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“I have never been so wrong in all my life.”
It had been hot and hard, Thorin’s embrace. Hot, hard, overwhelming…and held within it, a wealth of pain.
Bilbo was not sure he understood what hurt Thorin could have been feeling beyond his wounds, and yet he’d felt a startling dampness on his matted curls. Indeed, his first thought was that he’d imagined it. But the thin tear-trails snaking through the dirt and blood on the Dwarf’s cheeks as he pulled away were real as his own heart. The same heart that had hammered like a timpani in his chest as soon as he’d felt Thorin’s arms wrap tight around him.
Those tears, the sight and the thought of them, cut at Bilbo as the jagged edge of the stones did at his aching back. He rolled over, doing his best to ignore their unending scraping on his sore muscles. He’d just begun to wonder whether Thorin rested well after his ordeal, when the selfsame Dwarf came into view. He sat against the rough trunk of a tree not twenty paces off, the dying firelight washing over his stern, sharp features like gilded blood.
Stifling a gasp, Bilbo hurriedly slammed his eyes shut, hoping Thorin had not noticed him. Despite their reconciling just hours earlier, Bilbo was anxious to remain an un-burden, or whatever the term, to the Dwarven king. He was so large, more than twice Bilbo’s size it sometimes seemed, and so serious. And the fiercest fellow Bilbo had ever known. He supposed his many experiences following Smaug’s destruction of Erebor had made him that way.
Would he become so hardened, he thought, if a fire-drake like Smaug had forced him from Bag End and turned Hobbiton to ash, leaving only screams and the bones of the burned behind? A bare week ago, less maybe, he’d have said the Baggins he was would have fled absolutely. But the Tookishness that had spurred him to fly to Thorin’s aid when he lay spent and near death – the thought of which still sent a flash of rage through him – said no, No! He would fight! Thorin had had the right of that when he’d chastised Bilbo for thinking of his soft bed and his warm hearth. He would fight, with all his passion, all his fury to defend what was his.
As you fought to save the Dwarf from his death?
He felt his brow crease at that. “But such a king, a champion among Dwarves is not mine,” he thought to himself. How could he be? Though he could admit to himself the thought sent delicious shivers down his spine, he knew also when he was deluding himself. Someone with all the pride and bearing, the dark, damning beauty of Thorin Oakenshield could never look more than askance at a Hobbit from the Shire.
He was grateful to Bilbo for leaping to his defense, nothing more. And the Hobbit felt the glimmer of tears on his cheeks as he drifted into troubled dreams.
Thorin, for his part, had been watching Bilbo from the corner of his eye since he’d heard him tossing and turning, trying so hard to find soft purchase on the rocks. Even after all these long months, he still did his best to make himself comfortable, no doubt thinking of his hole in the ground.
“I miss my books, and my armchair, and my garden. See, that’s home, and that’s why I came back: You don’t have one. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.”
Fighting back a groan, Thorin shoved at his braids, still caked with dirt and blood. His ribs ached yet where the Warg had gnawed at him, his head throbbed with the blows dealt by that filth Azog. And within his broad and scarred chest some secret part of him cried out in need, so much so that it shamed him. He pushed to his feet on an oath, and went to stride agitatedly beyond where they’d made their camp.
He was Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain! He’d prepared all of his life for the throne, had led his people to safety and renewed prosperity when the dragon had taken and defiled his beloved Erebor. And yet he was powerless, helpless as a child when it came to the Halfling. He’d fought in countless battles, and emerged victorious every time. Save the battle concerning his heart, he thought in disgust. He had no right to feel this way. He had a duty, to kin and kingdom. His own desires were naught in the face of his heritage. A son of the line of Durin must put his people first and foremost, on every count.
It was just his luck that the Halfling had risked his own skin, countless times, for the sake of himself and his kin. And last night, when he’d failed to destroy his most accursed enemy and had nearly died for it, Bilbo had appeared at his side screaming bloody vengeance. As he’d slipped away all he’d seen was the Hobbit, hacking, hacking at the Orc that would have taken his head, and the movement of the rest of the pack to take Bilbo.
