Chapter Text
Erebor’s halls still carries the scars from Smaug’s invasion, but the dwarves have been very busy in Bilbo’s absence. The great gouges upon the walls where the dragon had clawed its way from the entry hall had been patched with gold and broken stone had been replaced with new granite and marble. Bilbo had gawped at the sight as the contingent was led through, feeling very out of place once more.
The throne room is a great cavern of a place, with ceiling so tall Bilbo can only just make out the distant marble eaves. It had been thoroughly destroyed during the dragon’s rule, but it had been one of the first things to be redone, and as a result it was truly a marvel to behold. Bilbo had seen the beginnings of the building before he had headed back to the Shire, but the finished work was a spectacle and a half. Thorin had oft spoken about the throne room in reverent tones and it was clear he had made sure the place matched his memory. There is yet more fresh marble and gold to seal the cracks, all pillars and arches whole and a great raised dais at the far end on which sat the Throne under the Mountain.
Everywhere Bilbo looks there are dwarves; not just soldiers and councilmen, but merchants and miners and jewellers and smiths. There are beards in every colour of hair the hobbit has ever seen – from silver and white to brown and black and red and even a rare few with golden braids to match their jewellery. The women often have beards to match the more populous males, but trimmed neater and braided in even more intricate designs, though there are few more intricate that the Brothers Ri, who are up at the front of the crowd near the throne. And there is Bofur and Bombur and their cousin Bifur and old Oin and Gloin standing with a red-haired dwarrowdam and a young dwarf just coming into his beard, and that is wise old Balin now by the throne, his old coat replaced with a rich velvet robe.
And then there is Thorin Oakenshield, feet braced on the granite step beneath his throne, fists resting on the marble arms and looking even more majestic than when Bilbo had left him. He is in an outfit rich in velvet and supple, well worked leathers, and on his normally grim brow rests a crown that suits him so well Bilbo can barely remember seeing him without it at just that first glance. Kingship has suited him well, at least in appearance.
Dwalin stops a good number of paces from the throne, and the group stop behind him. The crowds shuffle expectantly, a constant current of movement ensuring everyone gets to see what is happening. Bilbo himself shuffles out of Dis’ shadow so he has a better view of proceedings, for this is clearly an important event.
Fili and Kili cross to the dais first, stooping to bow deeply in front of their uncle and only rising when he calls their names.
“My heirs,” Thorin declares, his voice booming in the huge space. Bilbo watches the smile on the king’s face only widen as the young dwarves come to stand by his throne, and then Dis paces forward, all steady strides and calm bearing. “Sister!”
They embrace briefly, though it is tense with emotion. When they draw apart, Dis traces a finger across the rim of the crown and she murmurs something too quiet to be audible even in the booming acoustics of the cavern that makes Thorin smile winningly.
Bilbo has been left standing on his own beside Dwalin, and now all eyes are starting to swing to him. Telling himself he has faced down dragons and orcs and spider and kings of all kinds is little help – at least then it had been acceptable to put on his ring and vanish into thin air. Somehow he suspects that would go down less well here.
“Bilbo Baggins.” The Dwarf King’s voice is quieter, and a hush falls on the hall as Bilbo patters forward. He wishes he could manage Fili and Kili’s cocky strides or Dis’ calm paces, but he’s too short to do anything but trot along. He skips up the stairs to the dais and nearly chokes on his own tongue stud when Thorin strides forward and pulls him into a tight embrace before his last foot has even cleared the top of the last step. “My burglar, my hobbit,” Thorin rumbles into his ear and Bilbo reaches around to knot his fingers in the back of Thorin’s velvet tunic. There are hundreds of eyes on them, watching this reunion, and Bilbo finds he couldn’t care less. He’s back with his dwarf king and that’s what he wanted.
There is a nice little space for Bilbo to stand in by the throne, hand still tightly clasped in Thorin’s big fist, and he takes up position beside Dis as the other dwarves from the Blue Mountains are called forward. Balin calls the names out now, though Thorin still greets them personally, some in a friendlier fashion than others. Bilbo stands patiently, making sure to remember names as possible as dwarf after dwarf comes up, and tries not to blush too hard when some bow their heads to him as well.
Finally the last dwarves are greeted and sent to stand with their relatives in the crowds – the last are a small family with tiny dwarflings, both too young to have ever seen the mountain before and so overawed they can only stare – and Balin rolls his scrolls closed with a pointed rustle. Thorin nods briefly and then Bilbo is tugged forward by the grip the dwarf King has on his hand as he stands up.
