war that had already taken too many lives - is anything but.
Thorin seems to share that thought. He raises his head from where it'd been leaning on the back of his knuckles like a dragon roused from slumber, and his mood darkens at once from where it's been only tired of the long line of people and the many requests he's had to decide on before. On four sides of him, bridges cross the dais to the four cardinal directions of the mountain. Below looms the great dark of the depths, adding a certain gravity to the throne hall. Kíli however remains standing confidently a few paces from the platform, only a few steps away from that depth, and refuses to budge. In fact, the fire in his eyes only strengthens in intensity. When they stare at each other, Bilbo is suddenly glad he is not caught in the crossfire, safely in the back of the crowd among the others still waiting for an audience instead.
"I don't believe I heard correct," Thorin's voice is close to a threat, and he cants his head as if advancing into this new situation carefully. No doubt this is new to him; Kíli selling him a no.
"You heard correct, my king," Kíli says back, adding the honorific as he only does in public. It adds a sense of respect to his refusal and softens the words to untrained ears, though Thorin knows better than that and it does little for the message that's behind it. Outside these walls, Bilbo knows, it's always just 'uncle', or 'Thorin'. Outside, none of the weight of the kingdom weighs down on them and Fíli. They're Durins, they're a league of their own. "Let one of the others make himself useful."
"And, do tell, why would I?" Bilbo can tell by the tone in the king's voice that the reason has better be good indeed.
Suddenly Fíli chuckles next to him. The sound is faint; it's almost overshadowed by the buzz that is starting to spread, and it's also very obviously unequalled in its apparent mirth by anyone else witnessing this. Balin, now an important advisor, looks about uneasily. He shifts from foot to foot. His brother Dwalin is on the other side of the throne; he has to be contained by two guards before he rushes himself forward to meddle. Many more dwarves whose name Bilbo does not know - there are just so many of them, gathering in greater numbers every day since the war of five armies claimed its toll - whisper behind hands and into ears. It's already a downright scandal.
Now that he is reinstated as king, Thorin's command has become practically absolute overnight. The clans from the east and west alike obey his command with reverence and something akin to dwarven pride. No one has stood up to him before; no incident like this has yet occurred. That's what Bilbo gathers from the response, and he worries how it's going to end.
And to think this is not some commoner but the king's nephew, second in line to the throne.
Kíli pays the rising clamour no attention. No doubt he will have expected this kind of reaction. Other people's opinions usually matter to him a great deal, which is why Bilbo can't wrap his mind around his current attitude, but this time he does not flinch.
"I've been scouting every day since we returned. Apart from one stray orc we found in the foothills four days back, and perhaps a dozen mice, we've not come across a living creature. I am tired of it. I could be hunting, or help out with the repairs. I'd be making myself more useful."
"Goblins have been sighted. Is that not useful enough for you?"
Kíli groans. "Oh, how many times have packs of goblins been sighted and not found after extensive search? It's like chasing ghosts. And if they are there, they'd be long gone before I catch upon them."
Even though his point is valid, and the thrum of dwarven whispering soon sidles to a quieter and more respectable level, reasonable words cannot mask the fact that Kíli still goes against Thorin's orders.
And Thorin does not take that well. "I've been led to believe that yours is one if the truest aims amongst us. Am I wrong?" He gestures as if reaching out a hand toward Kíli, but it's not as if Thorin actually cares about someone being better suited for the job; the gesture is a show put up for others and his words are a punch in the gut, a blow at Kíli's pride. They're meant to humble. Those in the reluctant audience who have caught on, smirk at the slight. "Tell me. Who would you then deem a more capable replacement than yourself?"
On the lower bridge, Kíli's jaw tightens. He raised his chin. It would take more to have him budge; not even Thorin's eyes boring into him make him flinch. "I am sure there are several who are better at doing nothing than I am, yes."
"There are also enough who are better at hunting than you. I will not give you the task of someone else if you can't improve on it. I've indulged your whims enough. My decision is final. You will scout."
That could have been the end of it, but Kíli refuses to let it slide.
"A wise king would not squander his people's talents."
How can Bilbo not gape at those words? No one who addresses a king tells him what is wrong about his judgement; even someone who has never had to pay fealty such as himself knows that. So worked up is the hobbit, seated where he is at a safe distance while he waits for his own appeal to the king - which isn't supposed to be long now but he sees his chances dwindling of it happening today, since the exchange between Thorin and Kíli is taking up far too much time for his liking already - that he jolts when Fíli puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Calm yourself, Master Baggins."
