Work Text:
Laketown is a welcome reprieve for the bedraggled company and the offer of a fancy house was well received, to rest their weary bones and dry out the damp that had soaked them to the core.
The house is huge, but fits the company just nicely, with rooms enough for them all to remove themselves from each others pockets. Bilbo, suffering greatly with his impending cold, chooses the first bedroom he comes across, sheds his stained clothes and burrows under the bed sheets without a care for the fact he’s getting snot all over the coverlet.
He wakes the next morning with his whole head throbbing unmercifully under the pressure of a cold. He raises himself from the bed regardless of the pounding inside his forehead when he moves, and though his appetite is diminished by his sickness the muffled scent of cooking bacon is stealing underneath his door and a hobbit is always a martyr for bacon.
The majority of the company is in the dining room when he staggers downstairs and follows the smell of bacon. No one looks particularly the worse for wear, although Fili still looks a bit pale and keeps shooting baleful looks at the bowlful of apples in the centre of the table.
“Burglar!” says Dwalin, pushing the chair beside him out from under the table so the hobbit could sit. “Glad to see you joining the land of the living.”
Bilbo snuffles a bit, miserable and wishing he had his nice handkerchiefs from home with him, instead of the rough scraps of cloth he’s had to repurpose and which have already rubbed his nose raw.
“Eggs and bacon for breakfast,” says Bofur, leaning his head into the room and grinning when he spots the hobbit. “Well, sleeping beauty has finally shown up.”
“There better be plenty of bacon for me,” says Bilbo, stuffily, “Though I’m not going to taste a bite of it.”
Bombur is the one toiling in the kitchens, accompanied by his brother to stir pots and dole things onto plates, and he appears looking red and flushed with the heat in another few minutes, heavy trays balanced in both hands.
The food is good, though true to his own predictions, Bilbo can barely taste anything and he can’t eat as much as he would like. Nevertheless breakfast sits well on his stomach and he eases back into his chair afterwards with a sigh of satisfaction.
“You put that away in a hurry, Mr Baggins!” says Kili, whose spirit has been least disturbed by the spiders, the elves and the river. He’s even eating an apple, much to his elder brother’s disgust.
“Rationing doesn’t suit a hobbit.” Bilbo says, plucking at the shreds of his waistcoat, tattered with wear and now far too loose. He’ll have to ask for replacement to be made in the town, though he fears he’s going to end up wearing children’s clothes. All these Big Folk! Completely the wrong size! At least dwarves are more on a hobbit’s scale.
“What does suit a hobbit exactly? Except for burrows and gardens, of course.” Kili crunches another mouthful of apple, and Fili pales a shade further.
“Burrows!” Bilbo exclaims, horrified. “Just for that I should have left you in your barrel!”
“Oh, please, not the barrels,” moans Fili, “Let’s talk about anything but barrels. Kili, you are banned from speaking ever again.”
“Aye, perhaps we should talk about something else,” says Balin, wisely. “Thorin, what are your plans for the day?”
Thorin is at the head of the table, and now smokes a pipe silently, cast in deep shadow. He puffs deeply and blows a smoke ring before answering. “I shall be talking to the Master again about provisions for the forward journey. I don’t see him changing his tune – he’s a scared man, and the elves have too much influence here.”
The dwarves make noises of unhappy agreement, while Bilbo snuffles quietly into his hanky.
“I shall come with you,” decides Balin. Thorin tweaks an eyebrow upwards and rolls his eyes slightly, but says nothing else. The pair of them leave soon after, with barely a word to the others – though Thorin does happen to pat Bilbo’s head briefly in passing by his chair.
The rest of the Company settle down in the downstairs living room to while away the day – some head out briefly to visit the market and collect bits and pieces to make their stay more comfortable, in direct counterpoint to Thorin’s attempts to hurry on the next stage of their journey.
Bilbo takes a seat near Bofur and Bombur, watching muzzily as they carve themselves new pipes out of fresh pieces of wood. His cold feels like it is at full force, and he finds himself sneezing every few minutes, trying to muffle the noise in his abrasive hanky in case he startles the dwarves and ruins their delicate work.
“You are thoroughly dosed,” says Bofur, after a particularly long series of sneezes that Fili and Kili had cheekily counted through. “Sit there and I’ll get you a cup of tea and honey, eh?”
Bofur brings back a cup of tea, so strong it’s staining the ceramic brown and so thick with honey it’s more syrup than liquid. It’s well received though, and Bilbo finds it briefly eases the effects of his cold, so he can sit and think in peace for a while.
“Laddie, you’re all right aren’t you?” Bofur leans forward suddenly, forgetting his carving for a moment and disturbing Bilbo’s train of thought. “I know we’re hanging about in Laketown, but there’s no point worrying. You’ll upset the ladies.” He shrugs a shoulder at Fili and Kili, who make rude gestures without looking up, and then claps a hand to the hobbit’s shoulder. “It’ll all be grand in the end.”
Bilbo looks at Bofur in bemused horror and then realises moments too late that his eyes are streaming under the influence of his blasted cold.
“I am not crying! I’m not worri- well I am worried about the bloody dragon, but I am not crying about it!” he exclaims, swiping his face dry as best he can. “It’s just a cold!”
“Never seen a cold make someone weep before,” says Dwalin. Bilbo turns to glare at him and thinks of risking his toes kicking the warrior on the shin; though the effect is rather ruined by his bleary eyes, already watering once more.
“That’s because dwarves are apparently carved out of stone,” the hobbit grumbles, wrinkling his nose as a sneeze starts to build. His eyes water even more, until tears are dripping from his chin, and the sneeze strikes explosively. The resulting convulsion causes his hands to jerk and his cup of tea is catapulted directly into his own face.
“Oh for…” Bilbo brushes lukewarm tea off his face disgustedly as around him the dwarves fall into positive paroxysms of laughter – even Bifur and glum Dori have joined in. After only a few more moments of cold induced misery, Bilbo finds himself laughing as well.