“We have gained greatly today!” The King exclaims, voice rolling around the hall like a great boulder. “And now, we must celebrate!” He raises his hands, nearly jerking Bilbo off his feet as his hand flies up too, and the hall reverberates with the cheers. Thorin chuckles, the noise audible even through the roar of the dwarves, and bends his shaggy, be-crowned head to murmur a pleased greeting in Bilbo’s ear.
“I have missed you, Mr Baggins,” he rumbles, and Bilbo can feel his face go a flustered crimson even as his lips curve into a smile. The dwarves around are still cheering, though they are starting to mill about again in preparation to head to the feasting hall.
“I was right about the gold,” continues Thorin, sounding especially pleased with himself as he nuzzles the top hoop through Bilbo’s ear.
“Behave!” gasps Bilbo, although he’s quite happy to tilt his head a little more to the side, just so Thorin can nip the very tip of his ear. “Control yourself through the feast, and then we shall see.”
“I’m sure we could make a quiet escape now,” purrs Thorin, chuckling immediately when Bilbo grants him an unimpressed look at the thought of missing all that food. “Ah, I forgot; who dares separate a halfing from his dinner is a brave person indeed.”
“This is lunch and dinner and afternoon tea all in one,” says Bilbo, almost wringing his hands together in glee at the thought. He stands up on tiptoes and kisses Thorin softly. “And while you are an exceedingly brave dwarf indeed, I shouldn’t recommend getting in my way right now.”
“I shall sit back and pass you the platters,” rumbles Thorin, still sounding nothing less than pleased as he leads the hobbit into the great feasting hall.
Bilbo had admired the wood-elves arrangement for feasting back in the days of the quest, but the banquet hall of the Lonely Mountain was something else entirely. There are six long stone tables spanning the whole length of the hall, with a seventh placed width wise on a low dais at the far end of the hall. Flaming braziers roar in sconces high up on the walls between tapestries depicting famous deeds of dwarven bravery, but natural light slips through a series of narrow windows high up on one wall. The tables are all covered in silvered platters and bowls and for every four dwarves there is a great jug of mead to be filled from the huge casks against one of the walls.
Bilbo is granted a seat in a prime position, at Thorin’s left hand side. On the King’s other side is his sister and along the rest of the length of the table is the Company, all as pleased as punch to be granted such a priviledged seat.
The feast ranges on for hours and hours, with breaks for dancing and music and storytelling – Bilbo may have clambered onto a table at one point and recounted a mildly embellished tale of how he saved the company from being eaten by trolls, as the rest of the company in question attempted to hinder his performance with heckling. Even Thorin is convinced to sing at the end, though it is Bilbo that requests it: the song that the Company had sung in his hobbit hole that had so convinced him to join them on their quest. The whole hall echoes with the notes, and after the song is done there is a brief moment of shivering silence before the noise ratchets up again.
Thorin leans over and murmurs, “We may take our leave soon, else I fear we will never make it elsewhere tonight. I have something to show you.”
“Oh?” Bilbo can’t stop the shiver that goes through his frame when Thorin lands a soft kiss on the topmost hoop through his ear.
The King’s Quarters are well tucked into the bulk of the mountain, occupying one of the oldest excavated cavern, where the floors and wall are smoothed not just through expert craftsmanship, but age and use. Bilbo patters along the corridors slightly drunkenly, ricocheting off walls in his game to keep himself just out of Thorin’s eager grasp. The King looks considerably less tipsy and much more hungry, eyes glinting in the light from the lamps.
“You should be leading the way,” says Bilbo, twiddling one of the hoops through his ear in a pointedly absent fashion. “I feel as though this arrangement is purely for your benefit.”
Thorin twitches an eyebrow and casts his gaze over the hobbit with a smirk. “That, and we have not moved from our original quarters. It is merely their inners that differ.”
Bilbo’s thoughts drift to the precious jewel beaded through his navel and answers Thorin with a smirk of his own. “Ah, well, we shall definitely have to see this then.”
Thorin had said that ‘merely’ the inside of their rooms had changed, but Bilbo suspects deeply that ‘merely’ means something different to dwarves than it does to hobbits.