In stark contrast to the other dwarves, the blond next to him is most content. Bilbo looks back and forth between Thorin and Kíli. When he turns back to Fíli, he replies, confused and angry because he doesn't understand, "Excuse me. Are we not seeing the same thing?"
Just as Fíli turns back to reply to him, Thorin's rage flares hotly. It claims both of their attention at once. It's with authority and danger that the king speaks next, and Bilbo is sure that if he'd been standing in the place where Fíli's brother now stands, the ground under his feet would have been smouldering. "You would tell me what to do?!"
Kíli shrugs. "Yes, well, consider it an advice. I'm tired of scouting."
The hobbit and the dwarf sit back stunned at the same time. While Bilbo is perplexed, Fíli exudes an air of being quite amused, once he recovers from the initial shock. He rests his arms on the backs of the two seats next to him, effectively taking up more space than is necessary. Bilbo has come to treat it as a dwarven trait and shoves the hand off where it leans on his part of the bench. He's not territorial, but he's got to make a statement about what is his space and what is not. "What's wrong with him?!"
"Do you know what you bear witness to right now?" Fíli quietly laughs.
"Kíli makes a fool out of your uncle."
"Ah," a nod confirms that, "And tell me, Bilbo. Is that very like him?"
"Well... no. Which is why there has to be something wrong with him. I'm sure he didn't think this through. He's getting himself into trouble." He's working himself up visibly about this, he knows, but it's only because he's concerned for Kíli.
"There's nothing wrong with him, don't worry about that. Have a good look. Does my brother look frightened?"
Bilbo peers. He frowns. "It rather looks like he challenges Thorin."
Fíli muses, "And what do we know of Thorin when it comes to challenges?"
None of that makes it any clearer for the poor hobbit. It's like whatever Fíli and Kíli do, it's meant to confuse him by design. "Against Thorin, Kíli is going to lose." Why would he even want to challenge him? Bilbo fails to see the crux.
At the centre of the junction between bridges, Thorin now advances Kíli like a predator would a prey, except that the prey does not yet realise or accept that he's such. Kíli remains unperturbed, while it's potentially the most dangerous Bilbo has ever seen Thorin - and he's expected to have seen it all, having been on the road with the both of them for longer than his sanity should have allowed him. The hobbit he once was would have turned his back and decided not to even bother with this bunch a long time ago. The sensible hobbit. Certainly not that nosy fellow who currently can't pry his eyes away from the scene.
"Oh, no. He thought this through. If I understand a bit of what goes on in his head, he very much did. But to confirm your other fear; yes. I believe he creates more trouble for himself right now than he'll be able to bear."
"Won't you help him?" Really, he thinks, these two messed up dwarves. He doesn't understand them. There has to be something he can do to talk reason into Kíli and not leave him to his fate like his brother seems well intent on doing. There has to be something to stop this disaster from happening. Bilbo moves to stand up. He is pulled back down into his seat. Fíli smiles. "Don't steal my brother of his prize. I do think that it's exactly that trouble he is after."
A slap echoes through the towering hall before it fades into the darkness of its depths below. Bilbo gasps. Kíli's head has lolled to the side, his hair shielding his features and the red welt that no doubt would have appeared, and he chuckles. It's faint, but Bilbo is sure of it. He laughs. A hand rises to wipe away a small trace of blood, before Kíli draws himself back up. Bilbo thinks he sees his own disbelief reflected in Thorin's features right now. Has he not had enough? Whatever Kíli is doing, it's like a madness has come over him. When he says: "The answer is still no," Bilbo's finally accepts his curiosity to be his main motivation for staying seated. He moves to the tip of his seat and stops pretending not to be piqued.
Unfortunately - fortunately, he reprimands himself - Thorin cuts it off right there when he gestures to two of the dwarven guard behind him. The confrontation hasn't taken long, it's over before he knows it really, but by the sight of him, Thorin is thoroughly done with the situation. Now that he's on top of the game again, he intends to stay there.
"Take him to my chambers," he thinks he hears him mutter, "Get him out of my sight. I will see to him when I'm done with matters of state that are given the proper amount of care that they deserve."
"That can't be what he wanted," Bilbo whispers, aghast, when he realises the situation is over and he can talk without needing to whisper again. "Thorin will shred him to pieces. There'll be nothing left of him."
A contemplative silence lingers next to him. Fíli chooses not to speak immediately. Instead he seems to be mulling over several thoughts like he's deciding which one is better suited for the direction he wants to take their conversation. Bilbo sees right through it and he feels uneasy, because of course this too is a game to the dwarf. Fíli seems merry enough though, so a good thought must have won out when he raises one brow and says, "I don't think you would want to know."
