Fic: "An Unexpected Idyll," (1/1) The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, R
I wanted to read some Bilbo/Thorin so bad, I wrote some. Just a short fic, but still.
An Unexpected Idyll (1/1)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (film)
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: Approximately 3,000
Notes/Warnings: Vague spoilers for the movie and the book.
Summary: Within sight of the Lonely Mountain, The fellowship of Thorin Oakenshield takes a well-deserved rest in an idyllic dale.
After taking his fair amount of ribbing from Fili and Kili about how pale and hairless he was-and stringy, something few Bagginses had ever been called . . . though a certain leanness ran through the Took side of the family-Bilbo had finally had enough. Despite being tired and sore and achy-battling Orcs and Wargs was a hard business, not for the faint of heart or large of brain-he had gathered his clothes, his sword, and a precious, but dwindling chunk of Elvish soap, and waded further up the brook.
And yes, he knows very well that it's foolish, perhaps, even in such an idyllic-seeming spot, to wander far from the others, but wander he does, till their voices and laughter were distant and the brook, itself, has taken a gradual bend that blocks their antics from his sight.
Letting out a sigh of relief-and really, there were simply times when one had had enough of Dwarves and their ideas of merriment-Bilbo quickly, and with an efficiency borne of necessity, washes his clothes as best he can, and hangs them on the nearest, highest branches he can reach. Then he makes his way to the deepest part of the brook, which isn't very, with his soap in hand.
He dunks his head and sets to work on his filthy, sweaty hair. It takes two more dunkings and soapings before it squeaks between his calloused fingers.
Callouses . . . something he'd never had before in his life, save for when he was young, and had a tendency to lose himself in the backwoods and old, unused trails around the Shire. And even then, they were nothing like the callouses he now had.
And these callouses are the least of the changes time and adventuring has made, so far. . . .
Lathering up his chest and arms, he is pleased to note some definition there, something he'd never had before. And in spite of what Kili and Fili had said about his paleness, Bilbo is still darker than he's ever been. He is actually . . . tan. At least where his clothes hadn't covered him.
Squatting to rinse the first soaping away, Bilbo sighs again and cocks an ear back the way he'd come. He can still hear faint splashing and laughter. It makes him smile, just a little. They're all weary and battered from that last, desperate battle with the Orcs, still in shock that they're still alive . . . but Dwarves are nothing, if not resilient.
Especially Thorin Oakenshield.
Now, Bilbo's smile widens and despite the slight chill of the brook, he grows just a tad warmer. A response he most certainly isn't used to. Usually, thoughts of Thorin bring about a sense of worry and reticence, shot through with a confusing mix of shyness and hero worship.
The fact that Bilbo'd failed, throughout the whole of the quest, to do anything to endear Thorin to him, or at least turn that towering disdain and contemptuous dismissal into a grudging sort of tolerance, had all but crushed his hopes of feeling like part of the fellowship. Never mind that the other Dwarves treat him the way they treat Ori: as someone who's largely untried, but definitely one of their own.
No, Thorin isn't so easily charmed. In fact, it wasn't until after the most recent battle with the Orcs that he'd finally changed his tune. It wasn't until Bilbo's attempt, however ill-planned and ill-fated, to save Thorin's life from said Orcs, that Thorin had displayed some other emotion, regarding Bilbo Baggins, than disdain.
In fact, Thorin seemed to have gone a full one hundred and eighty degrees, regarding Bilbo Baggins. He'd been ever at Bilbo's side since Gandalf had brought him back to consciousness, and had stayed that way as they clambered down that great pile of rock on which the eagles had deposited them. Every stumble, every slip Bilbo had made that might have caused him even a moment of distress-even a stubbed toe-Thorin Oakenshield had been there to catch and right him, with that warm, slightly wondering smile and those ridiculously strong arms.
It'd been bemusing and disconcerting. Thorin's vivid blue eyes seemed to always be on him, as if trying to figure out a perplexing puzzle. That, coupled with Fili and Kili's good-natured mockery had been what drove Bilbo upriver, so to speak. He was quite unused to being the focus of so much attention. Though, in all honesty, Fili and Kili always ribbed him, and that hadn't been nearly so discomfiting as Thorin's eyes on him, so unabashedly curious-
Now halfway through his second lather, Bilbo pauses, the hairs on his nape and neck raising, his body breaking out in gooseflesh.
He's being watched.
Using the expedient of rinsing off to peer covertly around himself, he sees no one and nothing that hadn't been there a few minutes ago.
