Fic: "Forty-One Days," (1/11) The Hobbit, Bilbo/Bofur, R so far
It wants to be written. Who'm I to deny it?
Forty-One Days (1/11)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey AU
Pairing: Bilbo/Bofur, Bifur,Bombur
Rating: R, so far
Word Count: Approx. 3250
Disclaimer: I don't own this stuff.
Notes/Warnings: Forty ficlets and one longer fic (divided up into eleven postings) set post the successful retaking of Erebor. A sequel to Plighting Troth and Other Exigencies.
Summary: Written for the
hobbit_kink meme prompt: Just saw The Hobbit AGAIN and I can assure you - Bofur and Bilbo are totally a thing. Bofur is in love. IN LOVE I TELL YOU! I've read many great fics where Bilbo is being courted and he's not aware so... Bofur informs Bilbo he's in love and would like to get married. Bilbo is flabbergasted but Bofur is a bit clueless why would Bilbo want to reject him. Hobbits and Dwarves? Totally compatibile! Two men? Yeah, um, so? He's gonna have 1/14 of the treasure! He's been told he's a proficient lover!! Bonus points for Bifur and Bombur flanking Bofur all the time during the courting.
I
Bofur presents him with the first gift the very next morning.
Bilbo is in the cold room, about to collect supplies for breakfast-and a lot of supplies, as the only beings with more hearty appetites than hobbits are dwarves-and mentally compiling a list for his next trip to market when a throat clears itself behind him.
Starting, he turns around to find Bofur standing there, looking sheepish and holding out his closed hand.
Off Bilbo's questioning look, he blushes and clears his throat again.
“It's the next love-gift: a wrist-mounted miniature timepiece,” he says, opening his hand and revealing what looks like a silver bracelet, plainly wrought, but with a small clock-face covered with a circle of glass. The hands are even moving, like on a full-sized clock. “I invented it myself. This is the prototype.”
“Oh, Bofur-this is amazing!” Bilbo breathes, reaching out to touch the timepiece. But before he can, Bofur is grinning and enclosing it around Bilbo's left wrist. The silver is cool and somehow soft on Bilbo's skin.
“I call it a look, since you can look at it and know what time it is.” Bofur closes the complicated looking hasp and takes Bilbo's hand, holding it up a little to admire his wrist. “It looks lovely on you. But then, anything would.”
Bilbo blushes and glances at the look again. It appears to keep time precisely. But then, it's dwarven-made, so of course it does.
Bilbo smiles and hold out his arms.
With one quick glance at the door to make sure they're truly alone-and they are-Bofur goes into Bilbo's arms quickly, without hesitation, embracing Bilbo almost desperately. Lifting him up off the ground for a few moments, before putting him down and kissing him. Not quite wantonly, but intensely, with pent-up yearning that curls Bilbo's toes and makes him moan softly.
On his wrist, the look precisely ticks away the few precious seconds they have before Bifur or Bombur come to separate them.
II
It's midnight, and Bilbo can't sleep.
He's too busy thinking about his guests, who've taken up the guest bedroom (Bofur) and two of Bag End's other bedrooms.
The first day was an easy day, of getting them situated and making sure they knew house rules, but this second day, when they'll no doubt want to be out and about, exploring the Shire, well . . . the thing is, Bilbo's neighbors have already, no doubt, noticed the ponies and the dwarves who'd come straight to Bilbo's door (yet again) and have questions. But this day that approaches is the day Bilbo will have to answer them. And how will he do that, exactly?
Yes, this is my dwarf suitor and his two brothers, who are playing chaperons, since apparently, my suitor and I can't keep our hands off each other. Even though we have to for the next forty-one days, according to dwarvish custom. . . .
Bilbo rolls onto his side and sighs. It'll be hard enough explaining the fact that he's got three dwarves as guests, period, but the suitor business . . . not that his neighbors and friends will take issue with the fact that Bilbo is being courted by a dwarf, but they will find it exceedingly odd, on top of the fact that yet another Took has gone fey.
Ah, well, Bilbo thinks with almost carefree resignation. I was never going to be thought of as normal after I went on my adventure. I suppose this is just icing on the odd-cake. And so what if I'm fey! So what if I've taken a dwarf for a suitor! It's nobody's business but my own!
“Damned right!” Bilbo says out loud, rolling onto his back again and pounding the bed for emphasis.