“I’ll get you another cuppa,” says Bofur, finally plucking himself off the sideboard, onto which he had near collapsed in hysterical laughter. “Maybe I’ll find you a wee doily to replace your grotty hanky there.”
“Oh just fetch the tea,” says Bilbo, as good-naturedly as a hobbit can while wearing his drink.
The replacement cup is as strong as the first had been, and the rising steam helps ease the pain in his sinuses. Bilbo manages not to throw it anywhere about his person and by the middle of the cup feels well enough to banter back with his company of dwarves. He is Bilbo Baggins of The Shire, Burglar for the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, Clue-finder, Web-cutter, Stinging Fly, Ringwinner, Luckwearer and Barrel-rider, and he can certainly outmanoeuvre a bunch of dwarves, some of whom already have their cups filled with ale.
But by the time the last of the tea is drained away, the throbbing ache has returned and Bilbo excuses himself to return to bed.
After a few hours of disturbed sleep – drifting in and out of fevered dreams of spiders and barrels and the malevolent whispering voice of Gollum deep in his caves -, waking occasionally as dwarves clattered and roared down below, Bilbo is startled awake by a noise much closer to his bed.
He blinks his blurry eyes open – thankfully the tearfulness has eased with sleep – and finds Thorin Oakenshield leaning down over him, braids nearly brushing Bilbo’s sore nose. He reaches a big hand down to scrub at the hobbit’s hair and Bilbo reluctantly submits to the affectionate gesture – Thorin’s affection has waxed and waned throughout the madness of the trip through Mirkwood and now the hobbit is too exhausted to cope with it much longer. However, today the dwarf prince seems to be in a fine mood and has apparently entirely forgiven his burglar for wedging him into a barrel.
“You smell like tea,” says Thorin, sounding faintly amused. “Have you not bathed it away? And you didn’t come down for dinner. You must be unwell.”
Bilbo doesn’t deign to answer that, but turns his head into the dwarf’s calloused palm. His rough skin feels furnace hot, but Bilbo finds it eases the tension across his brow.
“Give me a moment, hobbit, and I may join you in your little nest.”
Bilbo closes his eyes again, tucking his handkerchief under his nose to snuffle miserably for a moment or two, as the room clatters with the noise of a dwarf undressing. In a normal mood, the hobbit definitely would have rolled over and had a peek at what was happening, possibly even ventured forward his nimble fingers to help, but today he stays tucked in.
A chilly breeze nips in under his blankets when Thorin lies down on the other side of the bed and shuffles down to rest his shaggy head on the pillows. There’s a certain amount of wriggling and rolling over before Thorin throws a big arm over Bilbo’s waist and nuzzles into his hair. The dwarf’s form is bulky, broad and solid despite the hard travelling and lack of food, and fits nicely against Bilbo’s back. His nipple rings brush tantalisingly against the hobbit’s back, solid points of contact through the flimsy layers of nightshirts. It’s a wretched pity they can’t take advantage of this night in an actual bed together, but Bilbo falls asleep again too fast to fuss over the disappointment too much.
The next day his cold has almost cleared and Bilbo is second down to the breakfast table, leaving Thorin to continue snoring into his pillow. The only person down earlier is Bombur, and he welcomes the hobbit into the kitchen as a helper, so the meal is on the table before all the company are down.
“I feel almost chipper again,” says Bilbo, when everyone is gathered around, helping himself to another kipper. Thorin eyes his heaped plate with the baffled eye of a dwarf who has severely underestimated how much a hobbit could eat while feeling healthy, but wisely says nothing.
Bofur pauses in the middle of chewing through most of a loaf’s worth of toast. “Me and the lads are planning to go into the market today and pick up odds and ends. Fancy joining us?”
After peering down at his outfit – still battered and torn and absolutely filthy - Bilbo agrees hurriedly. Though he still has to keep a handkerchief to hand in case of emergency sneezes, he is feeling more clear headed than he has done for some time and does not want another day sitting in the house.
Laketown market is plush with fabrics and fruit and semi-precious stones and things expertly carved of wood; things they’ve evidently traded with the elves for, the odd bits and pieces dwarven made from the Northern Dwarf colonies in the Iron Hills. There are even exotic designs and strange pieces of silky lace from the countries to the far East, and when Bilbo asks where they’ve come from exactly the shopkeepers name places he’s never seen on any map in the Shire.
In the end he chooses the tailor who smirks the least at the sight of them all – Bilbo in his tattered clothes and half the height of all but the blasted children, Bofur still with his hat, Fili overly cocksure until he comes across stalls piled high with apples, Ori fawning over the paper goods and quill pens and Kili just being Kili. The dwarves insist he get a thicker fabric than he would normally choose, for when they finally travel onto the Lonely Mountain, and hang around the shop to offer helpful advice, so the resulting outfit is distinctly dwarvish.
“I should say you did this on purpose,” says Bilbo, not displeased as he considers himself in the warped mirror the tailor offers. The jacket is thick and lined with nondescript fur, the trousers go further down his shins than he would normally wear them and are held up with a hefty leather belt instead of his braces.
“We just thought you should get yourself a wee bit red up. No more of this country gentleman business,” says Bofur, who has handed over a few layers to be re-stitched by an assistant. “Obviously you’d really need a bit of a beard to pass as a dwarf.”
“I’ve never even seen you shave, you know,” Kili says, studying the tailor’s book of designs with an absent eye. “No beard, no piercings. How do people know when you’re grown up?”
The tailor’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline at the mention of the piercings, and Bilbo and Bofur are both quick to change the subject to haggling for the purchases.
Back at the house, everyone is very complimentary about Bilbo’s new clothes, and come tea time he barely remembers he’s wearing furs instead of tweed and only recalls when he catches sight of himself in the tea kettle.