He sees his sword, which he'd left hanging on a branch next to his shirt, right where it would do him the most good.
Cursing himself roundly, he tries to shuffle nonchalantly toward his clothes and his sword, even managing to whistle jauntily as he goes. At any moment, however, he expects someone or something to burst through the trees.
But no one and nothing does.
He's just within reaching distance of the blade-which is not, thankfully, glowing blue-when a voice says from across the brook: “You really oughtn't to be so far from your means of defense.”
Starting so abruptly, he slips on a loose punch of pebbles, Bilbo goes down with a splash and a thud. This close to the bank, the brook is shallow enough that his hindside takes the brunt of his fall.
Yelping, he tries to scramble to his feet, but before he can get any traction, strong hands are on his arms, hauling him up as if he weighs nothing. Once on his feet, Bilbo practically dances away from the nonrestraining hands and alternates between clutching his no-doubt bruised and scraped bottom and his very much not-covered frontside.
Thorin Oakenshield, dressed in naught but his long, dripping wet shirt-with the Goblin-Cleaver belted on his waist-watches this all with loosely crossed arms and an amused half-smile.
“Ah-what're you doing here?” Bilbo stammers, finally settling on covering his frontside, aware of how ridiculous he looks, but unable to think of what else he should do. “I thought you were with the others.”
Nodding, Thorin's half-smile fades a bit. “I was, until I saw you wander off on your own. Which you really shouldn't do, at least not this far from the others,” he says gruffly. Bilbo huffs irritably.
“I can defend myself without a gaggle of Dwarves at my side, please and thank you!”
That half-smile flashes out for a moment as a grin. “That you've more than proven. But that doesn't mean there isn't safety in numbers. And as you can see, anyone or anything could have caught and did catch you unawares.”
Remembering his sudden, hackle-raising realization that he was being watched-had that just been two minutes ago?-Bilbo's irritability is punctured and the air goes out of it in a rush as he realizes Thorin's right. As Thorin usually is, when it comes to matters of fighting and war.
But . . . “I had to get away from Fili and Kili for a bit. You know how they are,” Bilbo offers by way of explanation, and Thorin nods again.
“Indeed, I do, to my lament. If you like, I could have a talk with them. . . .”
“No!” Bilbo, forgetting himself, raises his hands in a halting gesture. “I don't mean to tattle on them. They're fine, it's just that after the . . . everything . . . I suppose I needed some quiet time to myself.” Hands settling on his hips, Bilbo nods his satisfaction. “Just a little quiet me-time.”
“That's understandable,” Thorin agrees, his eyes travelling down Bilbo's body, and in doing so, recalling to the Hobbit's mind exactly where his hands should be. Mortified, he's torn between slowly moving his hands back to his front to cover himself, or just brazening it out, as if he stands naked before Dwarf Kings everyday.
“Em,” Thorin clears his throat, his eyes ticking off toward Bilbo's sword. He seems a tad . . . flustered and red about the face and he's definitely avoiding Bilbo's eyes. “Yes, well. If you're done, we should probably get back to the camp before Bombur eats his lunch and ours.”
“Right! Right you are!” Bilbo exclaims with a nervous laugh. He wants to turn around and hustle into his clothes, but having already treated Thorin to his front, he's less than interested in presenting his back. Especially considering that it's likely gravel-scratched and splotchy from having been landed on. . . .
Though why he would care whether Thorin would care about the state of his backside is beyond Bilbo, who is, at this moment, very confused and embarrassed.
So he compromises, reaching behind him for what feels like his shirt-yes, it is still sopping wet, but clean, at least-and pulling it on. He fumbles with the buttons for what feels like eternity, managing not to button a single one-in fact, he pops one off, and swears, pining briefly for his lost sewing kit.
The popped button disappears into the brook with a shallow plish.
“Here, let me,” Thorin says softly, and from much closer than Bilbo had last seen him. In fact, he'd somehow crossed the brook without making a single splash and was right in front of Bilbo . . . close enough for him to see every strand of silver in Thorin's wet, wavy dark hair.
And this close, that hair looks both thick and soft. Like something it might be nice to run his fingers through while it dries. . . .
“Such tiny, fussy buttons,” Thorin murmurs, his fingers bumping Bilbo's out of the way, but not away. His own fingers are long, but blunt and thick-the kind of fingers that look like they'd do more harm than help with a shirt like Bilbo's.
But, contrary to appearances, they get the job done without popping a single button off. Slowly and steadily, they slip every button inside its proper hole.
