A Good Day for Mushrooms
Title: A Good Day for Mushrooms
Series: Part 1 of Adventures of a Different Kind
Pairings: Kíli/Bilbo
Rating/Warning: NSFW; masturbation, voyeurismWord Count: 2045
Disclaimer: If I owned the Hobbit no one would die
Summary: That evening in Bag End is not the first time that Bilbo has seen the youngest Durin, but last time Kíli was wearing far less clothes.
It's a beautiful morning in Hobbiton: sunny, clear, and cold enough that the paths are clear of crowds. So after finishing first breakfast Bilbo decides to go pick some mushrooms, grabbing his coat and wicker basket before slipping of of his front door.
The halfling whistles cheerfully while he walks along, nodding to each of his neighbors as he passes them by. Despite the chill lingering in the air, most of them are out working in their gardens or smoking on the porch and Hobson Gamgee gives him a smile from between his turnip rows.
“Where are you off to on this fine morning, Mr. Baggins?” The rope-maker asks, offering Bilbo a root to nibble on.
“Nothing too fancy. Just a round of mushroom picking,” Bilbo replies with an airy wave as he accepts the other's gift. “First harvest of the season and all so you should bring your family around for supper tomorrow night. I can whip up a mean risotto when I put my mind to it.”
“We'll be there,” Hobson promises, digging his hands back into the earth. “You know how young Hamfast adores mushrooms and my dear Bell simply doesn't have the knack.”
“True enough. That wife of yours is lovely but her cooking leaves a few too many things to chance,” The other hobbit replies with a chuckle before continuing on down the path. His pace is slow, more stroll than proper walk, and the morning is growing late by the time Bilbo reaches the nearest patch of wood. But he's not in any kind of hurry so his mood is still bright as he slips off beneath the trees, keeping his eyes peeled for a flash of white amidst the brown.
It takes a few minutes of searching before his efforts are rewarded, stumbling over a fine crop of chanterelles tucked beneath a log. The mushrooms are firm and plump just as the hobbit likes them and he places them in his basket with a grin of glee. Chantarelles are a good omen this early in the season for their presence often signals a bountiful crop to come.
Indeed, Lady Luck looks down on Bilbo favorably as he continues his hunt, gifting the halfling with a fine variety: morels, lions mane, lobster mushrooms and even a few rare black truffles to top his basket off.
These will make a lovely garnish, the hobbit thinks, picking one last handful before deciding that he's done for now. After all there's no need to be greedy and it's getting on toward lunchtime anyway. So Bilbo turns around to retrace his steps back home, reveling in the dappled light and birdsong until he hears unfamiliar voices on the wind.
For a moment his heart freezes with the memory of blood and snow and terror, but then joyful peals of laughter wash his fears away. Orcs do not sound like that, the hobbit knows this for a fact and the thought allows him to relax once more.
Though once his panic leaves him, his curiosity pulls the halfling forward inescapably toward the strangers in his wood. Whether traders or tinkers or travelers, they are bound to be interesting and Bilbo walks toward the voices until he is close enough to distinguish individual words.
“... shouldn't dawdle, brother. This is hardly some pleasure jaunt we're on.”
Another laugh and then, “Relax, Fí. Uncle won't arrive for days yet and you know it, so I'm not hurting anyone. Besides, I am in desperate need of a hot meal and a bath.”
The conversation continues in a mix of Westron and another language, one that Bilbo doesn't recognize, though the companions friendly banter comes through clearly anyway.
Maybe it's two of those strange ranger folk come down from the north lands, the hobbit wonders, the linguist within him growing more excited with every word they speak. Or it could be elves, going west across the sea. Or maybe eve-
His next step comes down on empty air as the halfling nearly tumbles over the edge of the cliff beneath his feet. Only a lucky grab of the hickory beside him keeps Bilbo from falling into Millbrae pond and it's a tense few moments before he manages to pull himself and his mushrooms back to solid ground again.
The hobbit lays there panting until his heart stops trying to jump out of his chest and he curses the curiosity that always seems to get him into this kind of mess. Valar save me, that is quite enough excitement for one day; thank you very much. I should leave these folks to their business and continue on with mine.
So Bilbo climbs back to his feet, brushing the dirt and leaves off of his trousers before turning to retrace his steps. But just as he is about to start walking, he hears an odd noise from below. It sounds almost like a moan and the hobbit knows that his damnable curiosity will drive him mad for hours if he doesn't turn to look.