Thorin has spent the day acquiring goods for the journey onwards, a tricky task when the company had little money on them and far less they could afford to barter away. Gloin and Balin had gone with him – Balin for his cool temper and Gloin because he was one of the few dwarves in the company with money and was known even to the men of Laketown to be good with his debts. As a result, their trip had gone well enough and one of the house’s storerooms is filling up fast with provisions. The dwarf prince himself is in a good mood, and is joking with Dwalin and Fili in rumbled Khuzdul when Bilbo pops out of the kitchen and tells them dinner is nearly done. Thorin’s eyes settle quickly on the hobbit, and one of his eyebrows tweaks upwards momentarily, mouth curling into a wicked smile. Bilbo abruptly forgets what else he was meaning to say and wheels back into the kitchen without another word. Evidently his new outfit had made an impression.
Through dinner, Thorin keeps his smoky gaze firmly fixed on Bilbo, who sits up straight and pretends that he’s not being stripped to his undergarments by sight. Around them the other dwarves laugh and eat their dinner in typical overenthusiastic dwarf fashion, complete with plate juggling at the end and a song to round the meal off. After, Nori produces a cask of strong ale which he has ‘acquired’ from somewhere – Thorin rolls his eyes extravagantly at the story, and Bilbo has to hide his laughter in his sleeve – and they set to emptying the cask with a certain amount of glee. Thorin only has one mug before he stands and rounds the table to stand directly behind Bilbo.
“Don’t you look handsome, all dressed up in furs?” Thorin leans over Bilbo’s shoulder and whispers in such a low, toe-curling tone that the hobbit barely hears anything of what he says. “I shall be speaking with the Master again tonight, but I am certainly returning to your bed. Don’t over-enjoy yourself down here.”
His hand lingers on the nape of the hobbit’s neck as he calls Dwalin, Balin and Gloin to join him, and Bilbo can barely breathe until the front door slams shut.
Despite Thorin’s words, or perhaps because of them, Bilbo drinks a little too much that night and falls asleep long before the dwarf returns to his bed.
He wakes in the deep of the night to the clanking, clacking noise of a dwarf stripping off their armour, and looks about muzzily for his dwarf prince. Thorin is on the other side of the room, eyes fixed on the view through the shutters Bilbo hadn’t quite managed to close before falling into his bed. He was without his tunic and his undershirt, his belt hanging open and loose on his hips, and Bilbo squirmed onto his back so he could see better. Thorin maintained his stare out of the window for another moment as he pulled the belt from its loops, before he sighed and turned to the bed.
“Well met, my hobbit.” He sits on the edge of the bed and leans down until his lips brush Bilbo’s softly, his thick formal braids falling off his shoulder to curtain them off from the rest of the room. They kiss sweetly and slowly for a long while, Bilbo curling his hands into Thorin’s thick mane and pulling him closer. He feels mildly foggy with drink but nevertheless contented that Thorin has returned to him. They have a bed at their disposal now, a plush mattress and a whole night to spend together, and Bilbo tries to tug Thorin closer still, pulling a little harshly at his braids in his enthusiasm.
“Easy now, darling hobbit,” rumbles Thorin, but he moves obediently, throwing the blankets off Bilbo and settling down so his hips are framed by the spread of the hobbit’s legs. His strong belly rests comfortably against the hobbit’s cock, already half-hard despite the alcohol and his sleep, and Bilbo gives a strangled groan as his hips buck into the pressure. “I shall please you soon enough.”
Oh, and Bilbo didn’t doubt that at all. Thorin loomed over him, his eyes dark and smoky with lust and his mouth reddened with the hobbit’s prior attention. His arms were tense with the effort of propping himself just above Bilbo’s chest, and the skin rose in goose bumps when the hobbit ran his hands over the muscles thoughtfully.
“You enjoy running your hands over me.” Thorin smiles that smile again, the one that immediately brings a blush to Bilbo’s face whenever he sees it, all bright and full of wicked promise. “Please, do not cease on my account.”
Bilbo has always been prone to saying embarrassing things while tipsy, and this time is no different. “You have a body worth a quest or two,” he says, and goes bright crimson to the very tips of his ears.
“And you still have your golden tongue,” says Thorin, sounding well-pleased. He kisses the hobbit, pressing his tongue forward to lap tantalisingly against Bilbo’s kiss swollen lips, and then kneels back to help Bilbo out of his nightshirt. Almost immediately as the skin is bared, the dwarf is back down and on it; his tongue and lips and teeth mapping out the inches of Bilbo’s chest, teasing his nipples and brushing his stubble against soft skin. Before long he had Bilbo wriggling and shifting in desperation, trying to push his hips upwards harder against the dwarf’s hard belly. Thorin chuckles even as he nips at the bump of Bilbo’s hipbone and kneels up again. His hands fall to Bilbo’s hips, thumbs tucking into the top of his smallclothes, but Bilbo sits up – he has decided to take advantage of his freedom to continue with his exploration of the dwarf’s body.
Broad shoulders push up against his hands and a bearded cheek scratches against his own as he ducks from a kiss and noses to the rough stubble of Thorin’s throat, where he smells warm and rich, like good earth. His hands pet downwards, reaching the dwarf’s powerful chest and brushing across the thick chest hair to reach the metal nipple rings. Though that day at the riverside now felt like an age back, Bilbo can still remember the way he had pulled and twisted on them to make Thorin’s hips buck and his belly tighten. What he had liked most was the touch of the hobbit’s mouth on the piercings, so nimble hands move down the tight packed muscle of his belly and slip through the opened laces of his trousers while Bilbo leans forward and clacks the metal against his teeth. His hands find the thick line of Thorin’s prick as he switches to the other nipple, tugging lightly on the hoop and fighting his own groan when Thorin curses lowly in pleasure.
“Mahal,” he rumbles, hands tightening around the hobbit’s waist. “Come up here,” he grumbles when Bilbo’s hand rubs the length of him in his smallclothes, “Or we shall reach the end of this before the main event.”