All the while, Bilbo's hands hover uselessly around Thorin's, even as they itch to reach out and brush that wild, thick hair back over Thorin's broad shoulders. . . .
“Oh, look, you've got a l-laceration-“ Bilbo stammers as soon as he notices it, a livid red mark just peering out from Thorin's damp collar. Swallowing his nerves, he reaches out with more bravery than it had taken to slay that Orc-had that really just been a few hours ago?-and brushes Thorin's heavy hair over his left shoulder.
Thorin's eyes meet Bilbo's, questioning and intense. So intense, Bilbo would look away . . . except that he can't.
“I've got plenty of them, all over,” Thorin says quietly, tilting his head to the right, so Bilbo can get a better look at the wound. “The perils of Orc-fighting. They're nothing.”
“Mm.” Bilbo leans in, noting the redness of the wound-not an open one, thankfully-and the bruise that's already forming around it, blue and purple and greenish. He also notes that Thorin smells like cool, clean water, leather, and iron. . . .
Then Thorin's clearing his throat and Bilbo's opening eyes he hadn't even realized he'd closed, and freeing a hand still tangled in Thorin's damp hair.
“I, er, suppose it'll heal alright, if you keep an eye on it,” Bilbo says, and unintentionally meets Thorin's eyes. This close, he can see flecks of lighter blue near the pupils and feel Thorin's body heat and it's all very confusing, yes, that must be the culprit, confusion, since Bilbo's eyes are fluttering shut again as he leans in and up-or maybe it's Thorin leaning in and down, who can tell when one is so very confused?-and his still-hovering, useless hands land tentatively on Thorin's solid shoulders like tired, home-sick thrushes.
Thorin makes a sound low in his throat, and his hands, heavily and firmly, are suddenly clenched on Bilbo's waist and pulling him closer. Pulling him in to lay a gentle kiss on each eyelid, then on Bilbo's forehead.
Bilbo sighs, his arms sliding over Thorin's shoulders till his fingers can link behind Thorin's nape and underneath that glorious hair.
“Master Baggins,” Thorin rumbles, low and somehow intimate, and Bilbo's eyes open just in time and just enough to see Thorin's eyes, so blue and so fierce, getting closer and closing, themselves.
Then soft, chapped lips are pressed gently to Bilbo's bitten, equally chapped ones.
A few moments pass, during which the kiss neither deepens nor ends, but holds in that chaste fashion.
Then Bilbo moans and parts his lips and Thorin, swift on the uptake, holds Bilbo closer and parts his own lips. One hand slips around to the small of Bilbo's back where it clenches possessively.
The kiss deepens. It does not end . . . at least not until a loud burst of laughter sounds from back downriver. They look toward the bend in the brook-no one is coming their way-then back at each other. Thorin's hand leaves Bilbo's waist to cup his face. One large, rough thumb brushes across Bilbo's kiss-swollen lower lip and Thorin smiles a little-just a slight crinkling around his eyes--his gaze following the motion of his thumb.
“Been wanting to do that for some time,” he admits quietly. Bilbo huffs out a quiet, breathless laugh.
“What? Since you woke up a few hours ago?”
“A good deal longer than that, actually,” Thorin says, his brow furrowing as he searches Bilbo's eyes intently. Bilbo laughs again, bobbing up on his toes so he and Thorin are-more or less-eye to eye.
“Well, I've been wanting you to do that since I opened my front door and saw you standing there, rugged and mysterious,” Bilbo does some admitting of his own. “You see, I've never known anyone like you.”
“I can honestly say the same, Bilbo Baggins.” Thorin's crinkle-smile becomes a full smile, then a grin showing even, white teeth and lighting up his dark blue eyes. He leans close at the same time Bilbo does, and they're kissing again, much less tentatively. Thorin's arms slide back around Bilbo's waist and he lifts Bilbo up, swinging him around once, fast. Bilbo's laugh breaks the kiss and he holds on tight to Thorin, arms wrapped around his neck, legs coming up to wrap around hips. And even when Thorin stops spinning them, they remain clutching at each other, pressed against each other and staring into each other's eyes. There's something hard and hot pressed pretty persistently against Bilbo's backside.
“Thorin,” Bilbo husks out the other's name, at the same time Thorin breathes Bilbo's. But Thorin's already walking them out of the chilly brook, onto the bank, then further up into the trees, to a grassy, somewhat less rocky spot.