Though, that settled, five minutes later-according to the look, which sits on his nightstand, quietly ticking to itself-he's still wide awake, and he has no idea why.
Well, he has some idea. It mostly has to do with the way Bofur had kissed him early yesterday morning, in the cold room, after giving him the look. Though Bofur'd given no sign for the rest of the day, Bilbo had known he was the subject of many a sidelong glance from the dwarf, and for his part, Bilbo had wanted nothing more than to be in Bofur's arms, being kissed as if their very lives depended on it. He'd wanted-
Bilbo starts at the soft knock at his bedroom door.
Throwing back the covers, Bilbo gets up and pads across the room. When he opens the door, he's both surprised and not to find Bofur standing there, looking nervous and hopeful at the same time. He's still wearing his day clothes, though he's eschewed the tunic for plain shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He's not wearing his hat and the braids are no longer coiled about his head, but loose around his broad shoulders.
He looks . . . every inch a gentledwarf and a suitor, and Bilbo's heart skips several beats.
Bofur bows and produces from behind his back a canvas-wrapped package.
“A bit early for gift-giving, isn't it?” Bilbo asks, smiling, and Bofur smiles back.
“Well, this gift is one I prefer to give you in private, without worrying about whether one of my brothers will walk in and see.” He holds the package out to Bilbo who takes it. It's weighty, but not heavy, and pliant. Like cloth, of some sort.
“You'd best come in, then,” Bilbo says, blushing, but standing aside to let Bofur into his bedroom. But Bofur shakes his head no, putting his hands behind his back once more.
“I'd best not, actually,” he says softly, his eyes sweeping hungrily, pointedly over Bilbo's dressing gown-clad form. “In the interests of your purity remaining . . . intact.”
Bilbo turns even redder, and he glances away from the hungry heat in Bofur's dark eyes.
“But I will stay to see you open the gift,” Bofur says after a few awkward moments, and Bilbo swallows and nods, fingers already plucking at the twine holding the canvas closed. What peeks out when he finally pushes some of the canvas back is moon-white cloth, softer than clouds, and with a faint sheen like starshine seen through mist. The one visible edge of cloth he can see is embroidered with green and silver leaves. . . .
Bilbo looks up at Bofur, gaping. “Is this-“ he begins, and Bofur nods, smiling a smile that promises many things, indeed.
“Sheets made of Lorien silk.” Bofur steps as close to Bilbo as he can without crossing the threshold of the doorway. “For our wedding night.”
That red must surely go to the tips of Bilbo's ears, now. They certainly feel hot enough.
“They're . . . beautiful. Thank you,” Bilbo whispers, clutching the sheets to his chest tightly, his eyes wide as he stares at Bofur almost pleadingly. “Are you . . . sure you don't want to come in for a little bit?”
Bofur's wicked smile turns very wry. “I'm sure I do, Bilbo. But I mustn't. Tradition.” He shrugs, resigned and agitated. Bilbo bites his lip and turns to place the sheets on the nearest convenient surface-which happens to be a chair-before turning back to Bofur, who's watching him with the same yearning and desperation that'd been in that kiss earlier.
“Well, if you won't come in here, I suppose I shall have to come out there,” Bilbo says, stepping over the threshold and into Bofur's instantly opened arms. They embrace each other loosely, looking into each other's eyes for long moments.
“I cannot wait to have you on those sheets,” Bofur murmurs and Bilbo sighs, tucking his head under Bofur's chin.
“And I can't wait to be had on those sheets,” he replies shakily, as the hardness of the previous evening presses against his abdomen . . . and it is not alone. “Though you could have me in this hallway, if you wanted. Right now.”
Bofur groans and squeezes Bilbo tight against him, his breath shuddering and shaking out of him. His hands slide down Bilbo's back, to his backside, where they clench tightly . . . before letting go. Then he takes Bilbo's arms and pushes him back a few steps. Their gazes lock, desperate and yearning meeting the same, and Bilbo reaches up to brush a few braids back over Bofur's shoulder, then caresses his face tenderly.
“Bilbo Baggins . . . our first time together as lovers will not be a rushed act in a hallway . . . no matter how much we might want that at this moment,” Bofur says ruefully, leaning into Bilbo's touch. Bilbo sighs, nodding.
“You're right-of course, you're right,” he says quietly, then crooks a half-smile at Bofur. “But it just feels as if I'll die if you don't touch me.”
Bofur cups Bilbo's face in his hands gently and leans in to kiss his eyelids, his forehead, and the tip of his nose, before kissing his lips.