Bilbo allows himself to be coaxed away, craning his head up for more kisses as the dwarf prince makes short work of removing his smallclothes.
“Oh, but now I’m naked and you have even more an advantage!” exclaims Bilbo, nimble fingers already on the waist of Thorin’s trousers and pulling. With a bark of laughter, Thorin helps the hobbit strip him down, until they’re both sprawling on the rucked up blankets and entirely naked. Bilbo lets himself be pulled onto Thorin’s lap, and smiles as his arse grinds nicely down against the dwarf’s thick cock. With a low grunt, his face twisting momentarily in pleasure, the dwarf prince reaches out and, from the pocket of his abandoned trousers, produces a small glass jar.
“Dwarves,” says Bilbo fondly, taking the jar and opening it. Inside oil sloshed lazily, smelling faintly of flowers. “Always practical.”
Nosing soft kisses along the hobbit’s throat, Thorin murmurs, “I will have to stretch you well and carefully. We are not entirely of the same scale, and I would dread hurting you.”
“I shall cope,” says Bilbo, pressing the jar back into Thorin’s hands and leaning forward, “Come now, don’t you remember your promise back in that cave? Of what you would do to me if you had oil? You have it now, and I am eager for it.” He grinds down again pointedly, his own hands coming up to rest just below the heavy steel loops through the dwarf’s nipples, and smiles when Thorin growls and pushes him down to the bed.
Thorin, despite Bilbo’s seduction, goes slowly; he slicks his fingers and takes hold of Bilbo’s eager prick first, giving him a few strokes that make him gasp and choke out the dwarf’s name. When he finally slips his hand down and the first finger pushes in steadily, Bilbo is nigh on pleading for his touch. He lies back in the sheets and fists the blankets tightly to hold onto his control as Thorin mouths and nibbles at his inner thighs in time with the slow thrust of that one finger. In the past, Bilbo has had many of his own fingers inside, has welcomed the touch of the farm lads he’d lure away from their work in his youth, but hobbit fingers are nothing like the thickness of dwarf fingers. Thorin is careful and slow, sliding the second finger in alongside the first but already Bilbo is in absolute delight, just so nicely filled by this alone and with much more to come. If he craned his neck up, he could see the thickness of Thorin’s prick hanging between his strong thighs, the barbell through the rosy tip glimmering in the low light of the room.
Words are near impossible to form, but Bilbo gives it his best shot and moans a garbled plea for Thorin to take him, please. The dwarf looms up over him, fingers still deeply buried and kisses his appeals from his lips, urging him to be patient and crooking his fingers to rub against that delightful spot of pleasure that never fails to make Bilbo’s hips twitch. His cock is achingly hard, rosy pink and bobbing against his heaving belly with every pulse of his hammering heart, but he dare not touch it in case he spills then and there. Even the introduction of a third finger and a brief spike of pain is not enough to soothe the ache, and by the time Thorin withdraws his fingers and slicks his own prick up, Bilbo feels incoherent with need.
He lets Thorin arrange him as he wants, on his knees and elbows with his arse embarrassingly high in the air. Distantly he hears the dwarf speak, but before he can even begin to translate it, there comes the blunt pressure of the head of his cock and Thorin is pushing into him with slow drags of his hips. Bilbo muffles his cry in the blankets and Thorin’s movements still, only his hands stroking the hobbit’s shaking hips and soothing the tense curve of his spine.
“I have you now, darling hobbit,” Thorin murmurs, petting down Bilbo’s back again. “Relax now.”
Bilbo has to hiss out a few more breaths, but the tension sinks out of his muscles gradually and he is the one to push back, silently asking for more. Now, the slow drag of slick skin is easy, and Thorin’s cock is buried deep inside him, thick and weighty in all the right places. The piercing through the head is almost shockingly cool at the start, a firm counterpoint to the heat of the dwarf’s cock that rubs against him so sweetly he thinks he might sob with it. As it is, as Thorin’s hips meet his arse Bilbo is already groaning quietly, filled to the brim and very content with it. Only the slow slide back and grind forward again is an improvement, and he pushes eagerly into the touch as the dwarf takes hold of his hips to more thoroughly control the pace.
Once more Thorin is taking him slowly, and Bilbo has to take himself in hand, stroking his prick to the same rhythm as Thorin fucking him. His thighs quiver with the sheer force of his pleasure, his belly tightening briefly as his peak comes upon him, never quite reaching it. He wants more – more pressure, more force, more friction – but he doesn’t know if he could quite cope with that yet. Even more than that, he wants to see Thorin spill again, see his jaw lock and his strong brow crumple with the pleasure.
The thing that does him in in the end is one of the prince’s big hands, calloused and hot like a furnace, sliding down the centre of his spine and catching hold of a few of the curls at the nape of his neck, a rumbling voice speaking in gasped Khuzdul, and Bilbo spills over his own hand with a gasp of Thorin’s name. His whole body lights up with it, and he finds he can barely breathe until the last few drops are brought from him, with Thorin’s pace atop of him not changing.
He tries to get his tongue back under control, so he can ask for Thorin to spill, to find his own pleasure inside him, when he’s left abruptly empty and rolled onto his back by rough hands. In the murky twilight of their room, Bilbo is left gawping as Thorin straddles his thighs, hand working furiously at his cock. The glimmer of the piercing and the slickness of the head disappear in and out of his grip, his smoky blue eyes are fixed fiercely on Bilbo’s face and when he spills, he throws his head back and curses. The hot slick creates a mess across the hobbit’s stomach, thick trails tickling at his flanks as his panting displaces it, and Thorin buckles forward, catching himself on his elbows before his full weight crushes his partner. Heat is coming off his skin in waves, and Bilbo sprawls beneath him comfortably and tries to get his breathe back.