Besides, someone could be injured, he justifies as he sets his basket down and peeks over the edge of the cliff. At first Bilbo can't see anything out of the ordinary: the water of the pond a still and perfect mirror except where a small waterfall flows into its western end. But then the hobbit sees movement from the corner of his eye and nearly falls off the cliff again.
Because there is a dwarf standing beneath that waterfall, young and fit and wearing nothing but his skin.
You really shouldn't be watching this, the halfling tells himself firmly as a blush travels across his cheeks and yet he simply cannot tear his eyes away. Not when drops of water are glistening off well-tanned skin and long slim fingers tangle in the lad's dark hair. Not when the dwarf begins to rub soap over his chest and body, strong hands running down his thighs
Bilbo has always had a weakness for firm muscles and fine asses and now he cannot keep from drooling for this stranger is one of the most exquisite specimens that he has ever seen. After all, even well-built hobbits tend toward a farmer's stoutness, but he could climb those legs for miles without running out of skin.
And he wants to desperately.
The halfling wants to press this stranger back into the stone and kiss him like he'll never get another chance. He wants to grab handfuls of that fantastic ass and grind them together until the lad is writhing against his chest. Bilbo is half-hard just thinking about the idea, but despite the view, he knows that it's just a pretty fantasy. Even if he somehow found the courage to go down there, a dwarf like that could have anyone he wanted and the hobbit isn't delusional enough to think that person would be him.
Thus when the lad slides one hand down his stomach to wrap around his cock, Bilbo is pretty sure that he must actually be dreaming because nothing this amazing ever happens in his life. However, when the hobbit pinches his arm viciously it does nothing but hurt and so maybe this is happening after all.
Maybe the dwarf really is pumping his length slowly, head tilted back to let the water flow across his shoulders and his chest. Perhaps his other hand is teasing at his nipples, rolling them between clever fingers until each is taut and flushed. Rosy red to match his cock, growing hard and thick beneath that stroking hand.
The lad begins to moan in earnest then, soft panting gasps which fan Bilbo's desire beyond all sensible control. So the hobbit leaves sanity behind, tearing his trousers open with frantic motions, ties snapping as he finally grabs hold of his own cock.
He gives a few wild thrusts into his fist before forcing himself to slow down, trying to burn every detail of this moment into his memory. Bilbo wants this to last, wants to draw out the ache within his loins so that release is all the better and he's still half expecting to wake up alone and frustrated in bed. Thus the halfling ignores the slight twinge of his conscience at spying on this stranger, running his eyes across the other's body with every firm stroke of his hand.
A pink flash of tongue between the dwarf's full lips makes Bilbo shudder and then he has to moan as one long finger after another is sucked into his mouth. He slicks them quickly, swallowing around the digits with practiced motions and for a moment all Bilbo can think about is how those lips would look stretched wide around his cock.
The hobbit would bury his hands in that thick mane of hair as he thrust forward, holding the other still and forcing him to take all that he could give.
But it's not enough to listen and fantasize, Bilbo wants to touch him, to drive deep within him until neither can tell where they separate, and the lad seems to have a similar idea on his mind. Because barely moments later, he's spreading his legs wide to allow slick fingers to tease against his ass and when one slips inside, the wind carries his groan of pleasure to the hobbit's vantage point. The dwarf prepares himself fast and thoroughly, pressing his fingers in one after the other until he has three buried deep.
Then he turns to lean against the cliff, resting his head against the stone and unwittingly allowing his audience a perfect view while his moans pick up speed. And Bilbo's eyes are riveted, the halfling barely blinking as the lad thrusts frantically and he finds himself matching the other's rhythm stroke for stroke.
Soon their groans are mingling in Bilbo's ears, heat building inescapably within him, and when the dwarf twists his fingers, his strangled shout sends the hobbit over the edge. Bilbo falls violently, spilling seed across his fingers with a gasp of his own and then slumping back against a nearby tree.
All he can do is pant, eyes locked on the young stranger down below as he continues to chase his pleasure with impressive stamina. The muscles of the dwarf's back ripple enticingly with every motion of his arm and when he reaches down to jerk at his flushed cock again, the lad's entire body snaps taut instantly. He gives a few more shaky strokes before shuddering his release and Bilbo would have given anything to bite at that flushed skin.