If there is one thing that Bilbo knows about himself like a universal law that will not budge, it's that he is too curious for his own good.
Fíli has him snared.
*****
Halfway through the last audience of the day, Fíli gets up from his seat. He offers one glance at Bilbo and the hobbit follows after him as quietly as he can.
They pass dark hallways, one more faintly lit than the other. Bilbo still needs to get used to the dark that actually passes for bright in these parts of the world. He squints to see ahead of himself. The further they move into the depths of the mountain, the less familiar the surroundings become. By now he's sure he's never been in these regions before; nor have most of the dwarves, judging by the state of the unrepaired beams that occasionally bar their paths. That it is lit at all is a small miracle. He wonders if that's what Fíli and Kíli have been up to during one of their many unannounced departures.
They travel further and further away from the great hall, and he wonders where they could be going, he's just beginning to wonder if he should just track back, but that's before Fíli rounds a corner and the trail moves them back up to the surface through narrow passages with narrow staircases. It has to have been an escape route of sorts, forgotten since the collapse of Erebor, which leads them on.
After three more flights of ascending steps, Bilbo can't go on. He stops halfway through the next flight and pants, "Give me a minute," before he all but collapses against the nearest wall. Fíli, he sees, is not at all tired. Bilbo may have taken note of several differences before, but he only now realises how endurance is also one of them. He wheezes.
"Tired? It won't be long now."
"Yes, well," Bilbo says back between deep breaths that should be calming down his body but only make him feel like he can't get enough oxygen into his lungs on time. Thankfully he's able to hold off the vertigo. "I don't believe I last recalled the time my legs cramped up."
"We don't have much time."
Bilbo grimaces. "Where are you taking me, anyway? Surely there was a quicker path there. We've been down the mountain, and now we're heading up again."
"You will see, Master Baggins," smiles Fíli while he checks his shoes for any rocks stuck in the soles, before he quenches the fire of his pipe and puts it away in one of his pockets. "We'll have to be quiet though."
At least there's something Bilbo does better than Fíli. He smiles, straightens his back, and nods. "If it's not too long now." It's his own way of saying 'lead the way'. His calves still hurt when he resumes walking, but his curiosity has long won him over. They've been walking for long enough for there to be something good on the other side. That's one thing he knows Fíli won't do; pretend something it's good when it's not. It usually exceeds expectations.
The passages they cross now have him put a hand on the rocky wall, because he doesn't want to bump into anything. They're no longer lit. What remains is a darkness that would have been stifling, if not for the few air vents that Bilbo thanks with all his heart. He hates the cold emptiness of the dark, and he doesn't see why dwarves would stand it.
The wall under his hand stops then, a little after the dark fades from a faint light in the distance and he keeps his hand on the wall anyway, because he doesn't like these parts of the mountain and they offer him security. Fíli steps into the light and he follows, but only after he's stopped and Fíli puts a finger against his lips to tell him they need to be quiet now.
Bilbo thinks it's bullocks at first, to be quiet where there's no other dwarf, but the necessity of the request is understood at once when he crosses the opening and finds himself on a small platform that could have been a balcony in ages past, but is now but a nook in a roughly cut wall, hardly visible from anywhere else. There's something down there. In all fairness the platform is quite large for a weathered balcony, and it seems sturdy enough to support them both. The roof overhead is tall enough for them to be standing up straight. Fíli chooses to sit and makes himself smaller though; Bilbo does the same, because he doesn't want to ruin the feeling that they're doing something forbidden; it's a thrill that both horrifies and enthrals him. He looks over the ledge.
Instantly he sits back.
"Where are we?"
Fíli's lips pull up in a smile. He once again gestures for him to be quiet, but in a whisper he indulges him. "Kíli and I found this place a few weeks back. You know where we are." Try as he might, Bilbo would not have wanted to make a sound regardless. He knows where they are. He's been there once before, down there, and it's not a thing he wants to repeat.
He does the reasonable thing; he backs and hisses under his breath, "Are you mad?!"
"You can still go back now," Fíli offers. Of course, he implies, Bilbo will have to walk back alone. Through the utter dark. He also implies to wonder at Bilbo's sense of adventure, or, more particularly, where it's gone.
"After all that...-?" he flails about in anger at the long road here, and Bilbo would have stomped his foot if it hadn't made a sound. Then he deflates. It's no good arguing with Fíli, anyway. The dwarf's as uninterested in strife as unyielding rock. "What do we do now?"