When Gandalf had brought him back from that ragged edge of the abyss, it was Bilbo he’d thought of, his Halfling, and seeing him hale and whole and opened the floodgates of his rage and relief. The icy rush of fear at the thought of losing Bilbo had been like poisoned knives in his veins, leaving him shaking. He’d spoken harshly, riding the hard crest of his anger, but the shattered look on the Hobbit’s face was the undoing of him. He’d heard his voice break as he’d wrapped his arms around Bilbo. He’d held back his tears as best he could, but knew a few had leaked out, disappearing into the impossibly soft curls. And though Bilbo had, after a moment, gently returned the embrace, he hadn’t seemed nearly so affected as Thorin. And the thought ate at him like a disease.
He stopped a moment in his pacing, shot a glare toward the Hobbit. His chest rose and fell smoothly, his arms and legs curled against the cold. And as Thorin watched, and grieved over what could not be his, Bilbo began to whimper in his sleep, cringing away from a nightmare. It grew to a low keening as he began to thrash about, and Thorin was already rushing to his side.
“No…no! You can’t – ” His arm flung out, searching for the little sword he’d found in the troll hoard. Thorin grabbed at his wrist, not wanting to be skewered, and with his other hand hastened to remove his cloak, drape it over the trembling figure. But Bilbo reared up, fought to tear his arm away. “You will not touch him again! He is mine!”
Thorin’s heart nearly stopped; he’d have sworn it did but for the pounding in his throat. In one smooth motion he pulled the Hobbit up to his chest and wrapped him in his cloak. Not knowing what else to do, he held Bilbo as close as he could without smothering him, stroking his large hand slowly down the tense ridge of the Halfling’s spine. Slowly Bilbo’s weak cries faded, to be replaced with silent, scorching sobs, thin shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Thorin himself was feeling strange and weak in the knees, and awkwardly lowered himself to a sitting position with Bilbo still cradled to his chest.
He became painfully aware of the fact that only his rough shirtfront separated him from the Hobbit’s soft vest and searing warmth beneath. He’d removed his armor as soon as they’d reached the relative safety their current encampment provided, to tend to his numerous wounds. The poultice they’d cobbled together had stung like seven hells on his bruises and cuts, of which there were many, but after a few hours under the bandages it had faded to a dull ache. He’d kept the armor off, not needing any more pressure on his hurts.
And yet, there was something about the weighted warmth of Bilbo’s body curled against his, the tears dampening the cloth wound ’round his ribs that was…soothing, somehow. For the first time in a long time, he truly felt like he was cared for. The hitch in the Hobbit’s voice as he’d cried out in dreams had shaken him, and…and it had aroused a terrible hope that perhaps he was not so alone as he’d thought himself. And Bilbo, tears subsiding, clutched at Thorin’s shirt, still asleep. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered in a voice broken with unspeakable grief. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
Thorin’s heart did a long, slow swirl in his chest. Enough wondering, he thought. It was time to see if his hopes were in vain. Pulling away a bit, swallowing his fear, he brushed a steady, gentle hand over Bilbo’s cheek.
“Wake up, Halfling.”
Caught in a sorrow that would surely kill him, the mountainous rumble of the Dwarf’s voice reverberated like salvation through Bilbo’s head, his chest. He’d just seen the king cut down by monsters, yet he could speak? Disoriented, for a moment trapped between sleep and waking, the rumble came again.
“’Tis but a nightmare, Halfling. Open your eyes.”
Open his eyes he did, and they were ravaged with emotion and confusion. How had he come to be sitting, to be surrounded by warmth? How did the rocks suddenly feel so like –
“Th-Thorin?”
“Yes, that’s right. You are safe here, as am I.”
Inhaling sharply, he sat up straight, blinking hard to be sure he saw clearly. Thorin was alive! Still bruised, he noted, still scarred. But those jewel-bright eyes of depthless sapphire were still alight, still living. His great heart still beat, beat, beat beneath his hand.
Gracious, he was clutching at the king’s shirt! Hastily he removed his hands, nervously brushed them over his own tattered clothes. He blushed riotously. He was curled up like a babe against the Dwarf’s magnificent chest, and he could see where he’d wept all over his nice shirt and the bandages beneath, and, and – and he was being held with utmost tenderness, with utmost care. That gave him pause.
Thorin, waiting with bated breath for Bilbo to speak, felt a twinge of regret as he pulled away to dust at his clothes, looking mortified. Did Hobbits find it offensive to comfort a friend during a nightmare? But he was sure, utterly sure that Bilbo had been dreaming of him and the night before, of his brush with death. He was sure of it. Why now did he retreat?