But the last thing the hobbit wants is to be discovered in such a voyeuristic endeavor since he knows that he would never live it down. Besides, most people don't take well to being spied upon and getting the life beat out of him would really ruin Bilbo's afterglow.
So he wipes himself off as best he can, straightening his clothes into something slightly more presentable before grabbing his basket off the ground. His bounty of mushrooms seems no worse off for his little detour and the halfling sets off for home with a blissful smile on his lips.
He doesn't notice the amused brown eyes that watch him disappear into the trees and he certainly never expects to see that dwarf again.
Perhaps that is why Bilbo doesn't recognize the lad at first when he shows up on the hobbit's porch a few days later and introduces himself as Kíli with a bow. Or it might have more to do with the amount of clothes he's wearing since the halfling had hardly been looking at his face before. Indeed, it's only when the young dwarf struts by him that Bilbo lets out a gasp of recognition because that ass is unmistakable.
It's unmistakable even through Kíli's thick leather trousers and the hobbit is at a loss for what to do. He can hardly look at the other without blushing with memory and as much as he might love to play out his fantasies, that isn't likely to occur.
Not when, “I saw you bathing the other day and I think your ass is fantastic,” would just make him sound like a stalker and Kíli's brother looks like he knows how to use those swords. So Bilbo is almost glad for the distraction when a gaggle of dwarves falls through his front door and he forgets his embarrassment in a rush of annoyance at their abysmal manners as guests.
If emptying his pantry and tracking dirt all over his smial isn't bad enough, the last one to arrive has the nerve to call him a grocer and of course the hobbit refuses when Thorin “Can't-Even-Be-Bothered-to-Show-On-Time-When-Inviting-Himself-to-Dinner” asks him to come along.
Bilbo is a hobbit not an adventurer and while he may have dreamed of seeing the world as a child, he grew up and he's staying where he belongs. Even if he sees a hint of disappointment in Kíli's eyes at this announcement and the dwarves' lament to their homeland leaves tears rolling down his cheeks. Even if Bag End suddenly seems to echo with loneliness when he wakes to discover that his guests are gone and it comes as quite a surprise when he finds himself sprinting down the path.
What am I doing? The hobbit wonders incredulously without ever breaking stride. I am a Baggins of Bag End and I've completely lost my mind.
But when Bilbo finally catches up to the company, Kíli greets him with a brilliant smile and he knows that he made the right choice. Even if nothing happens, at least the hobbit will have tried and it's not as though anyone will miss him while he's gone. So all he needs now is the courage to make his interest known, and well, Bilbo has weeks of uneventful travel to find a way to manage that.
End
Series: Part 1 of Adventures of a Different Kind
Pairings: Kíli/Bilbo
Rating/Warning: NSFW; masturbation, voyeurismWord Count: 2045
Disclaimer: If I owned the Hobbit no one would die
Summary: That evening in Bag End is not the first time that Bilbo has seen the youngest Durin, but last time Kíli was wearing far less clothes.
It's a beautiful morning in Hobbiton: sunny, clear, and cold enough that the paths are clear of crowds. So after finishing first breakfast Bilbo decides to go pick some mushrooms, grabbing his coat and wicker basket before slipping of of his front door.
The halfling whistles cheerfully while he walks along, nodding to each of his neighbors as he passes them by. Despite the chill lingering in the air, most of them are out working in their gardens or smoking on the porch and Hobson Gamgee gives him a smile from between his turnip rows.
“Where are you off to on this fine morning, Mr. Baggins?” The rope-maker asks, offering Bilbo a root to nibble on.
“Nothing too fancy. Just a round of mushroom picking,” Bilbo replies with an airy wave as he accepts the other's gift. “First harvest of the season and all so you should bring your family around for supper tomorrow night. I can whip up a mean risotto when I put my mind to it.”
“We'll be there,” Hobson promises, digging his hands back into the earth. “You know how young Hamfast adores mushrooms and my dear Bell simply doesn't have the knack.”
“True enough. That wife of yours is lovely but her cooking leaves a few too many things to chance,” The other hobbit replies with a chuckle before continuing on down the path. His pace is slow, more stroll than proper walk, and the morning is growing late by the time Bilbo reaches the nearest patch of wood. But he's not in any kind of hurry so his mood is still bright as he slips off beneath the trees, keeping his eyes peeled for a flash of white amidst the brown.