"Now we wait," Fíli says as he makes himself a comfortable spot against the wall and pulls out one of his daggers and a piece of wood. His feet soon press against the ledge as he settles back and starts carving. Bilbo deducts that it'll take a while. What Fíli probably does not know is that his impassiveness also gives Bilbo times to think. He looks around. Dread is creeping upon him gradually, but his cursed curiosity still tips the scales towards staying. He wonders how long that will be.
Below them lie Thorin's chambers. He knows. He also knows that this, whatever they're doing, is considered a bad idea in every one of his books. It's going to round up on them, Bilbo can just feel it like he feels the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickling; it's madness. He doesn't particularly linger on the question whether Thorin knows that the quarters he's chosen for his sleep have a hidden entrance serving as a peep hole carved into the dome of its ceiling, but it crosses his mind once or twice. Bilbo would have left, really, if not for the sound of fire crackling on torches and in the hearth that makes the sound of his movements a little more forgiving, and gives himself a good excuse against his reasonable side.
After what seems like forever, the door from what may be the antechamber - he's not sure, because he's been in the antechamber before but he can't see it from where he's seated - grinds against the stone floor under its weight and slowly slides open.
Fíli and Bilbo move themselves against the ledge for the better view at once. Fíli shoves him slightly to the side when Bilbo claims the better spot, and they push until both are happy enough with their presented view. Time fussing about like that will only distract them from the room below; neither is willing to miss a bit, though clearly for differing reasons.
There's little time to think about whether this is such a good idea when they see Kíli stumble into the room like he's just been manhandled before being shoved in roughly. Kíli scrambles up at once. His feet slip once when they seek purchase on the polished floor. Just outside their line of view, the doors once again slide to a close - Bilbo believes that Thorin's eyes may have fallen on this room if only for the massive and somehow grandiose doors that close it - and a key turns. Heavy steps that aren't Kíli's echo on the marble floor.
"So," a deep voice rumbles, just before Thorin comes into view. Bilbo shudders involuntarily. These are his chambers and he could have expected Thorin's presence from the moment he saw Kíli enter the king's abode, but there's something menacing about him that Bilbo has not anticipated. Thorin's posture is that of a tiger, of one ready to strike. That's how he also circles Kíli dangerously, never too close, and yet never far enough away from him.
Kíli tries to keep up his stubbornness, Bilbo sees him try, but it's clear that he too isn't unaffected by the way Thorin stalks around him. "I would like to hunt," he says with as much courage as he can gather. Oh, Bilbo sees now, Kíli actually fidgets. It doesn't look like it's in fear though.
"That was not what you said back there."
"It was."
Thorin growls. It's primitive, and guttural, and Bilbo has never heard it come from dwarves before. He suddenly feels like he is intruding, which, his traitorous mind supplies, he really is. Fíli talked him into this with his suggestions, but coming along, that's one's all on him. A glance at his partner in crime shows him that Fíli has no such reservations. As a matter of fact, that ever present smile is still there, and his eyes sparkle with something that tells him straight off the bat that what they are doing, spying on them, is very, very wrong. Fíli and Kíli always share that look. It also tells him that Fíli likes it.
"You demand of a king in front of his people. What am I to do with you?"
Kíli looks down at the floor now. He smiles, though he quickly tries to cover it up. The brat smiles. By now, Bilbo thinks he's seen it all.
Fíli pushes his jaw up with his index finger before he notices how far it dropped.
"I believe my point was valid," Kíli returns. Thorin is behind him now, and he's doing all he can not to turn around. To do that would be a sign of weakness. Kíli wants to exude confidence. That's what he needs right now, not floundering and insecurities. "We've not seen a pack of goblins in weeks. You would do well to dispatch me where I'm needed, not where you see fit to send me just because it's safer there. You say there's been a sighting. I say it's a lie. Has Fíli not been hunting?"
"Careful, Kíli."
The warning may just as well have been to dead men's ears, because Kíli obviously does his best not to care. Thorin circles back into Kíli's line of sight and Kíli follows his movement from the corner of his eyes. Though incredibly foolish, Bilbo thinks it's quite the accomplishment to gather in so much of Thorin's rage and still be standing as proudly as Kíli is. It's... refreshing, he thinks, to finally see someone standing up to him.
Except that Kíli pushes all the right buttons to be sent to an early grave. That part is rather mortifying and almost painful to watch. Kíli fires another volley. "Do you deny it?"