“Certainly going to be the death of me,” growls Thorin, long before Bilbo thinks he should have regained his tongue. “And I have no quarrel with that at all.” He leans down to exchange a slow kiss and then flops sideways onto the rucked mess of blankets with a satisfied groan. Bilbo thinks he should manage some quip in return, but the effort has told on his strength and he can only look down at the mess of himself and wrinkle his nose.
“I am not going to bed so filthy as this,” the hobbit sighs, casting a bleary look about to see if there was anything to clean himself off with. Thorin gives an exasperated grumble and pushes himself up from the rumpled blankets; a handkerchief on the bedside table is the closest thing to hand, and Bilbo shudders with overstimulation as the dwarf wipes the sticky mess from them both and then lies back down again.
“Sleep now,” says Thorin, voice low and hoarse. He draws the blankets up over them both, throws his heavy arm over Bilbo’s chest and presses one last kiss to the tip of the hobbit’s pointed ear. Bilbo is bound to obey, and only just manages to tuck himself up against the dwarf prince’s chest before his eyes shutter closed.
Come the next day, Bilbo is very sticky and mildly sore in ways he hasn’t been for a long time. None of this is a problem though, and over the next few days he enjoys yet more interludes taken with the his dwarf prince. However, despite the nights spent in bed with his hobbit, Thorin descends into a bad mood. He is keen to move on and restart their quest, especially as they are within sight of the Lonely Mountain, but the rest of the company are enjoying the comfortable surroundings and the unexpected luxury. Not only this, but the leaders of Laketown are not keen to support the journey – they have lived in relative peace and they do not want the dragon disturbed. With more than a few days to spare before Durin’s Day, the company are intent on staying for a short while longer and Thorin does not take to this idea happily.
There is only so much of Thorin’s bad moods one hobbit can take without having to bite something; so around noon of the third day since their first bedding, Bilbo takes a break and the kind lease of Balin’s pipe to go sit in another room and soothe his own temper. The other dwarves stomp around, apparently at a loss with both Bilbo and Thorin in bad moods, and only Dwalin is brave enough to breach the smoky glumness Bilbo surrounds himself with.
“He’s such an awful sod, sometimes,” snaps Bilbo, before Dwalin can even speak. Instead of answer immediately, the warrior sinks down into a chair and pulls out his own pipe and tobacco.
“Aye, well he’s a bit of a pain in the arse,” says Dwalin, topping up his pipe and smacking his lips thoughtfully on the stem. “But that’s what happens when you’re royalty.”
Bilbo grumbled and blew out a smoke ring. “I hate to think of him moping about though. Despite him being an awful sod.”
“Terribly kind of you to oversee that major flaw.” Dwalin leans forward and touches Bilbo’s knee – his hand is big enough to almost completely wrap around the hobbit’s lower leg, and even without his knuckledusters on his great paws are a threatening sight. But Bilbo rather feels comforted by the touch, strange as it is. “You should lure him downstairs to the baths. That’ll distract him well.”
Failing completely to suppress his blush, Bilbo sits up straighter in his chair and grumbles something about not knowing what is meant by that remark. Dwalin removes his hand and chucks Bilbo on the shoulder instead, clearly holding back his strength but still with enough force to nearly topple Bilbo from his seat.
“Aye, of course you don’t.” Dwalin chuckles and puffs on his pipe a few times. “It’s just that if ye were so inclined, the best way to be shutting Thorin up would be to take him down to the baths and have a quick tumble.”
“Well, we’ll see,” says Bilbo, pretending not to mean it even as the cogs in his head started to turn.
Initially Thorin is resistant to any of Bilbo’s advances, but the hobbit is nothing but determined. He reminds Thorin pointedly of the fun they’d had bathing that hot, sweaty day after they’d passed Beorn’s home, of the night they’d shared only hours before, and Thorin’s grim set expression begins to morph into a thoughtful leer gradually. When Dwalin pops his head around the doorframe to remind the dwarf prince the house baths contain a ‘sauna’, Thorin is thoroughly distracted from his woes.
Bilbo just hopes a ‘sauna’ isn’t some horrible dwarf training ground or something. He’s fine with a bit of a one on one wrestling match atop a bed, but anything more athletic would be a bit much.
A sauna turns out to be a sort of a small wooden room, filled with steam and so hot Bilbo fears he might faint. They have to strip before entering and bind towels about their waists. Bilbo has to pointedly look away from Thorin at all times lest he get too engrossed in the dwarf’s body – nearby he can hear the voices of Oin and Gloin pottering about in the baths proper, and he doesn’t want to cause some sort of awkward moment, even if the dwarves have already proven themselves to be thoroughly unconcerned with each other’s bodies. Inside the walls are lined with wooden seats, Dwalin occupying one already at the far end; Thorin chooses one near a pot of heated stones and a barrel of water and pats the bench beside him as Bilbo peers about the muggy air.
“You’d best come keep me company. I am here on your invitation after all.” He smiles slowly when Bilbo hops up onto the bench – wincing when his bottom comes into abrupt contact with the hard seat - , and tucks his arm around the hobbit’s waist to pull him closer.
“When have you known me to be less than an attentive host?” complains Bilbo, “When I fed you and your great galumphing company without any prior warning? Whatever Gandalf might say about that excluded!”
Thorin merely chuckles and leans back in his seat to enjoy the steam and the heat. Already his skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and all this serves to do is highlight the planes of his muscles, rising and falling slowly with his breath. His nipple rings catch the pale light of the one lamp in the sauna and Bilbo finds his gaze drawn helplessly downwards to his lap and looks about hurriedly for something else to distract himself with.
Dwalin is carefully trimming his beard at a mirror across the way and Bilbo wriggles about in Thorin’s grip, ostensibly to find a comfier position against the wooden seat but actually to sneak a closer look at the warrior dwarf as he pauses in his task to wipe condensation from his mirror.