“You are . . . so comely and so fair,” he says, stealing another kiss. And another, drinking them down as if they're wine. “So innocent. And I would not take that innocence from you in such a . . . disrespectful, inconsiderate manner.
“Let me follow the traditions of my people, Bilbo, and prove my love to you in a way that will make me worthy of you.”
Bilbo finds himself nodding, once more, and Bofur smiles and kisses him again, sweetly, rather than wantonly. He backs them toward the bedroom until Bilbo is in the doorway, then breaks the kiss reluctantly, his thumbs stroking Bilbo's cheeks.
“Till morning, my love,” he says, their noses brushing. Bilbo sighs again.
“Till morning.”
And with that, Bofur's gone, as silently as he'd come, leaving Bilbo to turn back into his bedroom and shut the door.
He picks up the silk sheets and hugs them to his chest again.
Thirty-nine more days of this, he thinks, with a mix of excitement and frustration.
Then placing the sheets in his mother's hope chest, he goes back to bed. He doesn't fall asleep till almost dawn, and when he does, it's with a tired, wanked-out body and a full heart.
*
That very day, the four of them and one pony set out for the market.
Bilbo is on Bofur's arm, and the pair are flanked by Bifur (with the pony) on Bofur's side, and Bombur on on Bilbo's. The stares they get-from the moment they step out of Bilbo's gate-are enough to bring a blush to Bilbo's cheeks. Never mind when Bofur leans in to whisper: “You are lovely when you blush, my dear Mister Baggins,” then kisses him on the cheek.
The dwarves, with the exception of a grumpy Bifur, greet the folks of Hobbiton pleasantly enough, with waves and smiles and nods, getting the same in return, for the most part, if a bit hesitantly. Though some of the usual suspects grumble about “that odd Baggins bringing furreners through town.”
Those to whom Bilbo introduces Bofur as his suitor seem rather unsurprised, at either Bilbo's feyness or his choice in suitors. It's a little disconcerting.
“I must say, you hobbits are quite an accepting lot,” Bofur notes after the fourth such introduction, where little surprise was evinced.
“Well, I am just confirming something they already surmised about me: I'm just as odd as every other Baggins and Took ever to live in Hobbiton.” Bilbo sighs, swinging Bofur's hand a little. It feels good around his own, both rough and gentle.
“You are an odd little thing, yes,” Bofur says fondly, giving Bilbo a sideways glance. “But you're my odd little thing.”
“Well, thanks.” Bilbo rolls his eyes, but his face heats up.
At the market place, Bombur livens up, and he and Bilbo do most of the shopping, while Bofur and Bifur do most of the carrying, along with the pony.
They get more deference in that one trip than Bilbo's ever been shown in his entire lifetime beforehand. No one bird-dogs the apricots he wants, or the squashes he likes, or the mutton he reaches for. They take one look at the brawny, tall-relatively-dwarves, and their axes, and hang back, waiting for Bilbo to be done with his picking and choosing.
I ought to come shopping with three large dwarves more often, he thinks wryly, thumping a melon and putting it back. Though, if all goes well, I'll be doing this weekly with at least one large dwarf . . . assuming that dwarf wants to live here, and not in Erebor. . . .
Frowning, Bilbo absently puts back another melon.
III
Bilbo's in his garden early on the third day. The sun's barely risen to a respectable height and there're barely any neighbors about.
It's a perfect time to get some gardening and some thinking done.
His guests are still asleep and he's glad of this, needing some time to himself. Time to get the aforementioned thinking done. And what he's mostly thinking about is going to live in Erebor . . . effectively leaving the Shire for the rest of his life.
That is, of course, if he says yes to the proposal, when it comes. And Bilbo knows himself well enough to know that unless Bofur does or says something amazingly awful in the intervening time, that he will be saying yes.
Which means that leaving the Shire is a very real possibility. And he couldn't, in all fairness, ask a dwarf to settle in with a bunch of hobbits. That'd be like asking a tiger to settle in with a bunch of housecats, he supposes, and honestly can't imagine Bofur fitting in in the Shire, anyway.
At least, he doesn't think he can imagine it. . . .
“You're up early.”
Bilbo starts, then finds himself looking up at Bofur, who's wearing clothes similar to what he'd worn on their adventure, only of finer make. And, of course, the hat. His hands are behind his back, which means the gift of the day.