The transition is smooth, but whether it's because of those words or something else, the powers between them shift. Thorin, king over the dwarves, finds himself spoken to as if he's inferior. He simmers with barely compressed anger, but his reasoning falters because it's the truth and all he can do is glare. It's a curious change. Suddenly he is not the king but the uncle, reprimanded for taking too much care of his smothered nephew. Bilbo can tell he doesn't like being pushed into that position one bit. But Kíli raises an eyebrow - it's a family trait - and raises his head to look at him straight. It's a challenge; it's also the final straw.
What happen then happens too fast for Bilbo to follow all at once. He blinks, and Thorin steps from the circle into Kíli's range. He manoeuvres himself around the younger with ease, and a shove brings Kíli on his knees on the hard marble in front of him. His braids cascade to the front and the lamellae of his armour make a distinct chafing noise when Thorin kneels down. He grabs a fistful of hair - Bilbo isn't sure if he wants to watch, because bile is rising up at the horrible exchange between uncle and nephew; this is not how family should be - and he hisses into Kíli's ears, "You asked for it. Don't think I can't spot a challenge when I see one."
Bilbo wants to make his way down and help, because this is all going to end up wrong. He doesn't know how he would, seeing as the fall would injure him and there's no clear path down - of course there isn't. Then there's the fact that he'd be intruding on two dwarves who are not on their best behaviour right now. That's not the point. And really, Kíli has brought this down upon himself, he tries to think. Nevertheless, that's still no excuse for Thorin's rough handling of him. Bilbo's palms feel sweaty. What would be so good to watch about this eludes him. Why is Fíli even leaning back like he enjoys the show? This is his brother they watch, being punished for his insolence. The least he can do is feel sorry.
When Fíli catches him staring, he gestures at the room below as if to say, 'don't look at me, look at them'.
Bilbo isn't sure he wants to see more. That faith is strengthened when he glances back between his fingers and sees Thorin push Kíli forward and roughly force his cheek against the cold floor. He doesn't remove his hand from Kíli's hair; it's well tangled already and getting close to dishevelled. Kíli's back juts up sharply and his coat slides down to reveal a small expanse of skin. If this is a power play, then Bilbo really should not be here. He makes to stand and scramble back, decides he's seen enough. That'll be the last time he listens to Fíli, he berates himself, though he's partly to blame himself for caving in. Fíli did mention that he wasn't sure Bilbo would be able to handle it. And Bilbo, naturally, had to reply that of course he was.
Kíli's voice pulls him back. "Do you think that's going to impress me?" he says, panting, and it's the gall in there that has Bilbo rooted to the spot.
"Oh, brother," Fíli whispers to nobody but himself. He's amused. He's also something else, hidden there quite at the same time.
Bilbo sits back. He looks on with pity as Thorin pulls Kíli back by his hair until the dwarf is seated on his haunches, his back tense against Thorin's front; Bilbo almost gasps when Thorin suddenly bites down in his neck. All sorts of thoughts run through his mind at once. For one, he wonders why Fíli is so mellow when his brother hurts. He also contemplates if this is standard dwarven protocol for punishment, but he discards that stray thought straight way. Of course it's not.
He's on his third, befuddled theory when a low cry tears itself from Kíli's throat. It's nothing if not erotic, and the way his blood rushes down to his groin at once makes him finally get it. The sound bounces off the irregular walls once, before it's swallowed up by the crackling of the fire. It lingers and plays over and over in Bilbo's mind however. He stifles a sound just in time as Thorin's free hand fully clasps over Kíli's mouth to quiet him, but it only encourages the younger. Soon his chest rises and falls heavily, like every breath he takes is on fire. Perhaps it is.
Thorin pulls away. The wet sound that pops is so vulgar that Bilbo's lips go dry. Next to him, Fíli shifts. He sees it, but he doesn't want to tear his eyes away from the sight. The moral implications of one brother watching the other in such an intimate way with their uncle, well, they'd have to wait until later. In fact, he finds the thought almost too easy to disregard. So many things are wrong with him, he thinks distantly. Does he care? No, not quite.
"Undress," Thorin commands, and Bilbo almost wishes it's addressed to him. It's that thought, that thought so unlike him, that brings everything back into perspective. He has the decency to blush.
Kíli does as he's told. He refuses to look back as first his cloak is draped loosely into the space between them, and then his layers of mail and leather and linen are peeled off his shoulders one by another, nimble fingers undoing the bracers last. For once he doesn't object. Thorin makes no move; it takes him all of his self-control not to.