Taking a brief glance around that no doubt misses nothing, Thorin then kisses Bilbo hard and groans when that kiss is returned with equal, if clumsy ardor. He kneels carefully without letting go of Bilbo or disturbing Bilbo's hold on him and he bears Bilbo down to the grass gently, stopping their kiss to look into his eyes.
“We probably haven't very long,” he says regretfully. Rather abashedly, Bilbo grins.
“I probably won't last very long,” he replies, then his grin turns positively sheepish. “I've, er, never done this before, you know.”
Thorin's brows shoot up his forehead, halfway to his hairline. “With a Dwarf? I can assure you, Master Baggins, I have nothing you haven't seen before,” he quips. Bilbo rolls his eyes.
“Well, you see, that's just it: You do. I mean . . . I've never . . . done . . . this with anyone. Ever.” Blushing, he runs his hand through Thorin's hair and pushing it back, shivering when it slithers back around Thorin's shoulders to brush Bilbo's face like a curtain. “So, I don't know how good I'll be-I suppose I should apologize in advance.”
Thorin's amused gaze changes, settles into something warm and almost tender, and he reaches up to trace Bilbo's mouth with his index finger. After a few seconds, Bilbo nips Thorin's finger playfully before sucking it into his mouth for a thorough tongue-lashing.
Thorin groans again, and the hard something that'd been poking at Bilbo's nether regions gets noticeably harder . . . and pokier. “Trust me, Bilbo Baggins. There's nothing about you that needs apologizing for-least of all this.” Thorin crooks his finger slightly to stroke down Bilbo's tongue, which wriggles and darts cleverly.
Swearing, and quickly removing his finger, Thorin replaces it with his mouth, chasing Bilbo's tongue, capturing it, and letting it go to start the chase all over again . . . till they're both breathless.
“There's so much I want to show you,” Thorin whispers on Bilbo's lips, each word a tiny tease of a kiss. “Let me make you feel good.”
Bilbo smiles almost dazedly. “You already do.”
Then the shirt Thorin had so painstakingly closed is being opened all over again, both his and Bilbo's fingers bashing and bumping as they hurriedly get the job done-incidentally without a button being lost.
Next to be undone is the sheath holding Goblin-Cleaver. But Thorin keeps her close at hand, ever vigilant, even now.
Finally, they undo Thorin's shirt, and Bilbo can only goggle at the barrel of a chest, hairy and well-defined (and extravagantly bruised), and feel vaguely ashamed of his own narrow, mostly hairless chest and stringy, mostly unmarked body. If not for Thorin's hands pinning his wrists to the ground, Bilbo would surely curl in on himself and simply die.
“You're so smooth and lithe,” Thorin murmurs, leaning down to kiss Bilbo's throat, and down to his chest. His beard tickles just a little. “Perfect.”
“Come, now, I've hardly got the physique of a hero,” Bilbo says, turning red all over and hoping that somehow, Thorin doesn't notice.
“You've got the heart of a hero,” Thorin looks up from Bilbo's abdomen, as serious as Bilbo's ever seen him. “It shines out of you like the sun. I'm only sorry it took so long for both of us to see it. Now,” Thorin says gravely, but his lips twitch as if he wants to laugh. “Let's see how much we can get up to before those well-meaning idiots come a-looking for us. Deal?”
Bilbo smiles, slow and wide, then gasps as Thorin doesn't bother to wait for more of a response than that, and continues kissing his way down Bilbo's abdomen. “D-deal,” he gasps out, his eyes rolling up to the canopy above. All is bright green-gold light above him and Thorin Oakenshield's warm, talented mouth on him. In the distance, he hears a raucous burst of Dwarven cheers and Gandalf's name shouted on the back of it.
The wizard is no doubt telling one of his raucous stories over lunch. And isn't it odd that Gandalf hasn't sent anyone looking for them, or come looking himself?
Unless Gandalf knows that he and Thorin are quite alright.
Unless-and here's the gut-wrenching bit-Gandalf knows that he and Thorin are engaging in some much-needed them-time.
But how would Gandalf know. . . ?
The same way Gandalf knows everything else . . . he just knows.
Suddenly, blushingly, Bilbo rather thinks he and Thorin will have plenty of time to get up to . . . whatever it is they want before anyone comes looking for them.
Although, he admits to himself as he arches up off the grass and just before the green-gold light that now seems to surround them quivers, then shatters, taking him with it. Our lunch is surely gone, by now. Bombur will have eaten it all.
Not that Bilbo will be in any shape to notice again, or care, until it's time and past for supper.
The End
. . . and a follow-up, featuring Bofur/Kili
Oh, and there's this:
Merry Christmas, all!