Their bedroom is no longer a smoke stained cave, with shattered floors and a lowly pallet bed covered in furs to lie on, but something so sumptuous even Bilbo Baggins, one of the richest hobbits in the Shire stops dead in the wide doorway and just stares. This allows Thorin a moment to catch up and dart forward, light on his feet even full of ales and laden down in his velvet tunics, and snatch the hobbit up.
“You do not weigh enough to have put away that much food,” says Thorin, absently nuzzling Bilbo’s ear again and carrying him forward into the room proper. Bilbo does not complain, as he is too busy staring still.
Lamps and candles of the best quality light the room from elaborately carved sconces, supplemented with narrow tunnels through the ceiling, which cast a pale glow that the hobbit supposes must come from the moon. A fire roars in a hearth big enough that Bilbo could stand in comfortably, had the flames been extinguished. Of all the furniture in the room, the most important is the huge bed, carven from black granite, posts polished to a sheen so deep it swallows the light. The frame is topped with a thick mattress, and that is heaped with silk sheets and pillows and clean, soft furs.
“Do you like it?” asks Thorin, sounding justifiably smug. Bilbo wriggles out of his grip in answer, and runs to the bed, feet slapping on oak floorboards. He has to clamber up onto the top and then he tosses himself down amid the sheets, laughing.
“This is remarkable!” he says, burying his toes into the softest fur – made of some animal that had previously been silvered grey and very, very large -, “Thorin, this is beautiful!” The canopy is so delicately carved he gets up on his feet to inspect them – runes and complicated angular dwarvish patterns, combined with what look like careful copies of flowers and round Shire designs.
“I only finished the bed frame last moon,” says Thorin, boots thumping heavily on the floorboards as he places the crown on a sideboard and then paces forward. “I will be the first to admit stone work is not my strong suit.”
“You carved this?” Bilbo splutters for a few moments, and now when he looks so closely at the stone he can see clumsier chips and slips in the work that he wouldn’t normally see in dwarf stonework. “Oh Thorin…”
“I had to get one of Bofur’s relatives to carve the bathtub.”
“Bathtubs are harder than swords?” teases Bilbo, dropping down to his knees and nearly chuckling with glee when the mattress bounces under him.
“Blacksmithing is a far different skill set than stonework.” Thorin tosses his head, throwing his braids back over his shoulders grandly, and paces closer so Bilbo could catch a hold of his belt. “I think I did rather well, given the circumstances."
Bilbo laughs and cranes his neck up to kiss his king softly.
While out on the quest and deep in the wilds, Thorin had always looked wild and fierce, no matter how dishevelled he had become and Bilbo had always appreciated this stern handsomeness. Thorin as King Under the Mountain, in his rich clothes and his crown on his brow and with his hair neatly braided and beard clean and carefully trimmed. He doesn’t look as harrowed anymore, but healthy and happy and well. And even more naturally handsome than Bilbo had ever seen him.
And Thorin is evidently well pleased with what he sees as well. His hands run over Bilbo compulsively: flickering around the back of his neck, fingers dipped down below the collar onto over warm skin beneath, then running down his spine, bracing over his hips and then grasping two firm handfuls of Bilbo’s arse. The hobbit squeaks in brief surprise but cannot bring himself to complain further, since his own hands are buried somewhere in the many layers of velvets and leather about the King’s broad waist.
Thick fingers remove themselves from the temptation they find about Bilbo’s backside, and curl up into his hair. Thorin tugs lightly on the thin strands of precious wire that had been braided into Bilbo’s curls, turning the beads about speculatively.
“You are dressed in my colours,” says Thorin, twisting the braid tight. “I believe it suits you well.”
“I believe you just want me marked out as your own,” murmurs Bilbo rather breathlessly, as Thorin tweaks the topmost ring through his right ear.
“And why should I not?,” Thorin growls, lowering his mouth so each charged word is delivered straight to the hobbit’s sensitive ear. “You are a lovely creature, dressed so handsomely in metals and gems. There was many a gaze that rested on your covetously this night.”
“Oh, please…” chuffs Bilbo. He is not an unattractive creature he knows – many a hobbit had been led astray by his charms before – but he had not noticed any such gaze upon him that night. “But, you will note, my eyes were firmly upon you, my King.”
Thorin’s smile became thoroughly predatory, though his eyes were pleased. “Ah? Is that so?”