By the time Kíli is removing the shirts off his upper body, the bite mark on his neck stands out red and proud against tan skin. Bilbo notices a line of coarse dark hair run down from his abdomen before it disappears, fanning out, under the seams of his breeches. Though here's decidedly less hair on his chest than he expected. Not that he expected anything. Bilbo hasn't thought of Kíli naked. He's thought of thinking about him like that once or twice, but he always finds himself too scandalised with himself. He will most likely stop that inhibition from this night onward, and he doesn't have it in him anymore to blame that on Fíli.
The stray thoughts drop to a skidding halt when gingerly, Kíli stands up in order to strip himself of his breeches and boots. He doesn't leave his spot, which means that Thorin has only inches to cross to reach the body that undresses before him. He doesn't though, which disappoints the younger. It's a lesson, Kíli finds out when he sits back down on his knees and at once he's forced forward.
Once again his cheek and ear are pressed against the tiled surface below, and a hand firmly holds his head there so he has no chance to move. He doesn't want to. By now, Kíli trembles in need, or in fear, or perhaps a healthy portion of both. It's clear where they are going, but Thorin is relentless and he isn't a gentle lover. In fact his actions are rough and demanding and befitting of a warlord or a mercenary, not a decent king. The way he looks down at the young man pinned against the floor under him brims with a predatory desire for conquest.
Bilbo, on the other hand, finds himself rather occupied with the other elephant in the room. He can't tear his eyes away from the naked body that is kneeling on the floor, his hands on the flat surface for support. The cold burns against Kíli's hot skin. He presses his hips back desperately, but he's not rewarded with any attention for his efforts. Thorin is implacable. Eventually Kíli stills. He waits with trepidation, his breathing loud. Bilbo looks away several times before he allows his eyes to go where they've been drawn to all along and they land between Kíli's legs.
When Thorin bends over Kíli and obscures the view, fully clothed, the hobbit almost whimpers. That raises a curious look from the dwarf next to him, and he quickly goes about trying to calm himself down. It's hard though. There's a distinct bulge in his pants that he attempts to cover up and his cheeks feel flushed. He's quite sure that all of his body must have become extra sensitive, because his arms are covered in goose bumps and his hands feel feverish. All of his worries aside, Fíli thinks nothing of it and offers him a knowing look before he returns his attention to the room below.
"I will not lay a hand on you," Thorin promises darkly against Kíli's ear. His hair splays like a curtain in front of Kíli's face and down his shoulders, obscuring his expression from view; Bilbo hears the words rather than sees them. What he does see are Kíli's hands as they try to grasp at the floor. The fingers clench and unclench, and Kíli's body stirs at Thorin's promise, which is very clearly not what he'd anticipated. Kíli only now begins to understand just how hot the fire is that he's been playing with. He's going to burn himself, there's no doubt about that. Dread seeps into him. Thorin's lips curve. "I will not so much as touch you with a finger. But make no mistake, I will have from you what I want yet."
Rough hands track their way up Kíli's sides. They don't caress, nor do they covet. Rather, they explore. They draw out weaknesses, paying close attention to the sounds that Kíli involuntarily makes when his palm brushes over a nipple, or the tips of his fingers creep lower down his navel. The fingers never reach the spot that Kíli - and Bilbo - wants them to go. They always skim to the side just before reaching. It's not long before Thorin pulls back and Kíli lets out a sound of loss. Thorin looks down on the boy too long for it to be comfortable.
Equal amounts of arousal and fear run through Bilbo. He believes it's how Kíli must feel, powerless as he lies there. His naked stomach makes contact with the floor whenever he breathes out. Somehow, Bilbo can't pull his eyes away from it. He is enthralled by the way Kíli sucks in his breath and how it stutters when Thorin moves but does nothing.
Thorin reaches in his pocket. He's still got his coat on - not even that has come off, despite the fact that it's obviously in the way. Either way, it seems to be one big humiliation game anyway to Bilbo. He leans back against the wall, where he's still got a fine view but at least he'll be able to somewhat hide his physical discomfort from Fíli. Bilbo feels betrayed by how strongly his body responds to it. He shouldn't be. It's degrading.
"Thorin..." Kíli tries when he's not had a response in too long. He gets his answer in silence and without foreboding. A finger nudges against his entrance. It startles him, because it's soon and it's yet unanticipated, but his body decides he wants it and he soon pushes his back against the oil-slickened digit. It doesn't feel the way it should. Kíli frowns. No, he realises too late, not a digit.
Bilbo's unfortunately unacquainted with the object in Thorin's hand. He vows to look into it later, when he's out of this mess. That's not to say he doesn't learn quickly, as a rough shove pushes the item in and only stops when the slightly conical shaft is buried inside to the hilt. Kíli cries out at the sudden intrusion. His back stretches and he tries to scramble away from it, whatever it is, but every movement he makes spikes another jolt. After long seconds in which he can do nothing but grasp and contract, he reaches his hand back on impulse to take it out. Thorin lets go of Kíli's hair in order to capture it halfway.