An Unexpected Idyll (1/1)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (film)
Pairing: Bilbo/Thorin
Rating: Hard R
Word Count: Approximately 3,000
Notes/Warnings: Vague spoilers for the movie and the book.
Summary: Within sight of the Lonely Mountain, The fellowship of Thorin Oakenshield takes a well-deserved rest in an idyllic dale.
After taking his fair amount of ribbing from Fili and Kili about how pale and hairless he was-and stringy, something few Bagginses had ever been called . . . though a certain leanness ran through the Took side of the family-Bilbo had finally had enough. Despite being tired and sore and achy-battling Orcs and Wargs was a hard business, not for the faint of heart or large of brain-he had gathered his clothes, his sword, and a precious, but dwindling chunk of Elvish soap, and waded further up the brook.
And yes, he knows very well that it's foolish, perhaps, even in such an idyllic-seeming spot, to wander far from the others, but wander he does, till their voices and laughter were distant and the brook, itself, has taken a gradual bend that blocks their antics from his sight.
Letting out a sigh of relief-and really, there were simply times when one had had enough of Dwarves and their ideas of merriment-Bilbo quickly, and with an efficiency borne of necessity, washes his clothes as best he can, and hangs them on the nearest, highest branches he can reach. Then he makes his way to the deepest part of the brook, which isn't very, with his soap in hand.
He dunks his head and sets to work on his filthy, sweaty hair. It takes two more dunkings and soapings before it squeaks between his calloused fingers.
Callouses . . . something he'd never had before in his life, save for when he was young, and had a tendency to lose himself in the backwoods and old, unused trails around the Shire. And even then, they were nothing like the callouses he now had.
And these callouses are the least of the changes time and adventuring has made, so far. . . .
Lathering up his chest and arms, he is pleased to note some definition there, something he'd never had before. And in spite of what Kili and Fili had said about his paleness, Bilbo is still darker than he's ever been. He is actually . . . tan. At least where his clothes hadn't covered him.
Squatting to rinse the first soaping away, Bilbo sighs again and cocks an ear back the way he'd come. He can still hear faint splashing and laughter. It makes him smile, just a little. They're all weary and battered from that last, desperate battle with the Orcs, still in shock that they're still alive . . . but Dwarves are nothing, if not resilient.
Especially Thorin Oakenshield.
Now, Bilbo's smile widens and despite the slight chill of the brook, he grows just a tad warmer. A response he most certainly isn't used to. Usually, thoughts of Thorin bring about a sense of worry and reticence, shot through with a confusing mix of shyness and hero worship.
The fact that Bilbo'd failed, throughout the whole of the quest, to do anything to endear Thorin to him, or at least turn that towering disdain and contemptuous dismissal into a grudging sort of tolerance, had all but crushed his hopes of feeling like part of the fellowship. Never mind that the other Dwarves treat him the way they treat Ori: as someone who's largely untried, but definitely one of their own.
No, Thorin isn't so easily charmed. In fact, it wasn't until after the most recent battle with the Orcs that he'd finally changed his tune. It wasn't until Bilbo's attempt, however ill-planned and ill-fated, to save Thorin's life from said Orcs, that Thorin had displayed some other emotion, regarding Bilbo Baggins, than disdain.
In fact, Thorin seemed to have gone a full one hundred and eighty degrees, regarding Bilbo Baggins. He'd been ever at Bilbo's side since Gandalf had brought him back to consciousness, and had stayed that way as they clambered down that great pile of rock on which the eagles had deposited them. Every stumble, every slip Bilbo had made that might have caused him even a moment of distress-even a stubbed toe-Thorin Oakenshield had been there to catch and right him, with that warm, slightly wondering smile and those ridiculously strong arms.
It'd been bemusing and disconcerting. Thorin's vivid blue eyes seemed to always be on him, as if trying to figure out a perplexing puzzle. That, coupled with Fili and Kili's good-natured mockery had been what drove Bilbo upriver, so to speak. He was quite unused to being the focus of so much attention. Though, in all honesty, Fili and Kili always ribbed him, and that hadn't been nearly so discomfiting as Thorin's eyes on him, so unabashedly curious-
Now halfway through his second lather, Bilbo pauses, the hairs on his nape and neck raising, his body breaking out in gooseflesh.
He's being watched.
Using the expedient of rinsing off to peer covertly around himself, he sees no one and nothing that hadn't been there a few minutes ago.
He sees his sword, which he'd left hanging on a branch next to his shirt, right where it would do him the most good.