Bilbo kisses him as answer, drawing him neatly forward onto the bed with the temptation of more. The dwarf king is easily lured, especially when Bilbo nips cheekily at his lower lip, and bore his greater bulk against his lover until they were sprawled amid the furs. Bilbo wriggles his toes amid the sheets – he cannot move much else of himself underneath Thorin’s weight, bar his hands which are occupied running up and down the dwarf’s back – and rubs his cheek against thick stubble until his skin burns from the friction. Thorin’s mouth is murmuring endearments into Bilbo’s ear in rumbling Dwarvish, lips brushing against the earrings. The comforting cosiness of Thorin’s bulk resting above his own and the earth-dark richness of the dwarf’s voice have Bilbo breathless and blushing within minutes, and his hands clutch at the shift of muscles until Thorin rears up and peers down at him.
“What more attentions could you need, Mr Baggins?”
Bilbo ‘hmmph’s at the smug tone and snags a silver beaded braid as it unhooks itself from over Thorin’s shoulder. A sharp tug and Thorin catches his hands in his own big paws and then Bilbo has him; he guides his lover’s hands to the shining buttons on his waistcoat.
Judging by the expression that appears on Thorin’s face, Bilbo expects callused hands to rip the clothes from his body, oils to be applied hurriedly and to be mounted like an animal. But Thorin is calm and slow - not controlled, his hands tremble and the cords of muscle clench tight in his bared forearms - fingers working patiently on the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. A big hand slips beneath to press firmly to where the hobbit's heart pounds beneath his skin. Thorin inclines his head down again, purring in a deep breath amid Bilbo's curls. The scent seems to spur him on, and he brushes the coat and shirt off his shoulders effortlessly.
"Ah yes...." Thorin smiles as if reintroduced to an old friend. His thumb brushes a nipple piercing and Bilbo jerks helplessly, a gasp coming to his mouth unbidden. More were pried from him in short notice when Thorin applied his mouth in much the same fashion, tongue rolling about the peaks and teeth tweaking the piercing until Bilbo was nigh on begging for more, or at the very least mercy.
Bilbo wriggles, clutching a hand to his face to prevent himself from giggling, as Thorin trails down a little further. His hands are already working the laces and buttons at the front of Bilbo’s trousers, and his stubble is scratching the sensitive, soft skin of his belly and flanks, when Bilbo feels him still abruptly.
“Now this is a sight….” Thorin’s voice is even rougher than before, so husky it seems to vibrate through Bilbo’s very bones. When he peers down, Thorin is focussed firmly on the glittering sapphire, and he has a very predatory fashion on his face when he glances up and meets the hobbit’s curious gaze. He shifts down amidst the furs slightly and rests one heavy forearm across Bilbo’s belt line, easily pinning him down. Bilbo would wriggle with anticipation if he could – his cock is well awakened now, despite the normal dimming quality of dwarvish ales – at the thought of what Thorin might do to him next. His hand had been a faithful companion over the course of their separation, but a rather unsatisfying one, and this had been a well anticipated return.
But Thorin, as ever, is a wicked dwarf and thoroughly determined to make Bilbo’s life as hard as possible. He ducks his great shaggy head down and presses a kiss to the sapphire at the hobbit’s navel twice, with a pleased little murmur each time. Bilbo yelps as soft bites are littered onto his stomach, briefly detouring down one of his flanks to torture him thereabouts, jerking and wriggling with renewed vigour with each nip. Eventually the touches drift upwards again, to lap over his nipples one last time, and Thorin looms over him for a long kiss.
“You remain full of surprises, Master Burglar,” he rumbles when they break apart, as he runs a his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, snagging chains and threads gently as he does so.
“I would hate to leave you bored,” says Bilbo – he wishes he could say he does so with the same easy, husky confidence that Thorin always banters with, but he sounds squeaky and shaky.
“And I doubt that will be a problem, with you so nicely bejewelled.” A big calloused hand cups Bilbo’s jaw, tilting his head back and to the side so Thorin can kiss his throat before descending down his body. One-handed, and surprisingly deft as such, the dwarf king undoes the laces of Bilbo’s trousers, eases his fingers beneath the waistband of his underclothes and brings them just far enough down.
Bilbo bites his lip sharply at the cool air on his overheated skin, as his cock springs out of its confines. He hadn’t realised how confined it had felt until now, and the relief feels even better for the unexpectedness. So focused is he on the sensation, he neglects to notice the shift of Thorin’s weight down his legs, so the dwarf’s barrel chest is trapping his calves to the bed and his hips are once more pinned by a burly forearm; his attention is only drawn back by a puff of hot breath against the wetness on the very tip and Thorin’s wicked smile.