It takes a few minutes of searching before his efforts are rewarded, stumbling over a fine crop of chanterelles tucked beneath a log. The mushrooms are firm and plump just as the hobbit likes them and he places them in his basket with a grin of glee. Chantarelles are a good omen this early in the season for their presence often signals a bountiful crop to come.
Indeed, Lady Luck looks down on Bilbo favorably as he continues his hunt, gifting the halfling with a fine variety: morels, lions mane, lobster mushrooms and even a few rare black truffles to top his basket off.
These will make a lovely garnish, the hobbit thinks, picking one last handful before deciding that he's done for now. After all there's no need to be greedy and it's getting on toward lunchtime anyway. So Bilbo turns around to retrace his steps back home, reveling in the dappled light and birdsong until he hears unfamiliar voices on the wind.
For a moment his heart freezes with the memory of blood and snow and terror, but then joyful peals of laughter wash his fears away. Orcs do not sound like that, the hobbit knows this for a fact and the thought allows him to relax once more.
Though once his panic leaves him, his curiosity pulls the halfling forward inescapably toward the strangers in his wood. Whether traders or tinkers or travelers, they are bound to be interesting and Bilbo walks toward the voices until he is close enough to distinguish individual words.
“... shouldn't dawdle, brother. This is hardly some pleasure jaunt we're on.”
Another laugh and then, “Relax, Fí. Uncle won't arrive for days yet and you know it, so I'm not hurting anyone. Besides, I am in desperate need of a hot meal and a bath.”
The conversation continues in a mix of Westron and another language, one that Bilbo doesn't recognize, though the companions friendly banter comes through clearly anyway.
Maybe it's two of those strange ranger folk come down from the north lands, the hobbit wonders, the linguist within him growing more excited with every word they speak. Or it could be elves, going west across the sea. Or maybe eve-
His next step comes down on empty air as the halfling nearly tumbles over the edge of the cliff beneath his feet. Only a lucky grab of the hickory beside him keeps Bilbo from falling into Millbrae pond and it's a tense few moments before he manages to pull himself and his mushrooms back to solid ground again.
The hobbit lays there panting until his heart stops trying to jump out of his chest and he curses the curiosity that always seems to get him into this kind of mess. Valar save me, that is quite enough excitement for one day; thank you very much. I should leave these folks to their business and continue on with mine.
So Bilbo climbs back to his feet, brushing the dirt and leaves off of his trousers before turning to retrace his steps. But just as he is about to start walking, he hears an odd noise from below. It sounds almost like a moan and the hobbit knows that his damnable curiosity will drive him mad for hours if he doesn't turn to look.
Besides, someone could be injured, he justifies as he sets his basket down and peeks over the edge of the cliff. At first Bilbo can't see anything out of the ordinary: the water of the pond a still and perfect mirror except where a small waterfall flows into its western end. But then the hobbit sees movement from the corner of his eye and nearly falls off the cliff again.
Because there is a dwarf standing beneath that waterfall, young and fit and wearing nothing but his skin.
You really shouldn't be watching this, the halfling tells himself firmly as a blush travels across his cheeks and yet he simply cannot tear his eyes away. Not when drops of water are glistening off well-tanned skin and long slim fingers tangle in the lad's dark hair. Not when the dwarf begins to rub soap over his chest and body, strong hands running down his thighs
Bilbo has always had a weakness for firm muscles and fine asses and now he cannot keep from drooling for this stranger is one of the most exquisite specimens that he has ever seen. After all, even well-built hobbits tend toward a farmer's stoutness, but he could climb those legs for miles without running out of skin.
And he wants to desperately.
The halfling wants to press this stranger back into the stone and kiss him like he'll never get another chance. He wants to grab handfuls of that fantastic ass and grind them together until the lad is writhing against his chest. Bilbo is half-hard just thinking about the idea, but despite the view, he knows that it's just a pretty fantasy. Even if he somehow found the courage to go down there, a dwarf like that could have anyone he wanted and the hobbit isn't delusional enough to think that person would be him.
Thus when the lad slides one hand down his stomach to wrap around his cock, Bilbo is pretty sure that he must actually be dreaming because nothing this amazing ever happens in his life. However, when the hobbit pinches his arm viciously it does nothing but hurt and so maybe this is happening after all.