Cursing himself roundly, he tries to shuffle nonchalantly toward his clothes and his sword, even managing to whistle jauntily as he goes. At any moment, however, he expects someone or something to burst through the trees.
But no one and nothing does.
He's just within reaching distance of the blade-which is not, thankfully, glowing blue-when a voice says from across the brook: “You really oughtn't to be so far from your means of defense.”
Starting so abruptly, he slips on a loose punch of pebbles, Bilbo goes down with a splash and a thud. This close to the bank, the brook is shallow enough that his hindside takes the brunt of his fall.
Yelping, he tries to scramble to his feet, but before he can get any traction, strong hands are on his arms, hauling him up as if he weighs nothing. Once on his feet, Bilbo practically dances away from the nonrestraining hands and alternates between clutching his no-doubt bruised and scraped bottom and his very much not-covered frontside.
Thorin Oakenshield, dressed in naught but his long, dripping wet shirt-with the Goblin-Cleaver belted on his waist-watches this all with loosely crossed arms and an amused half-smile.
“Ah-what're you doing here?” Bilbo stammers, finally settling on covering his frontside, aware of how ridiculous he looks, but unable to think of what else he should do. “I thought you were with the others.”
Nodding, Thorin's half-smile fades a bit. “I was, until I saw you wander off on your own. Which you really shouldn't do, at least not this far from the others,” he says gruffly. Bilbo huffs irritably.
“I can defend myself without a gaggle of Dwarves at my side, please and thank you!”
That half-smile flashes out for a moment as a grin. “That you've more than proven. But that doesn't mean there isn't safety in numbers. And as you can see, anyone or anything could have caught and did catch you unawares.”
Remembering his sudden, hackle-raising realization that he was being watched-had that just been two minutes ago?-Bilbo's irritability is punctured and the air goes out of it in a rush as he realizes Thorin's right. As Thorin usually is, when it comes to matters of fighting and war.
But . . . “I had to get away from Fili and Kili for a bit. You know how they are,” Bilbo offers by way of explanation, and Thorin nods again.
“Indeed, I do, to my lament. If you like, I could have a talk with them. . . .”
“No!” Bilbo, forgetting himself, raises his hands in a halting gesture. “I don't mean to tattle on them. They're fine, it's just that after the . . . everything . . . I suppose I needed some quiet time to myself.” Hands settling on his hips, Bilbo nods his satisfaction. “Just a little quiet me-time.”
“That's understandable,” Thorin agrees, his eyes travelling down Bilbo's body, and in doing so, recalling to the Hobbit's mind exactly where his hands should be. Mortified, he's torn between slowly moving his hands back to his front to cover himself, or just brazening it out, as if he stands naked before Dwarf Kings everyday.
“Em,” Thorin clears his throat, his eyes ticking off toward Bilbo's sword. He seems a tad . . . flustered and red about the face and he's definitely avoiding Bilbo's eyes. “Yes, well. If you're done, we should probably get back to the camp before Bombur eats his lunch and ours.”
“Right! Right you are!” Bilbo exclaims with a nervous laugh. He wants to turn around and hustle into his clothes, but having already treated Thorin to his front, he's less than interested in presenting his back. Especially considering that it's likely gravel-scratched and splotchy from having been landed on. . . .
Though why he would care whether Thorin would care about the state of his backside is beyond Bilbo, who is, at this moment, very confused and embarrassed.
So he compromises, reaching behind him for what feels like his shirt-yes, it is still sopping wet, but clean, at least-and pulling it on. He fumbles with the buttons for what feels like eternity, managing not to button a single one-in fact, he pops one off, and swears, pining briefly for his lost sewing kit.
The popped button disappears into the brook with a shallow plish.
“Here, let me,” Thorin says softly, and from much closer than Bilbo had last seen him. In fact, he'd somehow crossed the brook without making a single splash and was right in front of Bilbo . . . close enough for him to see every strand of silver in Thorin's wet, wavy dark hair.
And this close, that hair looks both thick and soft. Like something it might be nice to run his fingers through while it dries. . . .
“Such tiny, fussy buttons,” Thorin murmurs, his fingers bumping Bilbo's out of the way, but not away. His own fingers are long, but blunt and thick-the kind of fingers that look like they'd do more harm than help with a shirt like Bilbo's.
But, contrary to appearances, they get the job done without popping a single button off. Slowly and steadily, they slip every button inside its proper hole.