Dwalin’s shoulders are broad and powerful. Bilbo eyes the flex and shift as the dwarf completes his finicky task, moving with more delicacy than he would have expected for such a wild and boisterous dwarf. It's rather impressive but nothing is more impressive than the great blocky tattoos that extend up the dwarfs forearms and across the backs of his shoulders and crowning the head of a great ram's head design that crosses his whole back. Bilbo cranes his neck to see better, to examine the intricate lines and curls in close detail, but then Thorin leans into him and says, “Something catch your eye dear hobbit?”
Bilbo splutters and gasps and tries to think up any excuse to cover why he might have been staring at one dwarf while practically perched on the lap of another, but Thorin shushes him with a soft kiss and a half smirk. His upper lip quirks just so, and Bilbo has to lean up and press a kiss to that expression in return.
Then the prince raises his shaggy head, hair straggling over his shoulders with the hot damp of the steam, and proves that he still retains his talent at hugely embarrassing the hobbit without having to try very hard.
"Dwalin," he says, almost absently tightening his grip on Bilbo's waist to hold him in place. "I believe our burglar is interested in your tattoos."
"Aye?" Dwalin sets down the neat set of scissors with which he had been evening his beard out and turns with an unreadable expression on his face. Bilbo squirms with embarrassment and does his best to kick Thorin on the shin in revenge. "Well he’s certainly already proven his interest in shiny things."
For a moment - and for reasons Bilbo doesn’t care to understand - he thinks of the ring, currently bundled amid the poor collection of belongings that had survived the journey so far. But then he shakes that thought away and glances down at the steel hoops through Thorin’s nipples and realises what Dwalin actually means.
He looks up again and he can’t help the convulsive swallow that overcomes his throat. The dwarf warrior is huge, so broad across the shoulders and with a wide waist and bulky thighs, hidden under the wrapped towel. Bilbo can still remember the first glance he had gotten of the dwarf’s prick as well, that day they had all plunged into the river, can still remember the shock at the size never mind the row of piercings decorating it. Maybe he’s got a bit of the dragon sickness, the gold lust, as well, only that his only seems to concern handsome dwarves with body jewellery.
“Are your tattoos another dwarf proving ritual?” he asks, his voice feeling strangely shrill all of a sudden.
“They are to some who become warriors,” says Dwalin, sounding smug as he does so.
“For those who have patience enough to be stabbed in the back thousands times with an ivory needle,” says Thorin, without any malice in his tone. Bilbo glances back at him and is mildly befuddled to discover the dwarf prince wearing a teasing expression, almost reminiscent of his nephews at the height of their mischiefs. “Loaded with an ink which makes your skin swell horrifically before it heals. Some dwarves have more stones than sense.”
Dwalin shrugged and grinned, “Hurts like a bugger, but the effect is damned good.”
“Oh yes, definitely,” says Bilbo’s mouth before Bilbo’s brain has any time to take control. Dwalin’s smile becomes even smugger, coiling up into a smirk, and his eyes glitter with a dangerous sort of light, while Thorin chuckles deeply, the vibrations sinking into Bilbo’s chest. “Um. I mean…”
“Myself and Dwalin,” says Thorin coaxingly, soft and sweet, and Bilbo squirms and thinks to himself how much he really doesn’t need to be convinced. “Would oft share a bed in our youth.”
“Oh?” quavers Bilbo, trying desperately not to look down to his side as Dwalin shuffles onto the seat beside him.
“Aye,” says Dwalin, the bulk of him slotting nicely against Bilbo’s side. “No point in bottling it all up. Might as well get a bit of a sweat on without injuring yourself.”
Thorin snorts but he says nothing. Bilbo sits captivated by the idea of these two dwarves, young and fierce caught up in a clinch and the thought causes a bright crimson blush to spread directly to the very tips of his pointed ears.
“If I were a gambling dwarf,” says Dwalin conversationally, dropping a huge arm over Bilbo’s shoulders, “I would bet you rather like that thought, master burglar.”
“Dwarves often share partners, even when married,” adds Thorin, as mildly as if he was giving a history lesson. “As long as both in a couple are of a same mind, there is no harm in getting pleasure with a third.”
Bilbo glances back at Thorin and then back to Dwalin, tracing the blue black lines on his shoulders for a few moments, while deep in thought. The bastard had been planning this earlier, when he had suggested the hobbit lure Thorin down to the baths. He had even tested the water with those touches, which Bilbo had blown off as innocent at the time; in retrospect, the dwarf’s hand had rested too comfortably on his knee, squeezed his lower thigh a little tightly. Bilbo had trotted right into what Dwalin wanted, and he isn’t sure that he minds at all.
“You can say no, mister hobbit,” adds Dwalin, plucking a steam bedraggled curl from Bilbo’s jaw. “I shan’t be offended. But if you want to play, then I’m a willing volunteer.”
“Should have though being in an army would have taught you never to volunteer,” says Bilbo absently. Thorin is still tucked up tightly beside him, his hand on Bilbo’s hip in a companionable fashion and not a flash of jealousy in his steely eyes. He appears more interested in his hobbit companion than the other dwarf, but his gaze occasionally roams interestedly past Bilbo’s pale skin and onto Dwalin’s bulky form.
“Ha!” Dwalin barks out a laugh, and Thorin rumbles out a chuckle. “Where’d a little hobbit learn so much about soldiers, then? Do hobbits even become soldiers?”
“Oh!” says Bilbo, “Let’s not talk about hobbits!” He bites his lip, makes his decision and then leans up to kiss Dwalin, just at the edge of his mouth.
“We shall talk about tattoos instead, then,” says Thorin, pleasure in his voice. “Come. We shall go back to our room.”
The bed which so comfortably held one dwarf and one hobbit also holds two dwarves and one hobbit, though by space constraints at a much more intimate distance. Bilbo perches between the dwarves – one warrior and one royalty – and tries not to think too hard about what he’s gotten himself into.