Smiling, Bilbo sweeps a hand at the garden. “Won't weed itself. Believe me, I know this for a fact.”
Bofur grins. “Then perhaps it's time to present you with today's present . . . I received this from the Lady of Lorien.” Bofur brings his hands forward, and he's holding a wooden box only slightly larger than the chest of books had been. “She called me a prince of storytellers, and granted me one boon.” Proudly, Bofur opens the box to reveal . . . soil. Rich, loamy soil that smells of far off places. And there are what appears to be . . . cuttings in the soil. Bilbo's brow furrows.
“It's from her very own garden,” Bofur goes on. “When she asked what I would have of her, I begged of her earth, and cuttings from her most beautiful plants. This was what she gave me.”
Putting down his spade, Bilbo stands up and takes the heavy box, inhaling deeply.
“Oh, and there was also this,” Bofur adds, digging in his right pocket for a piece of folded parchment. “She says they're instructions on how to spread the soil and where to place the cuttings, and when.”
Bilbo looks at the instructions, then back at the box of soil and cuttings. “To be grown h-here, at Bag End, I take it?” he asks quietly, without daring to hope, and Bofur's own brow furrows.
“But of course. Where else would we grow such precious things, but our home?” Bofur takes the box of soil-which is heavy-and kneels, placing it next to the hole in which Bilbo had been rooting about. Then he looks up at Bilbo, smiling knowingly. “Even with Lorien soil to help it along, these cuttings wouldn't flourish very well under a mountain, would they?”
Bilbo kneels next to Bofur and takes off his dirty gloves. He cups Bofur's face in his hands and kisses the corner of his mouth.
“No, I suppose not,” he replies, relief flooding him, as well as a wave of gratitude and fondness and something else that proves to be as elusive in the naming as it is in the catching. All Bilbo can do is gaze into Bofur's dark eyes and wish the days would go by faster.
Finally, Bofur's arm slides around his waist, pulling him in for a real kiss. One that only ends when they're both out of breath and the sun's markedly higher in the sky.
Even as, together, they follow Lady Galadriel's instructions for spreading the soil and planting the cuttings, Bilbo can't imagine Bofur fitting in in the Shire. Can't imagine what that would look like or be like. But he knows he can't imagine the rest of his life without Bofur either, whether he fits in or not.
And he'll never have to, it's beginning to seem like. Which is good, because he's never been that long on imagination, anyway.
IV
The very next morning, quite early, Bilbo is awakened by a knock his bedroom door.
“Ungh-come in,” he calls, sitting up groggily, rubbing his eyes in the grey-yellow light of dawn. And to his utter surprise, three dwarves troop in, Bofur in the lead, carrying a tray with what appears to be . . . breakfast on it.
Bilbo rubs his eyes again, certain they've deceived him mightily.
“Good morning, love,” Bofur says warmly, approaching Bilbo's bed and sitting on the edge, next to Bilbo. He places the tray over Bilbo's legs. On it are singed pancakes, runny eggs, a bowl of lumpy porridge, and sausages cooked to perfection. And the centerpiece of this tray of delights is a small glass vase with a life-sized rose, stem and all, made out of amazingly detailed rose-gold.
Bilbo blinks up at Bofur, who's still smiling proudly. “You did all this for me?”
Bofur nods. “Well, everything except the rose. That was Fili's handiwork. I asked him to make me a rose. One that would never fade: flawless and undying.” He searches Bilbo's eyes. “Like my love for you.”
Coloring, Bilbo takes the rose-and resists the insane urge to sniff it, so life-like it is-and holds it up to the light. He turns it every which way, examining it, finding no flaws and indeed, no sign of wilting.
Then he holds the rose to his heart, tears prickling behind his eyes as he gazes into Bofur's. “Thank you. For the rose, and most especially for what it stands for,” he says, leaning in to kiss Bofur, who kisses him back with marvelous restraint that does nothing to hide the true ardor behind the kiss. They separate quickly, before Bifur and Bombur can say or do anything.
Bofur clears his throat-he's quite red about the face-and nods at the tray. “Well, eat up, before it gets cold.”
Bilbo, still holding the rose, looks down at his breakfast. At the singed pancakes, runny eggs, lumpy porridge, and perfect sausages. Then he thinks of the likely state of his kitchen.
It's the thought that counts, he tells himself, placing the rose back in its vase and taking up his fork. He starts with the comestible that's least likely to kill him: the sausages.