All the while, Bilbo's hands hover uselessly around Thorin's, even as they itch to reach out and brush that wild, thick hair back over Thorin's broad shoulders. . . .
“Oh, look, you've got a l-laceration-“ Bilbo stammers as soon as he notices it, a livid red mark just peering out from Thorin's damp collar. Swallowing his nerves, he reaches out with more bravery than it had taken to slay that Orc-had that really just been a few hours ago?-and brushes Thorin's heavy hair over his left shoulder.
Thorin's eyes meet Bilbo's, questioning and intense. So intense, Bilbo would look away . . . except that he can't.
“I've got plenty of them, all over,” Thorin says quietly, tilting his head to the right, so Bilbo can get a better look at the wound. “The perils of Orc-fighting. They're nothing.”
“Mm.” Bilbo leans in, noting the redness of the wound-not an open one, thankfully-and the bruise that's already forming around it, blue and purple and greenish. He also notes that Thorin smells like cool, clean water, leather, and iron. . . .
Then Thorin's clearing his throat and Bilbo's opening eyes he hadn't even realized he'd closed, and freeing a hand still tangled in Thorin's damp hair.
“I, er, suppose it'll heal alright, if you keep an eye on it,” Bilbo says, and unintentionally meets Thorin's eyes. This close, he can see flecks of lighter blue near the pupils and feel Thorin's body heat and it's all very confusing, yes, that must be the culprit, confusion, since Bilbo's eyes are fluttering shut again as he leans in and up-or maybe it's Thorin leaning in and down, who can tell when one is so very confused?-and his still-hovering, useless hands land tentatively on Thorin's solid shoulders like tired, home-sick thrushes.
Thorin makes a sound low in his throat, and his hands, heavily and firmly, are suddenly clenched on Bilbo's waist and pulling him closer. Pulling him in to lay a gentle kiss on each eyelid, then on Bilbo's forehead.
Bilbo sighs, his arms sliding over Thorin's shoulders till his fingers can link behind Thorin's nape and underneath that glorious hair.
“Master Baggins,” Thorin rumbles, low and somehow intimate, and Bilbo's eyes open just in time and just enough to see Thorin's eyes, so blue and so fierce, getting closer and closing, themselves.
Then soft, chapped lips are pressed gently to Bilbo's bitten, equally chapped ones.
A few moments pass, during which the kiss neither deepens nor ends, but holds in that chaste fashion.
Then Bilbo moans and parts his lips and Thorin, swift on the uptake, holds Bilbo closer and parts his own lips. One hand slips around to the small of Bilbo's back where it clenches possessively.
The kiss deepens. It does not end . . . at least not until a loud burst of laughter sounds from back downriver. They look toward the bend in the brook-no one is coming their way-then back at each other. Thorin's hand leaves Bilbo's waist to cup his face. One large, rough thumb brushes across Bilbo's kiss-swollen lower lip and Thorin smiles a little-just a slight crinkling around his eyes--his gaze following the motion of his thumb.
“Been wanting to do that for some time,” he admits quietly. Bilbo huffs out a quiet, breathless laugh.
“What? Since you woke up a few hours ago?”
“A good deal longer than that, actually,” Thorin says, his brow furrowing as he searches Bilbo's eyes intently. Bilbo laughs again, bobbing up on his toes so he and Thorin are-more or less-eye to eye.
“Well, I've been wanting you to do that since I opened my front door and saw you standing there, rugged and mysterious,” Bilbo does some admitting of his own. “You see, I've never known anyone like you.”
“I can honestly say the same, Bilbo Baggins.” Thorin's crinkle-smile becomes a full smile, then a grin showing even, white teeth and lighting up his dark blue eyes. He leans close at the same time Bilbo does, and they're kissing again, much less tentatively. Thorin's arms slide back around Bilbo's waist and he lifts Bilbo up, swinging him around once, fast. Bilbo's laugh breaks the kiss and he holds on tight to Thorin, arms wrapped around his neck, legs coming up to wrap around hips. And even when Thorin stops spinning them, they remain clutching at each other, pressed against each other and staring into each other's eyes. There's something hard and hot pressed pretty persistently against Bilbo's backside.
“Thorin,” Bilbo husks out the other's name, at the same time Thorin breathes Bilbo's. But Thorin's already walking them out of the chilly brook, onto the bank, then further up into the trees, to a grassy, somewhat less rocky spot.
Taking a brief glance around that no doubt misses nothing, Thorin then kisses Bilbo hard and groans when that kiss is returned with equal, if clumsy ardor. He kneels carefully without letting go of Bilbo or disturbing Bilbo's hold on him and he bears Bilbo down to the grass gently, stopping their kiss to look into his eyes.