Bilbo glances from left to right and swallows sharply, his mouth already watering – goodness, Thorin had been right with that wanton creature comment – and considers the feast laid out for his perusal. Both dwarves have unlaced their breeches and pulled their small clothes down, bringing out their cocks to lie against their strong bellies. Thorin is absently stroking himself, fingers making that curious twisting gesture around the tip that clearly stirs the piercing about in pleasurable ways. Dwalin’s cock is already hard and resting between two diagonal tattoo lines inked onto his hipbones, evidently to draw all attention to the area. Bilbo doesn’t think any more attention really needs to be drawn – it still remains the biggest prick he has ever seen, and the row of piercings are an extra bonus. They are thick balls of steel protruding either side of the underside, a row of five of them, and Bilbo is completely at a loss with how he might deal with them.
“What would you like me to do?” he says, hoping his voice only sounds so shrill to his own ears. With such a sight in front of him, he really thinks that a little bit of coaching would be well received on his part.
“Whatever you would like,” Thorin says, giving his cock a long slow stroke. He must catch the expression on Bilbo’s face, for an amused look comes over his expression and he adds, “Why don’t you touch us first?” He leans even closer to Bilbo and adds, “You haven’t even had a chance to sit on Dwalin’s lap yet.”
“Aye, that’s definitely something to look forward to,” chuckles Dwalin, shifting closer on his side and one of his big hands sliding around to grope Bilbo’s arse. “Come here then, laddie.”
Straddling Dwalin’s lap was a tricky business, especially with his trousers already stretched tight over his own erection, but Bilbo manages it only with a small amount of discomfort. Dwalin’s hands rest on his hips and slide under his shirt to stroke thumbs across his stomach, and Bilbo considers the warrior dwarf he’s so intimately astride. Dwalin’s eyes are hooded and dark with lust, his mouth curved into a smirk as one of his hands wanders further under Bilbo’s shirt. He only removes his grip for a moment to take his own undershirt off, and then he’d back to fondling the hobbit happily. Bilbo thinks it’s only fair he get a turn, and sets his hands on the dwarf’s shoulders, running down thoughtfully. Though Thorin was broad and powerful in a way the hobbit had always admired, Dwalin is of a larger scale. His muscles are hard as granite, thick blocks covered in wiry hair, big shoulders tapering down to a strong belly and huge thighs. His cock grinds against Bilbo’s own, separated by the layers of Bilbo’s trousers and small clothes, feeling even more hot and huge pressed so tight against him. Bilbo has to force himself to bring his hands back up, to span the bulk of the warrior’s chest muscles and brush his palms to the nipple rings.
“Hmm, more of Thorin’s thing, burglar,” Dwalin’s voice rolls deep through the hobbit’s core, “Though touch all you want.”
His rings are thicker than Thorin’s, and of a darker metal. Bilbo twiddles one thoughtfully for a moment, but Dwalin is too busy now mouthing bites to his shoulder to show much reaction. A particularly sharp nip gets him right at the join of throat to shoulder, just above his collarbone, and he shudders and moans quietly, fingers scratching against solid muscle as he fought to have something to grip. His gaze falls on Thorin, sprawled on his elbow beside them and still stroking his cock slowly, and he reaches out, displaces the dwarf’s grip and wraps his fingers about his prick as well. His spare hand he trails down, shifting himself backwards slightly on Dwalin’s lap, and with it he takes hold of the other dwarf’s cock as well.
His hand barely fits about the dwarf’s girth but he takes a hold anyway and issues a tentative stroke. His fingers bump the barbells, knocking them in ways that make Dwalin grunt and rumble deep in his chest, his own big fingers tightening on the hobbit’s hip. With both hands fully occupied, Bilbo falls into a quick rhythm, squeezing and loosening his grip at intervals so neither of them will be overcome so soon. His fingers are slicked with the pearly fluid running from the tips, creating an even more satisfying slide, furnace hot skin velvety smooth under his grip. Though no one is touching him so closely, Bilbo feels a deep flush of pleasure having them both in his hands and is quite disappointed when Thorin slips out of his grasp and stands up.
The dwarf prince pads away, then returns to loom over Bilbo’s shoulder, standing in the spread of Dwalin’s legs and nosing in behind Bilbo’s ear, stubble scratching at the hobbit’s sensitive skin.
“I might suggest,” says Thorin, his breath hot against Bilbo’s cheek and his bulk pushing the hobbit forward tighter against Dwalin’s chest, “That you take one of us in your wicked mouth, and the other sets to work at your handsome arse. So that you don’t break your jaw trying to lap at both of us at the same time.”
Not trusting his voice, Bilbo nods – perhaps he looks overly frantic, because both the dwarves chuckle as they manhandle him into a new position. He’s stripped of his shirt, trousers and small clothes, dwarf hands taking lingering touches across his back and down his thighs, and then urged onto his hands and knees on the bed. Dwalin kneels up in front of him, so his thick cock bobs level with Bilbo’s panting mouth and Thorin vanishes from his line of sight, only the dip of the mattress and the click as the jar of oil was opened alerting Bilbo to where he was.
His mouth opens in a soft moan as the first finger sinks into him, so stretched open by their previous encounters there’s no burn at all, and he breathes in Dwalin’s scent, a heavy musk of leather and polish that was somehow imbued down to his skin. His tongue lapped out, slicking a hot trail against the tattoo leading to a powerful hip, and Dwalin chuckled lowly.
“Ach, I knew you’d be a tease.” He brushes the side of his thick cock against Bilbo’s cheek tantalisingly, one side of the row of piercings cold against his flushed skin. “You just enjoy yourself down there, laddie. I don’t mind.”
Thorin works quickly, slicking and stretching him easily, and then abruptly slowing the pace to take slow pleasure in pushing in. Bilbo gasps and groans and wriggles his hips back as an appeal for more, but all Thorin does is grab a hold of the hobbit’s hips to still him, his hands fitting to the spots that still ached with the pressure of Dwalin’s fingertips. He wants more already, to feel the grinding push of the cock piercing inside him, but Thorin is evidently enjoying withholding what he really wants from him.