TBC
And there's this, which I found on the
hobbit_kink meme:
Forty-One Days (1/11)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey AU
Pairing: Bilbo/Bofur, Bifur,Bombur
Rating: R, so far
Word Count: Approx. 3250
Disclaimer: I don't own this stuff.
Notes/Warnings: Forty ficlets and one longer fic (divided up into eleven postings) set post the successful retaking of Erebor. A sequel to Plighting Troth and Other Exigencies.
Summary: Written for the
hobbit_kink meme prompt: Just saw The Hobbit AGAIN and I can assure you - Bofur and Bilbo are totally a thing. Bofur is in love. IN LOVE I TELL YOU! I've read many great fics where Bilbo is being courted and he's not aware so... Bofur informs Bilbo he's in love and would like to get married. Bilbo is flabbergasted but Bofur is a bit clueless why would Bilbo want to reject him. Hobbits and Dwarves? Totally compatibile! Two men? Yeah, um, so? He's gonna have 1/14 of the treasure! He's been told he's a proficient lover!! Bonus points for Bifur and Bombur flanking Bofur all the time during the courting.
I
Bofur presents him with the first gift the very next morning.
Bilbo is in the cold room, about to collect supplies for breakfast-and a lot of supplies, as the only beings with more hearty appetites than hobbits are dwarves-and mentally compiling a list for his next trip to market when a throat clears itself behind him.
Starting, he turns around to find Bofur standing there, looking sheepish and holding out his closed hand.
Off Bilbo's questioning look, he blushes and clears his throat again.
“It's the next love-gift: a wrist-mounted miniature timepiece,” he says, opening his hand and revealing what looks like a silver bracelet, plainly wrought, but with a small clock-face covered with a circle of glass. The hands are even moving, like on a full-sized clock. “I invented it myself. This is the prototype.”
“Oh, Bofur-this is amazing!” Bilbo breathes, reaching out to touch the timepiece. But before he can, Bofur is grinning and enclosing it around Bilbo's left wrist. The silver is cool and somehow soft on Bilbo's skin.
“I call it a look, since you can look at it and know what time it is.” Bofur closes the complicated looking hasp and takes Bilbo's hand, holding it up a little to admire his wrist. “It looks lovely on you. But then, anything would.”
Bilbo blushes and glances at the look again. It appears to keep time precisely. But then, it's dwarven-made, so of course it does.
Bilbo smiles and hold out his arms.
With one quick glance at the door to make sure they're truly alone-and they are-Bofur goes into Bilbo's arms quickly, without hesitation, embracing Bilbo almost desperately. Lifting him up off the ground for a few moments, before putting him down and kissing him. Not quite wantonly, but intensely, with pent-up yearning that curls Bilbo's toes and makes him moan softly.
On his wrist, the look precisely ticks away the few precious seconds they have before Bifur or Bombur come to separate them.
II
It's midnight, and Bilbo can't sleep.
He's too busy thinking about his guests, who've taken up the guest bedroom (Bofur) and two of Bag End's other bedrooms.
The first day was an easy day, of getting them situated and making sure they knew house rules, but this second day, when they'll no doubt want to be out and about, exploring the Shire, well . . . the thing is, Bilbo's neighbors have already, no doubt, noticed the ponies and the dwarves who'd come straight to Bilbo's door (yet again) and have questions. But this day that approaches is the day Bilbo will have to answer them. And how will he do that, exactly?
Yes, this is my dwarf suitor and his two brothers, who are playing chaperons, since apparently, my suitor and I can't keep our hands off each other. Even though we have to for the next forty-one days, according to dwarvish custom. . . .
Bilbo rolls onto his side and sighs. It'll be hard enough explaining the fact that he's got three dwarves as guests, period, but the suitor business . . . not that his neighbors and friends will take issue with the fact that Bilbo is being courted by a dwarf, but they will find it exceedingly odd, on top of the fact that yet another Took has gone fey.
Ah, well, Bilbo thinks with almost carefree resignation. I was never going to be thought of as normal after I went on my adventure. I suppose this is just icing on the odd-cake. And so what if I'm fey! So what if I've taken a dwarf for a suitor! It's nobody's business but my own!
“Damned right!” Bilbo says out loud, rolling onto his back again and pounding the bed for emphasis.
Though, that settled, five minutes later-according to the look, which sits on his nightstand, quietly ticking to itself-he's still wide awake, and he has no idea why.