A long wet swipe up his cock makes his toes curl and his fists clutch helplessly at the furs and sheets until they are dreadfully crumpled about his fists. Thorin chuckles deeply and takes another lap, and another, until Bilbo is acutely aware of the shrillness of his breath as he gasps.
“Oh, don’t tease!” he bleats, blushing crimson as he does so, and Thorin murmurs obediently, mouthing the base of Bilbo’s cock for only a moment more. He hovers over the tip for a moment and then lowers his mouth onto it, hot and wet. Bilbo gasps and groans, his hips trying desperately to jerk up despite Thorin’s heavy presence pressing him down, and the furs became increasingly rucked under his fists as Thorin’s mouth slowly took more of him in. They prove unsatisfying to grip and twist, so his hands wander – first over his own chest where the nipple rings still throb with the memory of Thorin’s mouth, then down his belly to grip at the tense muscle of the pinning forearm. His fingers dig and grip but there isn’t enough give and tug to satiate him, so he reaches out a little further and ends up with two handfuls of Thorin’s hair. This is infinitely better to scrunch and pull, and Thorin rumbles with each tug.
Already he can feel the heat of orgasm approaching, making his toes curl and his stomach twist agreeably, even as Thorin pleasures him so slowly. It has been so long, with just his hand and his imagination, and now he has the actual thing between his legs, long silvered braids draping around a proud Dwarf King’s face as he sucks Bilbo’s cock. That thought is easily enough to be his undoing, and his tosses his head back against the furs.
"Ah, Thorin!" His fingers knot so tightly again in the dwarf King's hair, until he can feel the throb of his pulse in his fingertips. After that his voice fails him, reducing him to whimpers and gasps and near sobs as his pleasure builds and builds until it is almost painful. The Dwarf King chuckles deeply at a particularly heart felt gasp and groan, and the vibration shoot straight up Bilbo's spine and his mind goes white.
When he blinks the bleary pleasure from his eyes - his chest still heaves with his breath and his skin is soaked with sweat - Thorin is licking his lips in a manner Bilbo thinks is especially provocative, cuffing a hand across his beard to wipe the excess of Bilbo's spend from his chin.
"You..!" exclaims Bilbo breathlessly, sitting up and kicking a foot out, doing his best to ignore that his shirt and waistcoat are snagged on his elbows and his trousers and underclothes are hanging off his hips. Thorin barely twitches at the impact on his thigh – Bilbo had suspected as much would happen - and starts to undo the laces of his tunic himself, which is simply not on. "Oh now, stop that!"
Thorin twitches a shaggy eyebrow and stops obediently, hands braced on his hips. "Now this is a complaint I have not heard from you before. Do you not wish me unclothed?"
"I do," says Bilbo peevishly. "But this is a pleasure I wish for myself!"
Making a noise of pleased acceptance, Thorin holds his arms out welcomingly. "Feel free then, Master Hobbit. You are welcome to me."
It is thoroughly tricky for a hobbit to wrestle a dwarf, particularly one as a powerful as Thorin Oakenshield, but Bilbo knows his lover's weaknesses. A hobbit foot applied to the sensitive back of a knee and a clinging weight around his neck, and Thorin topples them backwards onto the pillows with a roar of laughter. Bilbo takes advantage of his good mood to tweak his braids again and nip his ear. The laces of his tunic are fast work for nimble hobbit fingers and Thorin eases himself up onto his elbows so the tunic and the undershirt can be whipped off and tossed to the floor.
Although Bilbo had been using his imagination liberally during his separation from his lover – and he had a very good imagination indeed – there truly is nothing that matches up to the actual sight of Thorin Oakenshield partially undressed. Bilbo slings a leg over Thorin’s hips and arranges himself comfortably on his lap, arse rubbing against the bulge in the king’s breeches. Thorin draws a pointed breath, but rests his hands on Bilbo’s sides like neither of them are nearly naked and schools his face into a settled expression.