"It burns," breathes Kíli, "What...?" He moves too much, and another searing pain collapses him. "Please."
Thorin however looks pleased. It's the first time he's shown some form of kindness, except Bilbo believes that his kindness could do with a bit more compassion. Thorin said he wouldn't touch him, and he hasn't. Instead his eyes watch his nephew as he struggles to hold the girth of the toy, now that there's no way it will be removed before it serves his purpose. He squirms and pants; Kíli soon knows that if he moves too much, it'll only hurt him more. He tries to hold himself down. Slowly, bit by bit, he attempts to accustom himself to the cold metal. He's so consumed with the device that he doesn't feel Thorin let go of his hand or stand up.
The clang of the belt unbuckling is the thing that gives it away. Kíli's eyes open. He cranes to look over his shoulder. The rest of him is too weary to move, so eventually his knees bend and his back tips to the side, and he looks at Thorin with the side of his head resting on the floor. What he sees makes him hitch. He's still worn down from accommodating the object Thorin chose to stretch him with, rather than his fingers. It's impersonal and the whole thing still feels a little abusive. His voice is broken. Somehow though, he just needs to say it.
"I thought you'd do more."
It's a great incentive for Thorin to further slow down. If Bilbo's not too distracted by the way Kíli's new position gives him a great view of, well, everything - and he's having trouble pulling away from a sight so glorious, so he only averts his eyes when he feels things would be awkward for him if he continued to see any more of it, like it's not already awkward now, but then there's also Fíli and he's sure Fíli would like to see him so affected, since he dragged him into this, but he's not sure if he wants Fíli to see him so affected and oh, he's thinking too much - he's just saying, if he weren't distracted by that, he'd definitely appreciate the broad chest that the king reveals.
When the remainder of clothes come off slowly, he does finally get rightly distracted. Thorin's not sensual about it, even if he's slow. It's rather that he makes it look like a threat, like a promise, like a foreboding of everything that's to come compiled into one act. Thorin doesn't strip for Kíli. He strips for himself. He stands proud even when he's fully bare, while it certainly manages to fluster Kíli, who's still struggling painfully.
Thorin's big, Bilbo gulps. He's not got a lot of comparison to go with, since he's a hobbit and he may have seen one of two other people naked in his life, but they weren't aroused and wouldn't that have been awkward, so he's primarily got himself to compare and that comparison is completely and utterly redundant. His discomfort gets worse when another toy he's not familiar with is rolled over in Thorin's hand, and Kíli's eyes widen in response. The metal ring is turned over once more. Then Thorin puts it on. It's silver and it looks heavy, even more so when it wraps around Thorin's cock. The snap when it clicks shut and the undoubted tightness that now envelops him causes him to clench his jaw momentarily. He looks down at his hands, not at Kíli, as he straps the leather band that's attached to it in place, but no doubt he can feel Kíli's gaze, because he smirks.
The effect of the contraption dawns on Bilbo fast. He feels suddenly self-aware; here he is, on some protrusion high up above someone's private chambers, with another dwarf who pays him no attention - or he likes to believe he doesn't - and yet he's obviously aroused. Part of him wants to let his hands roam south, but then he remembers he's in company and he's so damned conflicted of even thinking about things like that, let alone the men they watch.
Thorin kneels behind Kíli. If Kíli had hopes of being relieved of the intruding toy, he quickly loses it. Thorin grasps the thing, the look on his face again dangerous, and he twists it. Its ridges slide against the flesh in a way that has Kíli nearly sobbing after he collapses. "Oh please," he begs, "please, Thorin. No more."
Thorin pulls his hands away. Except that too isn't good enough for Kíli; he squirms for more. "Still demanding things of me?" Thorin hotly says. He lathers his thumb with spit and traces the outer edges of the object around the younger's entrance. The skin is sensitive and abused, and Kíli whimpers. It's not his intended target though, because he slides just a little lower and firmly nudges the perineum.
Bilbo suddenly feels the need to reprimand Fíli. Never mind that he's older and is supposed to be the smart one here; his brother's just garbled such a debauched sound that Bilbo feels almost personally violated. Fíli on the other hand only moves and keeps his eyes keenly locked onto the scene.
"Yield." Thorin hisses.
Kíli is a downright mess. His mouth is latched onto a part of his lower arm to stifle any moans, his fist clenched. They come anyway. Whenever Thorin touches him, they spill from him like a waterfall. He twists the thing once more, which actually rings a true moan of pain, and he stops there for a moment.