Well, he has some idea. It mostly has to do with the way Bofur had kissed him early yesterday morning, in the cold room, after giving him the look. Though Bofur'd given no sign for the rest of the day, Bilbo had known he was the subject of many a sidelong glance from the dwarf, and for his part, Bilbo had wanted nothing more than to be in Bofur's arms, being kissed as if their very lives depended on it. He'd wanted-
Bilbo starts at the soft knock at his bedroom door.
Throwing back the covers, Bilbo gets up and pads across the room. When he opens the door, he's both surprised and not to find Bofur standing there, looking nervous and hopeful at the same time. He's still wearing his day clothes, though he's eschewed the tunic for plain shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He's not wearing his hat and the braids are no longer coiled about his head, but loose around his broad shoulders.
He looks . . . every inch a gentledwarf and a suitor, and Bilbo's heart skips several beats.
Bofur bows and produces from behind his back a canvas-wrapped package.
“A bit early for gift-giving, isn't it?” Bilbo asks, smiling, and Bofur smiles back.
“Well, this gift is one I prefer to give you in private, without worrying about whether one of my brothers will walk in and see.” He holds the package out to Bilbo who takes it. It's weighty, but not heavy, and pliant. Like cloth, of some sort.
“You'd best come in, then,” Bilbo says, blushing, but standing aside to let Bofur into his bedroom. But Bofur shakes his head no, putting his hands behind his back once more.
“I'd best not, actually,” he says softly, his eyes sweeping hungrily, pointedly over Bilbo's dressing gown-clad form. “In the interests of your purity remaining . . . intact.”
Bilbo turns even redder, and he glances away from the hungry heat in Bofur's dark eyes.
“But I will stay to see you open the gift,” Bofur says after a few awkward moments, and Bilbo swallows and nods, fingers already plucking at the twine holding the canvas closed. What peeks out when he finally pushes some of the canvas back is moon-white cloth, softer than clouds, and with a faint sheen like starshine seen through mist. The one visible edge of cloth he can see is embroidered with green and silver leaves. . . .
Bilbo looks up at Bofur, gaping. “Is this-“ he begins, and Bofur nods, smiling a smile that promises many things, indeed.
“Sheets made of Lorien silk.” Bofur steps as close to Bilbo as he can without crossing the threshold of the doorway. “For our wedding night.”
That red must surely go to the tips of Bilbo's ears, now. They certainly feel hot enough.
“They're . . . beautiful. Thank you,” Bilbo whispers, clutching the sheets to his chest tightly, his eyes wide as he stares at Bofur almost pleadingly. “Are you . . . sure you don't want to come in for a little bit?”
Bofur's wicked smile turns very wry. “I'm sure I do, Bilbo. But I mustn't. Tradition.” He shrugs, resigned and agitated. Bilbo bites his lip and turns to place the sheets on the nearest convenient surface-which happens to be a chair-before turning back to Bofur, who's watching him with the same yearning and desperation that'd been in that kiss earlier.
“Well, if you won't come in here, I suppose I shall have to come out there,” Bilbo says, stepping over the threshold and into Bofur's instantly opened arms. They embrace each other loosely, looking into each other's eyes for long moments.
“I cannot wait to have you on those sheets,” Bofur murmurs and Bilbo sighs, tucking his head under Bofur's chin.
“And I can't wait to be had on those sheets,” he replies shakily, as the hardness of the previous evening presses against his abdomen . . . and it is not alone. “Though you could have me in this hallway, if you wanted. Right now.”
Bofur groans and squeezes Bilbo tight against him, his breath shuddering and shaking out of him. His hands slide down Bilbo's back, to his backside, where they clench tightly . . . before letting go. Then he takes Bilbo's arms and pushes him back a few steps. Their gazes lock, desperate and yearning meeting the same, and Bilbo reaches up to brush a few braids back over Bofur's shoulder, then caresses his face tenderly.
“Bilbo Baggins . . . our first time together as lovers will not be a rushed act in a hallway . . . no matter how much we might want that at this moment,” Bofur says ruefully, leaning into Bilbo's touch. Bilbo sighs, nodding.
“You're right-of course, you're right,” he says quietly, then crooks a half-smile at Bofur. “But it just feels as if I'll die if you don't touch me.”
Bofur cups Bilbo's face in his hands gently and leans in to kiss his eyelids, his forehead, and the tip of his nose, before kissing his lips.