Bilbo decides this time is for him, regardless of the previous orgasm he had received, and sets out to remind himself of the bulk of Thorin’s chest and the strength across his shoulders. He tangles his fingers in the thick black hair trailing down his hard-packed belly and then redirects his attentions to the heavy steel grey rings through his nipples. There is a certain way that Thorin likes them to be touched, turned and twisted and tugged, and Bilbo remembers this as acutely as he remembers how to spell his own name. Doing so causes Thorin’s composure to crack slightly and Bilbo repeats the tactic with his mouth, bracing himself on the dwarf’s powerful stomach as he leans forward to lick and nibble. His tongue barbell clinks pleasingly against the steel loops, and Thorin shivers under his touch, belly clenching tight.
While the dwarf is otherwise distracted, Bilbo’s hands are free to slither down and prey upon his belt buckle. It is complicated – as dwarf buckles are frustratingly inclined to be – but Bilbo finds himself in that stage of tipsiness which imparts an odd disconnected dexterity. The belt slides out of the buckle in moments and Bilbo shifts back to sit over Thorin’s broad thighs so he can undo laces and slip a hand in.
The sensation of Thorin’s cock settling against Bilbo’s fingers makes them both groan, a great earthquake of a shudder wracks the dwarf’s form and Bilbo has to tighten his legs against Thorin’s to keep himself astride. He squeezes his grip carefully - Thorin makes a noise not unlike a cliff face starting to give way - and then eases his handful between the opened laces and into the open. Thorin is rock hard, the heavy piercing slick and the head an almost angry colour of red. Bilbo rocks the barbell with a thumb almost absently, wondering just how he plans to take his King apart tonight. Might he stroke him to completion, teasing and tormenting him via this piercing? But there is also the temptation of leaning down right now and lapping the salty fluid from him, swallowing his cock down and enjoying the stretch of it inside his mouth and Thorin’s hand upon his hair, or the lure of the jar of oil upon one of the bedside cabinets. Of course, he thinks, eyes running up Thorin’s tightly clenched stomach to his broad chest and powerful shoulders, that there is no need to restrict his choices to just one. After all, even his own cock is starting to rouse again at just the thought of what they might do...
"Enough!" cries Thorin, his rumble of a voice coming out more strangled than normal. Bilbo gives him another stroke, with a cunning twist of the wrist at the head which knocks the piercing just the way he knows his lover likes it, and then yelps as he finds himself being rolled over and pinned to the bed sheets once more. Thorin looms over him, gripping the loose fabric where his trousers bunch down his thighs and tugging them off sharply. He wrenches off his own just as eagerly and returns to looming just a little closer, so the head of his cock nudges into the soft inside of Bilbo’s thigh. Bilbo quickly makes his mind up on what he wants to do, and fumbles a hand out for the jar on the bedside table, fingers just catching the edge of the lid and hooking it closer.
Thorin is holding his hand out with a look of almost regal expectation. Bilbo considers his great paw of a hand and then pours a healthy amount of the l over his thick fingers without a word.
The stretch is always impressive with heavy dwarf fingers, more so now that they have not laid together for so long, but Thorin knows Bilbo’s body and in return there seems to be some vestigial muscle memory that remembers a lover’s touch, and he opens up easily about two fingers. The slow grind of insertion and the fresh slick from the oil that Thorin has somehow managed to steal, rouses Bilbo’s cock fully and a blush of arousal scours up across his chest and paints his cheeks pink. Thorin is pressing kisses to Bilbo’s belly and inner thighs, unerringly gentle on the scrapes of beard burn he had left behind when previously servicing his lover. He seems so enthralled with his task that he appears not to sense Bilbo’s eagerness for more, and continues the slow thrust and push until he is three fingers deep and absolutely soaked with oil. Bilbo is nearly overcome and has to snatch up a very tousled braid and tug on it repeatedly and pointedly to get a response; Thorin crawls up his body and settles down, his cock nestling neatly in the crease at the top of Bilbo’s thigh. He’s heavy but comfortably so, a pointed pressure that only serves to remind Bilbo of his strength.
"How would you care to do this?" He nuzzles to the underside of the hobbits throat. "Shall we continue like this?"
As much as Bilbo loves the reminder of his mate’s brawn atop of him, there are other ways to take advantage of the dwarf’s power for his own pleasure. He spreads his palms against the dwarf’s chest, fingers entangled with the steely nipple rings, and pushes up. Normally he would have little chance of moving Thorin’s bulk, but the dwarf goes as he is directed, to sprawl out on his back.