“Your dreams, they trouble you,” he said, unable to stand the silence a moment longer. He frowned, wishing the Hobbit would meet his eyes, for they’d slid away as soon as he’d removed his hands from his shirtfront. “Bilbo.”
The Halfling froze, but at least it got those gorgeous brown eyes, so sad and lost and flustered, back on his own. He felt the strength of the gaze shoot right to his center, as true as one of Kíli’s arrows. “Tell me of it. Of your dream.”
“You – you were – ” Bilbo could not meet the hardness of Thorin’s eyes, the glint in them. He looked away again. “You were as I thought you last night,” he whispered, staring fixedly at Thorin’s shoulder. “Broken, bleeding, d-dead. I couldn’t bear it. I tried to help, to save you, for nothing. You were dead in my arms.” He began to tremble again, fighting to restrain the single tear crawling down his cheek, his voice cracking. “Gone, f-forever.”
Relief swept over Thorin in a powerful wave. Letting loose the breath he held, he gathered Bilbo again to his chest, fighting back his own tears. He cared. He cared more deeply than Thorin had ever dared hope for. On impulse, on the need to comfort, to reassure, he cupped his Hobbit’s face in his hands, and set his lips to Bilbo’s at last.
It was a punch to the gut, to the senses. The softness and purity, the salt of tears whipped a maelstrom of emotion in the Dwarven king. He pulled back, locked his now gentle eyes on Bilbo’s stunned ones.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’m not gone, nor will I ever be from your side again, when you tremble in the night. Not gone,” he repeated, tracing a thumb over Bilbo’s lower lip, “Here, with you. Forever.”
Bilbo, scarcely breathing, thought his heart may burst from his chest like flowers after a spring rain. Thorin had kissed him. Thorin had kissed him! And held him tight, sent his mind wheeling and his blood thrumming. He blinked rapidly, lips parted, feeling strangely lightheaded. His thoughts were for the most part thoroughly muddled, but there was one thing that was crystal clear: He desperately wanted Thorin to kiss him again. He threaded his fingers through the Dwarf’s thick braids, the color of freshly turned earth, almost beyond words. His very soul felt refreshed, rejuvenated, alive as it had never been.
“Forever,” he repeated, and tugged on Thorin’s braids to bring his lips back. They came crashing down, sending a spear-tipped sweetness singing in his blood.
There was nothing, nothing now but Thorin, his strong arms holding him fast, the tantalizing scratch of his beard, his mouth so hot and avid upon his own. His heartbeat roaring in his head as their pace quickened. More, more, there needed to be more!
Thorin’s breath was ragged, edged with desire as he sought the pulse in Bilbo’s neck, felt a fierce satisfaction at the moan he wrought there with teeth and tongue. Felt himself shudder as neatly trimmed nails scored his back, seeking purchase. His, his, his. Bilbo, his Hobbit, little burglar, was his at last. And he would mark him, so all would know it. No other would touch him like this.
Abruptly, Thorin stood and strode quickly away from the camp, thrilled when Bilbo wrapped his legs around his waist as they rose.
“Wh-where are we going?” The choppy breath, the flushed cheeks assured him that his lover was as stirred as he. It was a heady balm to a soul that had so long been lonely.
“Not far,” he reassured, “I do not wish to rouse the others, as I don’t trust either of us to stay so quiet.”
Bilbo, already dizzy with the power of their embrace, felt his head swim again as Thorin quickly, deftly shifted him so he could lay his cloak on ground covered with leaves and pine needles. Lowered him, unsnapped his suspenders, tugged his pants right off his legs. And took the length of him into his impossibly hot mouth, tongue swirling and laving, sucking and licking at the sensitive head.
Stifling a cry, Bilbo arched up, thrusting wantonly. Shoving the knuckles of one hand into his mouth and grabbing at the fabric with the other, he held on as best he could for the ride, swept away on a tide of sensation. Some dim part at the back of his brain registered that Thorin was clearly an expert at this particular game. He withdrew a moment to suckle at two of his long fingers, keeping a firm hand on Bilbo’s stomach as he protested unintelligibly. Then all coherent thoughts fled altogether as Thorin lowered his head once more, licking wickedly up his arousal, and sliding his forefinger into Bilbo’s body.