“You are . . . so comely and so fair,” he says, stealing another kiss. And another, drinking them down as if they're wine. “So innocent. And I would not take that innocence from you in such a . . . disrespectful, inconsiderate manner.
“Let me follow the traditions of my people, Bilbo, and prove my love to you in a way that will make me worthy of you.”
Bilbo finds himself nodding, once more, and Bofur smiles and kisses him again, sweetly, rather than wantonly. He backs them toward the bedroom until Bilbo is in the doorway, then breaks the kiss reluctantly, his thumbs stroking Bilbo's cheeks.
“Till morning, my love,” he says, their noses brushing. Bilbo sighs again.
“Till morning.”
And with that, Bofur's gone, as silently as he'd come, leaving Bilbo to turn back into his bedroom and shut the door.
He picks up the silk sheets and hugs them to his chest again.
Thirty-nine more days of this, he thinks, with a mix of excitement and frustration.
Then placing the sheets in his mother's hope chest, he goes back to bed. He doesn't fall asleep till almost dawn, and when he does, it's with a tired, wanked-out body and a full heart.
*
That very day, the four of them and one pony set out for the market.
Bilbo is on Bofur's arm, and the pair are flanked by Bifur (with the pony) on Bofur's side, and Bombur on on Bilbo's. The stares they get-from the moment they step out of Bilbo's gate-are enough to bring a blush to Bilbo's cheeks. Never mind when Bofur leans in to whisper: “You are lovely when you blush, my dear Mister Baggins,” then kisses him on the cheek.
The dwarves, with the exception of a grumpy Bifur, greet the folks of Hobbiton pleasantly enough, with waves and smiles and nods, getting the same in return, for the most part, if a bit hesitantly. Though some of the usual suspects grumble about “that odd Baggins bringing furreners through town.”
Those to whom Bilbo introduces Bofur as his suitor seem rather unsurprised, at either Bilbo's feyness or his choice in suitors. It's a little disconcerting.
“I must say, you hobbits are quite an accepting lot,” Bofur notes after the fourth such introduction, where little surprise was evinced.
“Well, I am just confirming something they already surmised about me: I'm just as odd as every other Baggins and Took ever to live in Hobbiton.” Bilbo sighs, swinging Bofur's hand a little. It feels good around his own, both rough and gentle.
“You are an odd little thing, yes,” Bofur says fondly, giving Bilbo a sideways glance. “But you're my odd little thing.”
“Well, thanks.” Bilbo rolls his eyes, but his face heats up.
At the market place, Bombur livens up, and he and Bilbo do most of the shopping, while Bofur and Bifur do most of the carrying, along with the pony.
They get more deference in that one trip than Bilbo's ever been shown in his entire lifetime beforehand. No one bird-dogs the apricots he wants, or the squashes he likes, or the mutton he reaches for. They take one look at the brawny, tall-relatively-dwarves, and their axes, and hang back, waiting for Bilbo to be done with his picking and choosing.
I ought to come shopping with three large dwarves more often, he thinks wryly, thumping a melon and putting it back. Though, if all goes well, I'll be doing this weekly with at least one large dwarf . . . assuming that dwarf wants to live here, and not in Erebor. . . .
Frowning, Bilbo absently puts back another melon.
III
Bilbo's in his garden early on the third day. The sun's barely risen to a respectable height and there're barely any neighbors about.
It's a perfect time to get some gardening and some thinking done.
His guests are still asleep and he's glad of this, needing some time to himself. Time to get the aforementioned thinking done. And what he's mostly thinking about is going to live in Erebor . . . effectively leaving the Shire for the rest of his life.
That is, of course, if he says yes to the proposal, when it comes. And Bilbo knows himself well enough to know that unless Bofur does or says something amazingly awful in the intervening time, that he will be saying yes.
Which means that leaving the Shire is a very real possibility. And he couldn't, in all fairness, ask a dwarf to settle in with a bunch of hobbits. That'd be like asking a tiger to settle in with a bunch of housecats, he supposes, and honestly can't imagine Bofur fitting in in the Shire, anyway.
At least, he doesn't think he can imagine it. . . .
“You're up early.”
Bilbo starts, then finds himself looking up at Bofur, who's wearing clothes similar to what he'd worn on their adventure, only of finer make. And, of course, the hat. His hands are behind his back, which means the gift of the day.
Smiling, Bilbo sweeps a hand at the garden. “Won't weed itself. Believe me, I know this for a fact.”