“Come on then, Master Baggins,” says Thorin, tossing his head so his hair spreads out across the pillows more comfortably and patting his thick thighs in an encouraging manner and spreading patterns of oil across himself. Bilbo chuckles to himself and crawls up onto his lap, nudging his hips back until the hot weight of Thorin’s cock was pressing against his arse. He steals the oil and reaches behind himself to wet down the dwarf’s cock, laughing again as Thorin groans and rocks his hips up into the touch. Then, with a shaky sign of anticipation, he lifts himself up onto his knees and eases down. He is well opened and spare oil is dripping down his thighs, so the head of Thorin’s cock pushes in easily, the piercing shockingly cool as it opens him up. The sensations are so intense, he worries he might lose control then and there and so forces himself to take a moment – closing his eyes, clutching his hands to his own thighs, then to his belly and up to his chest - before pushing down further until his arse is settled comfortably in the cradle of Thorin’s lap.
He whimpers then, fully seated and utterly satisfied already. He had forgotten how big Thorin was, how his cock stretches him out and left him so full, how every slight movement rubs the piercing so nicely against his walls. He rolls his hips experimentally and nearly chokes on his own breath at the grind inside him, passing so close to that spot that always made him see stars. Thorin, for his part, looks similarly star-struck when Bilbo can summon the wherewithal to open his eyes a crack and look down; his big hands are palming an arse cheek each, squeezing softly to encourage Bilbo’s hips in their slow rock. He smiles tightly, hips twitching upwards slightly as if he can barely bear to keep still. Bilbo wonders if he should spare him - the rock and grind is a delicious sensation but there is only so much he can ask of his King before his patience leaves him. He takes a moment to gather his centre of balance, spreading his legs a little further to secure his knees better on the sheets and grunting as it allows Thorin to reach a touch deeper inside him, before bracing himself on Thorin’s muscle strapped hipbones and lifting up.
Thorin groans, dark and hungry, his hands helping Bilbo to slide up and push down by a firm grip on his waist, leading him to a steady pace that had the sweat beading and building on his skin. It eases Thorin’s grip, and he begins to run his hands up and down Bilbo’s back, wrapping his fingers around the top of his lover’s shoulders and then down to squeeze his arse. He even trails a hand down far enough that his calloused fingertips stroke the sensitive skin where Bilbo is stretched wide about him. Bilbo gasps at that, throwing his head back and bouncing harder, and Thorin continues his explorations, murmuring in deep, earthy Khuzdul now. His hands continue to slip up and down, the scratching sensation of his callouses smoothed out by the slick of sweat on both their skins; he thumbs the gold loops through Bilbo’s nipples, traces the barbell through his navel with a careful palm and finally returns to squeezing his arse. He may be taking his own pleasure through the touches, but Bilbo can barely breathe by the end of his ministrations
Thorin is glorious beneath him, powerful and regal in the light of the lamps and the gilding of the fire, and his voice is deep as it produces the jewels of words that never fail to make Bilbo shiver just a touch. His hands set every part of Bilbo a shudder with their touch, and his cock, thick and hard and the piercing immutable at the tip, is touching all but the very best place as Bilbo takes his pleasure from him. Bilbo can want for barely anything while astride his king in this fashion, but a kiss is too good to pass on. He barely pauses in his fucking to lean down and this changes the angle of the thrusts so the piercing pushes right into the perfect spot and Bilbo gasps into Thorin’s mouth as he comes without a further touch to his cock, spend spattering Thorin’s broad stomach and rubbing between their bellies when Bilbo can no longer hold himself upright.
“My love,” murmurs Thorin, a hand heavy on Bilbo’s back and his lips against Bilbo’s forehead. He seems patient to wait out his lover’s insensibility, but Bilbo is aware of the twitch of hips against his own and the hard heat within himself.
“Take your pleasure from me,” he croaks when his gasping settles to panting, and his mind is once more connected to his body. “You have given to me twice over, and I would have a third if you had your first.”