He sucked in a startled breath, hands moving to fist in Thorin’s hair. A fire had already been sparking low in his belly; it grew now to an inferno that shot white-hot heat down every nerve. A loud, long moan spilled into the night, and he was amazed to realize it had slipped from his own throat. And it only built until he was sure he would shatter into a thousand pieces.
“Thorin, Thorin!” And he was spent, feeling himself pour down the strong muscles of the king’s throat as he was milked for every drop. Shuddering, convulsing, he went limp on the cloak, now damp with sweat.
Thorin raised his head, and smiled. The smile he’d aimed at the Halfling when they’d embraced on the Carrock was back now in full, and Bilbo had never seen anything more beautiful. His Thorin, looking at him like he was the greatest treasure. And he could feel the embers left from his climax beginning to flare once more.
Thorin, reading him well, pulled him to sitting, loving how Bilbo now seemed to glow from within. He pulled him onto his lap, settling his legs to sit outside his own.
“Undo my trousers.” Bilbo’s eyes widened, and he could not suppress a chuckle. “It’s not so hard, Halfling.”
“Unlike what’s beneath it,” Bilbo retorted without thinking. Being in Thorin’s arms had very much emboldened him. Though his fingers shook with excitement, with anticipation, he quickly undid the strings, and felt his eyes go even wider when Thorin sprang free. Curious, he reached out his hands and simply explored.
Thorin let out an unsteady breath, leaned his head back, fingers digging into Bilbo’s shoulders, egging him on. His gentle, experimental touches, so soft against his heated flesh, were endearing and so, so arousing. He touched and stroked, squeezed up and down, again and again when he’d gained confidence. And Thorin knew he would not last long under such an assault.
He took Bilbo’s wrists for the second time that night, held them in one of his hands as his other pressed at the small of Bilbo’s back. Kissed his Halfling long, deep, greedy. He needed to be joined, mated with Bilbo, and he needed it now.
Scrambling, he pulled a small vial of oil from the pocket of his trousers, hastily poured a measure of it into his hand, began to work himself with it. He wanted only pleasure for Bilbo, this first time, no pain. And when he guided the Hobbit down onto him, thought he might perish from the tide of pleasure that swept over him. Burying his face in the crook of Bilbo’s neck, he began to move. Rocking his hips oh so gently, allowing the tightness to ease and stretch.
Bilbo could scarcely breathe. The intrusion into his body was new, foreign, and more consuming than he could have ever imagined. If a single digit of Thorin’s had undone him so completely, it was nothing next to having him seated so impossibly deep within his body. And as he grew accustomed to the considerable size of the Dwarf, he began to match the movement of his hips to the timing of the other’s thrusts. The sensation of Thorin sliding in and out, so smoothly and slowly, had him already well on his way to a second climax, faster than he would have thought possible.
It was when the snap of Thorin’s hips had quickened, deepened so that with each thrust he grazed a small spot buried inside of him, that he thought he saw stars on the edge of vision. His head fell back on a wild cry, unable to contain himself. He tugged harshly at Thorin’s hair as the pleasure blinded him, pressed maddened kisses against his collarbone and bit none too lightly at the salty skin there. He felt a growl from his lover rip through his chest as the speed of his thrusts became frantic.
“That’s it, Halfling,” he panted. “Ride me, let me take you over. From tonight, you are mine.” And he ended his words on a rough, low groan, holding on for dear life.
“My king…my love…Thorin!” Surely it could not be so much, this tightness inside him, so hard and immense. Moments later they came together, spiraling into ecstasy, thick strands of fluid spattering on Thorin’s shirt, sliding hotly down Bilbo’s thighs.
It seemed hours later that Thorin lay them down together, his arm snug about Bilbo’s slender hips. To think he’d been so lost all this time, and that he should find peace, find his other half, in the arms of a Hobbit.
A muffled murmur into his chest brought him back to the small, wonderful body beside his. He tipped Bilbo’s chin up gently.
“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you properly.”
Bilbo smiled then, and Thorin felt a tug as the radiance of it hit him – he’d never seen the Hobbit smile like that before. “I love you,” he repeated. “I love you, Thorin Oakenshield, my King Under the Mountain.”
Thorin felt his heart rise, felt it soar on the wings of pure joy. “And I you, Bilbo Baggins, the burglar who stole my heart away.”
And there they lay, till break of day.