Bofur grins. “Then perhaps it's time to present you with today's present . . . I received this from the Lady of Lorien.” Bofur brings his hands forward, and he's holding a wooden box only slightly larger than the chest of books had been. “She called me a prince of storytellers, and granted me one boon.” Proudly, Bofur opens the box to reveal . . . soil. Rich, loamy soil that smells of far off places. And there are what appears to be . . . cuttings in the soil. Bilbo's brow furrows.
“It's from her very own garden,” Bofur goes on. “When she asked what I would have of her, I begged of her earth, and cuttings from her most beautiful plants. This was what she gave me.”
Putting down his spade, Bilbo stands up and takes the heavy box, inhaling deeply.
“Oh, and there was also this,” Bofur adds, digging in his right pocket for a piece of folded parchment. “She says they're instructions on how to spread the soil and where to place the cuttings, and when.”
Bilbo looks at the instructions, then back at the box of soil and cuttings. “To be grown h-here, at Bag End, I take it?” he asks quietly, without daring to hope, and Bofur's own brow furrows.
“But of course. Where else would we grow such precious things, but our home?” Bofur takes the box of soil-which is heavy-and kneels, placing it next to the hole in which Bilbo had been rooting about. Then he looks up at Bilbo, smiling knowingly. “Even with Lorien soil to help it along, these cuttings wouldn't flourish very well under a mountain, would they?”
Bilbo kneels next to Bofur and takes off his dirty gloves. He cups Bofur's face in his hands and kisses the corner of his mouth.
“No, I suppose not,” he replies, relief flooding him, as well as a wave of gratitude and fondness and something else that proves to be as elusive in the naming as it is in the catching. All Bilbo can do is gaze into Bofur's dark eyes and wish the days would go by faster.
Finally, Bofur's arm slides around his waist, pulling him in for a real kiss. One that only ends when they're both out of breath and the sun's markedly higher in the sky.
Even as, together, they follow Lady Galadriel's instructions for spreading the soil and planting the cuttings, Bilbo can't imagine Bofur fitting in in the Shire. Can't imagine what that would look like or be like. But he knows he can't imagine the rest of his life without Bofur either, whether he fits in or not.
And he'll never have to, it's beginning to seem like. Which is good, because he's never been that long on imagination, anyway.
IV
The very next morning, quite early, Bilbo is awakened by a knock his bedroom door.
“Ungh-come in,” he calls, sitting up groggily, rubbing his eyes in the grey-yellow light of dawn. And to his utter surprise, three dwarves troop in, Bofur in the lead, carrying a tray with what appears to be . . . breakfast on it.
Bilbo rubs his eyes again, certain they've deceived him mightily.
“Good morning, love,” Bofur says warmly, approaching Bilbo's bed and sitting on the edge, next to Bilbo. He places the tray over Bilbo's legs. On it are singed pancakes, runny eggs, a bowl of lumpy porridge, and sausages cooked to perfection. And the centerpiece of this tray of delights is a small glass vase with a life-sized rose, stem and all, made out of amazingly detailed rose-gold.
Bilbo blinks up at Bofur, who's still smiling proudly. “You did all this for me?”
Bofur nods. “Well, everything except the rose. That was Fili's handiwork. I asked him to make me a rose. One that would never fade: flawless and undying.” He searches Bilbo's eyes. “Like my love for you.”
Coloring, Bilbo takes the rose-and resists the insane urge to sniff it, so life-like it is-and holds it up to the light. He turns it every which way, examining it, finding no flaws and indeed, no sign of wilting.
Then he holds the rose to his heart, tears prickling behind his eyes as he gazes into Bofur's. “Thank you. For the rose, and most especially for what it stands for,” he says, leaning in to kiss Bofur, who kisses him back with marvelous restraint that does nothing to hide the true ardor behind the kiss. They separate quickly, before Bifur and Bombur can say or do anything.
Bofur clears his throat-he's quite red about the face-and nods at the tray. “Well, eat up, before it gets cold.”
Bilbo, still holding the rose, looks down at his breakfast. At the singed pancakes, runny eggs, lumpy porridge, and perfect sausages. Then he thinks of the likely state of his kitchen.
It's the thought that counts, he tells himself, placing the rose back in its vase and taking up his fork. He starts with the comestible that's least likely to kill him: the sausages.
TBC
And there's this, which I found on the
hobbit_kink meme:
Click to view