“Golden tongued,” says Thorin, and there is a certain amount of craning of necks to share another kiss before Thorin rolls them over. Bilbo finds himself sprawled on his back on the furs, legs splayed about Thorin’s hips and the dwarf looming down over him, hands braced either side of his head. The shift of the piercing inside him is still like lightning down his spine, leaving him breathless and clinging to Thorin’s wrists as the dwarf began to move again. Before, the fucking had been fairly leisurely, if energetic enough to raise a sweat on Bilbo’s back, but now Thorin is wild and fierce. His hips snap forward forcefully, driving into his lover with enough force to almost push him up the bed. Bilbo shifts his grip to grab a braid and tugs on it one last time – Thorin comes down for a kiss, bracing on his elbows now, and Bilbo nips and nibbles into his mouth, hands scrabbling at the shifting muscles of the dwarf lord’s powerful back. It takes Thorin only a couple more thrusts, hips pushing forward erratically and his breath loud against Bilbo’s ear as he groans out his completion and spills deep inside him. Bilbo shudders and gasps himself, nails scratching down Thorin’s spine a last time before stillness overtook them both.
Bilbo is fuzzily aware of movement after a while, and opens his eyes to see Thorin leaning above him, eyes crinkled in a pleasant smile and lips curved enticingly. Bilbo cranes up for a kiss, and they stay like that for a long while to savour the moment, until it is no longer comfortable to remain together. Bilbo’s arse aches pleasantly, but the rest of him feels damp and cool and uncomfortable where Thorin is no longer pressed to him as tightly. Grudgingly, Bilbo untangles his legs from about Thorin’s hips, allowing the dwarf to shift away slowly to sit on the edge of the bed.
He surveys the mess about them absently. The top layer of furs and sheets are rucked up and some are dampened with sweat and oil. Thorin gathers the worst up and tosses them into a pile across the room. Bilbo doesn’t fuss as he normally might – dwarves traditionally practise careers in fiery, dirty, dangerous places, and as a result their launderers are second to none. From somewhere amid the bedside tables Thorin then produces a jug of water and dampens a cloth to remove most of the mess that is rapidly drying on Bilbo's thighs and stomach. The water is pleasantly cool on his overheated, sweat slicked skin and Bilbo allows himself a brief moment of laziness to enjoy it. His muscles have the wet rope feeling he associates with a particularly thorough orgasm and his head is starting to swim vaguely again as the alcohol cuts back through the fog of lust, but there's no point lying back and relaxing until he can ensure Thorin will do the same. So he catches the cloth mid sweep across his stomach and heaves himself up with the weight of Thorin’s forearm as leverage. The dwarf permits him to wash him down as well, perhaps using the un cloth burdened hand more than strictly necessary, and then takes it back to clear up.
Bilbo wriggles under the sheets with a sigh of joy - though rucked and wrinkled they are still silken and soft, and the furs on top are warm and heavy. Thorin sets the jug aside heavily and is about to tuck himself in beside Bilbo - and he’s already imagining the warmth of his embrace and the press of a big arm across his waist and the scratch of soft kisses - when someone knocks on the door!
And then, even worse!, Thorin gets up from the bed and goes to answer it.
He’s still naked! Bilbo would be scandalised if he wasn’t so interested in the movement of the dwarf’s buttocks. As it is, even the allure of Thorin’s backside isn’t enough to fully smooth over his exasperation that he might be left alone in bed on this night of all nights.
“Are you going to answer the door?” he asks, sitting up in bed and purposefully pushing the sheets down to display his navel piercing. Thorin chuckles and bends to sweep up a pair of breeches from the floor – by the size they are clearly Bilbo’s and the dwarf lord tosses them across the room before the person knocks again. “Have you seen yourself?”
Thorin’s braids are frayed and undone, his short beard rubbed entirely the wrong way and the whole of him is damp from the cleaning Bilbo had given him. He glances down at himself and then grins.
“They know what we were doing in here,” he says, in a tone that sounds distinctly proud to Bilbo’s ears. “I have no issue with being seen like this.”
“This did all began because dwarves have no shame,” says Bilbo, shrugging his shoulders and twiddling his toes against the sheets. Thorin tosses him a look over his shoulder, but stops before the door and wanders back to the bed to loom over him.
“I think I might have seduced you regardless of your interest in my body jewellery,” he rumbles in return. He is particularly beautiful when he smiles, and Bilbo can only smile back. There is still someone standing outside, but they are both still naked and have been apart for far too long.
He sits further forward, brigning himself close enough to snag a thick braid, one that is still mostly intact, and tug gently. Thorin’s eyes darken at the touch and he leans in closer. “That afternoon by the river..?”
“I remember it well and fondly.”
“You said you would teach me the meanings of your braids.” He tugs the braid again, just as the person outside knocks once more. “Do you think you have the stamina this night?”
“I think,” says Thorin, drawing the covers back, “That you could persuade me.”