Dwalin’s cock brushes his cheek again, and Bilbo turns his head to it, balancing awkwardly on one hand so he can use the other to manoeuvre his prize to his lips. He laps the tip, bitter salt blooming on his tongue, and bobs down. The first of the row of piercings drags against his tongue in an odd way, but it’s something to play with and tease and Dwalin clearly likes this attention much more than his nipples. Bilbo casts a look up on a particularly heart felt grown to meet Dwalin’s gaze, intense and hungry, and the dwarf bares his teeth in a savage smile and then reaches out for Thorin.
Letting the cock in his mouth drop for a moment, Bilbo has to crane his neck to see what’s happening above him. The warrior has one of Thorin’s thick braids in hand and has dragged him forward for a powerful kiss, all teeth and tongues and growling Khuzdul. Bilbo gapes up, his cock giving a aching throb at the sight, and pushes back into Thorin’s distracted hold to bury the rest of his prick inside him. The dwarf prince gives an almighty shudder at the sudden movement, and suddenly has Dwalin held by a firm grip on his chin so he is definitely in charge once more. They kiss like they’re fighting, and Bilbo cannot tell exactly who is winning. When they break apart their mouths are red and their beards are ruffled.
“You’re distracting the hobbit,” rumbles Thorin, his teeth snapping warningly when Dwalin feints in again.
“Distracting you more like,” chuckles Dwalin, dropping the braid and entangling a hand in Bilbo’s hair regardless. “The hobbit can take his own time.”
With a panted laugh, Bilbo returns to his original mission. The taste of salt is even thicker the next time he takes Dwalin into his mouth, though he doesn’t mind. Thorin fucks him with long hard strokes now, hands firm on his hips, while Bilbo rewards Dwalin for his distraction with a lapping tongue and stroking fingers to cover what he can’t swallow down.
Dwalin’s great paw is thoroughly tangled in his hair, curls wrapped tight about his thick fingers, though he’s not pulling Bilbo further down his cock than he can manage. His prick is a good thick weight to mouth, running his tongue lightly around the barbells of his piercings and twisting them carefully with his teeth, although Bilbo always returns to take the head in his mouth and see how much more he can take down than the last. The barbells are lovely targets to lap his tongue out over when he’s bobbing his head up and down, and Dwalin groans in pleasure at a particularly prolonged assault. Bilbo’s jaw is already aching and Thorin’s grip is almost painfully tight on his hips now, near spilling, so the hobbit sets out to get Dwalin to his pleasure.
He takes as much into his mouth as he can, tongue laving the barbells mercilessly and lips tight about the girth so he could suck firmly. The hand he had wrapped about the thick base of the dwarf’s prick he presses to the hard muscle of his belly, and then slides his fingers through the thick thatch of hair at the base to reach his bollocks and roll them in his palm. Dwalin’s stomach tightens abruptly, he gasps out a curse – “Mahal!” – and then he’s spilling, hot and thick and salty bitter into Bilbo’s mouth, so much he can barely swallow it. The rush trails out of his mouth and soaks his chin, dripping onto the one hand he has left to prop himself up on, and Dwalin sits back, panting open-mouthed and looking very pleased.
When he reaches out – leaning forward to give himself a greater span, and giving Bilbo a slow kiss despite the slick mess on his face while he was there – he takes Bilbo’s so far ignored prick in his hand, and oh! Dwarf hands are calloused and strong and Bilbo simply can’t resist. Thorin’s thrusts inside him are pushing the right spots, still that perfect weight and stretch, and in combination with a thumb pushing against the sensitive underside of his cock, Bilbo comes with a strangled groan, head falling against Dwalin’s shoulder as he shook with it. He’s still trembling when Thorin gives a low groan, and pushes in to the hilt, wet heat spreading around the push of his piercing.
Bilbo is the first to buckle, unable to support his own weight on his arms any longer, and the dwarves separate from him stickily and allow him to lie down on his belly amongst the rather ruined sheets and just pant for a while. Dwalin leans back again to one side and Thorin takes the other without a word. They lie in silence, though a very satisfied silence it is.
The daylight filtering through the cracks in the shutter turns spinning motes of dust to little diamonds floating to the floor, and casts a bolt of light across the top of Bilbo’s shoulders as he sprawls there in contented silence. Beside him Dwalin is humming softly in contentment, and on the other side Thorin is already sitting up and reaching out to pet Bilbo’s hair absently. He says a few words in Khuzdul that Dwalin chuckles at and twines a curl around his finger.
“Gold,” says Thorin decisively, as if he was continuing his conversation with the warrior, leaning in to kiss Bilbo's ear softly. “And gems of course.”
“You’ve mentioned them,” says Bilbo, after a long moment where he feared he’d forgotten how to speak. “Multiple times.”
“People would stare at you in wonder, and I could watch and know all that beauty was mine.” Thorin carefully brushes a sweat soaked curl from Bilbo’s overheated forehead and tucks it behind his ear, callouses on his fingers brushing the delicate pointed tip. “Although, I wouldn’t say your charms are in any way diminished without the gilding.”
“Only a dwarf,” sighs Bilbo, but he tilts his head into the touch until Dwalin snorts from behind him and he startles out of the comfortable reverie.
“You pair,” grumbles the warrior dwarf, “Are ridiculous. I am going to go help empty this merchant’s stores of ale and steal some of Gloin’s good pipeweed. Feel free to join once you’ve finished.” He sat up, broad stomach muscles clenching tight and making Bilbo’s thoroughly satisfied libido give a feeble twitch, and threw a bulky arm over the hobbit’s shoulder to clasp Thorin’s forearm. They spoke in Khuzdul once more, low rolling syllables that Bilbo felt more than heard, and then Dwalin leant down and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek.
“Thank you, master burglar,” he said, the words low and rumbling. “For continuing to be so accommodating.”
“Well,” said Bilbo, “This encounter was certainly more pleasant than that first time; watching you eat my supper.”