But then Kíli shouldn't spit out things like "Make me. I'm not afraid of you."
The toy comes out with an obscene pop, before Thorin rams in hard. The force shoves Kíli right up on the floor when he fails to support himself on his elbows, and Thorin wraps an arm under his waist to keep his rear up, not bothering to wait until he's gathered the rest of his body up. It's all Kíli can do not to cry out; he can't hold back the second time and the sound rends the air. There's really little input from him; whether he manages to support himself or not, Thorin makes sure to angle into him roughly every time. All he can do is try to keep up.
He's sure Thorin misses the spot intentionally. Kíli's knees bruise against the floor and everything hurts. He can't do anything, he's still raw and it's just... he's in over his head. Just when he makes up his mind that he's not going to get there this way, no matter how painfully hard his own arousal is as it thuds unattended against his abdomen with every thrust and no matter how much he likes to see his uncle lose control, Kíli suddenly sees stars.
It's a mindless litany from there on out. Thorin holds on longer than any man should, and the ring around it makes his cock the most fulfilling thing Kíli's ever had. He thrashes and pushes back with everything he's got. They're a mess, Kíli's pre-cum leaking on the glossy tiles and one of Thorin's braids coming undone because the loose clasp gets caught and they just can't be bothered.
Bilbo knows the build-up he hears in Thorin's breathing. It hitches, then accelerates, and it slows further and further. He knows that build-up. When it's barely even audible anymore - and he's suddenly happy that the acoustics in this place make all the embarrassing sounds drift up for them to hear with great clarity - that's when Thorin breaks. He comes in stutters. The way he rides it out is languid and sensual, but then it becomes too much and he chokes.
Transfixed, Fíli lets out a quiet sound.
It takes some time for Thorin to come to his senses. Under and around him, Kíli begs for attention. He tries to move his hips in order to get some friction. The weight of Thorin bent over his back is too much for him to bear, however, and he can't move. He's helpless. The fire continues to crackle.
"Yield," Thorin whispers again.
"No," Kíli shakes his head. He does so with regret, because he can't stop here, he just can't. It would break him.
"Yield, Kíli."
This time Kíli stays still. Bilbo and Fíli both wait with baited breaths. They both grin at the same time, like it's a victory of sorts, when Thorin receives a weak nod, and in response slips an arm round Kíli's flank before moving the hand down into the pool of Kíli;s heat.
It takes six, maybe seven strokes. It's embarrassing how quickly Kíli loses it. There's been no attention for his cock, and now that there is, he's suddenly overly sensitive. And then there's that, with Thorin taking his bloody time at every stroke and doing maddening things with his thumb. Hard and fast, he could have done. This, this is just too much.
Kíli wets his lips. He moves up against the king's hand without reserve, but not without restraint. It's sensuous and deeply stirring; it's also more than a little intimate. Kíli is so beautiful when he comes - so much more than he already is, flustered and with his everything laid bare - that Bilbo's blood rushes to all the wrong places all over again and he knows he can never unsee this. He wouldn't want to for all the gold in the world, either.
He doesn't know what he's just witnessed. It looks a lot like a struggle for dominance, but he's not so sure anymore. Not a speck of anger remains within the king under the mountain, and it feels like there never has been anger there either. Once Bilbo's mind calms down enough, he will also believe it to be one of the most awe-inspiring things he's ever seen, even if he will share that knowledge with no one. Not even Fíli. But that's for later. Stillness settles in all four of them then.
Thorin pulls out delicately. A trickle of come seeps down Kíli's thigh, but if he's noticed it, he ignores it in favour of rolling around. With his back flat on the floor and his legs up at either side of the king's hips, he smiles up. It's quiet, but warm; it's everything Kíli is supposed to be. "Thank you," he whispers against Thorin's lips.
"Come," Fíli puts a hand on his shoulder, "We should go."
Bilbo is still waking up, so he doesn't move as fast as Fíli wants him to. He does take notice of the way Fíli is suddenly so preoccupied with getting him out of the room, even while his pupils are obviously blown and he should not be going anywhere right now until he wills himself to calm down - actually, that goes for the both of them. It's odd and not a little suspicious, so he slows down.
The minor delay seems important. He watches as Thorin smiles back down fondly, and he believes he hears a whisper is entirely lovingly though slightly amused, breathed against unbraided hair, before he delicately tucks it to the side.
"You'll be the death of me one day."
And that really makes Bilbo reconsider what he thinks he just saw.