“We probably haven't very long,” he says regretfully. Rather abashedly, Bilbo grins.
“I probably won't last very long,” he replies, then his grin turns positively sheepish. “I've, er, never done this before, you know.”
Thorin's brows shoot up his forehead, halfway to his hairline. “With a Dwarf? I can assure you, Master Baggins, I have nothing you haven't seen before,” he quips. Bilbo rolls his eyes.
“Well, you see, that's just it: You do. I mean . . . I've never . . . done . . . this with anyone. Ever.” Blushing, he runs his hand through Thorin's hair and pushing it back, shivering when it slithers back around Thorin's shoulders to brush Bilbo's face like a curtain. “So, I don't know how good I'll be-I suppose I should apologize in advance.”
Thorin's amused gaze changes, settles into something warm and almost tender, and he reaches up to trace Bilbo's mouth with his index finger. After a few seconds, Bilbo nips Thorin's finger playfully before sucking it into his mouth for a thorough tongue-lashing.
Thorin groans again, and the hard something that'd been poking at Bilbo's nether regions gets noticeably harder . . . and pokier. “Trust me, Bilbo Baggins. There's nothing about you that needs apologizing for-least of all this.” Thorin crooks his finger slightly to stroke down Bilbo's tongue, which wriggles and darts cleverly.
Swearing, and quickly removing his finger, Thorin replaces it with his mouth, chasing Bilbo's tongue, capturing it, and letting it go to start the chase all over again . . . till they're both breathless.
“There's so much I want to show you,” Thorin whispers on Bilbo's lips, each word a tiny tease of a kiss. “Let me make you feel good.”
Bilbo smiles almost dazedly. “You already do.”
Then the shirt Thorin had so painstakingly closed is being opened all over again, both his and Bilbo's fingers bashing and bumping as they hurriedly get the job done-incidentally without a button being lost.
Next to be undone is the sheath holding Goblin-Cleaver. But Thorin keeps her close at hand, ever vigilant, even now.
Finally, they undo Thorin's shirt, and Bilbo can only goggle at the barrel of a chest, hairy and well-defined (and extravagantly bruised), and feel vaguely ashamed of his own narrow, mostly hairless chest and stringy, mostly unmarked body. If not for Thorin's hands pinning his wrists to the ground, Bilbo would surely curl in on himself and simply die.
“You're so smooth and lithe,” Thorin murmurs, leaning down to kiss Bilbo's throat, and down to his chest. His beard tickles just a little. “Perfect.”
“Come, now, I've hardly got the physique of a hero,” Bilbo says, turning red all over and hoping that somehow, Thorin doesn't notice.
“You've got the heart of a hero,” Thorin looks up from Bilbo's abdomen, as serious as Bilbo's ever seen him. “It shines out of you like the sun. I'm only sorry it took so long for both of us to see it. Now,” Thorin says gravely, but his lips twitch as if he wants to laugh. “Let's see how much we can get up to before those well-meaning idiots come a-looking for us. Deal?”
Bilbo smiles, slow and wide, then gasps as Thorin doesn't bother to wait for more of a response than that, and continues kissing his way down Bilbo's abdomen. “D-deal,” he gasps out, his eyes rolling up to the canopy above. All is bright green-gold light above him and Thorin Oakenshield's warm, talented mouth on him. In the distance, he hears a raucous burst of Dwarven cheers and Gandalf's name shouted on the back of it.
The wizard is no doubt telling one of his raucous stories over lunch. And isn't it odd that Gandalf hasn't sent anyone looking for them, or come looking himself?
Unless Gandalf knows that he and Thorin are quite alright.
Unless-and here's the gut-wrenching bit-Gandalf knows that he and Thorin are engaging in some much-needed them-time.
But how would Gandalf know. . . ?
The same way Gandalf knows everything else . . . he just knows.
Suddenly, blushingly, Bilbo rather thinks he and Thorin will have plenty of time to get up to . . . whatever it is they want before anyone comes looking for them.
Although, he admits to himself as he arches up off the grass and just before the green-gold light that now seems to surround them quivers, then shatters, taking him with it. Our lunch is surely gone, by now. Bombur will have eaten it all.
Not that Bilbo will be in any shape to notice again, or care, until it's time and past for supper.
The End
. . . and a follow-up, featuring Bofur/Kili
Oh, and there's this:
Click to viewMerry Christmas, all!