Maybe the dwarf really is pumping his length slowly, head tilted back to let the water flow across his shoulders and his chest. Perhaps his other hand is teasing at his nipples, rolling them between clever fingers until each is taut and flushed. Rosy red to match his cock, growing hard and thick beneath that stroking hand.
The lad begins to moan in earnest then, soft panting gasps which fan Bilbo's desire beyond all sensible control. So the hobbit leaves sanity behind, tearing his trousers open with frantic motions, ties snapping as he finally grabs hold of his own cock.
He gives a few wild thrusts into his fist before forcing himself to slow down, trying to burn every detail of this moment into his memory. Bilbo wants this to last, wants to draw out the ache within his loins so that release is all the better and he's still half expecting to wake up alone and frustrated in bed. Thus the halfling ignores the slight twinge of his conscience at spying on this stranger, running his eyes across the other's body with every firm stroke of his hand.
A pink flash of tongue between the dwarf's full lips makes Bilbo shudder and then he has to moan as one long finger after another is sucked into his mouth. He slicks them quickly, swallowing around the digits with practiced motions and for a moment all Bilbo can think about is how those lips would look stretched wide around his cock.
The hobbit would bury his hands in that thick mane of hair as he thrust forward, holding the other still and forcing him to take all that he could give.
But it's not enough to listen and fantasize, Bilbo wants to touch him, to drive deep within him until neither can tell where they separate, and the lad seems to have a similar idea on his mind. Because barely moments later, he's spreading his legs wide to allow slick fingers to tease against his ass and when one slips inside, the wind carries his groan of pleasure to the hobbit's vantage point. The dwarf prepares himself fast and thoroughly, pressing his fingers in one after the other until he has three buried deep.
Then he turns to lean against the cliff, resting his head against the stone and unwittingly allowing his audience a perfect view while his moans pick up speed. And Bilbo's eyes are riveted, the halfling barely blinking as the lad thrusts frantically and he finds himself matching the other's rhythm stroke for stroke.
Soon their groans are mingling in Bilbo's ears, heat building inescapably within him, and when the dwarf twists his fingers, his strangled shout sends the hobbit over the edge. Bilbo falls violently, spilling seed across his fingers with a gasp of his own and then slumping back against a nearby tree.
All he can do is pant, eyes locked on the young stranger down below as he continues to chase his pleasure with impressive stamina. The muscles of the dwarf's back ripple enticingly with every motion of his arm and when he reaches down to jerk at his flushed cock again, the lad's entire body snaps taut instantly. He gives a few more shaky strokes before shuddering his release and Bilbo would have given anything to bite at that flushed skin.
But the last thing the hobbit wants is to be discovered in such a voyeuristic endeavor since he knows that he would never live it down. Besides, most people don't take well to being spied upon and getting the life beat out of him would really ruin Bilbo's afterglow.
So he wipes himself off as best he can, straightening his clothes into something slightly more presentable before grabbing his basket off the ground. His bounty of mushrooms seems no worse off for his little detour and the halfling sets off for home with a blissful smile on his lips.
He doesn't notice the amused brown eyes that watch him disappear into the trees and he certainly never expects to see that dwarf again.
Perhaps that is why Bilbo doesn't recognize the lad at first when he shows up on the hobbit's porch a few days later and introduces himself as Kíli with a bow. Or it might have more to do with the amount of clothes he's wearing since the halfling had hardly been looking at his face before. Indeed, it's only when the young dwarf struts by him that Bilbo lets out a gasp of recognition because that ass is unmistakable.
It's unmistakable even through Kíli's thick leather trousers and the hobbit is at a loss for what to do. He can hardly look at the other without blushing with memory and as much as he might love to play out his fantasies, that isn't likely to occur.
Not when, “I saw you bathing the other day and I think your ass is fantastic,” would just make him sound like a stalker and Kíli's brother looks like he knows how to use those swords. So Bilbo is almost glad for the distraction when a gaggle of dwarves falls through his front door and he forgets his embarrassment in a rush of annoyance at their abysmal manners as guests.
If emptying his pantry and tracking dirt all over his smial isn't bad enough, the last one to arrive has the nerve to call him a grocer and of course the hobbit refuses when Thorin “Can't-Even-Be-Bothered-to-Show-On-Time-When-Inviting-Himself-to-Dinner” asks him to come along.
Bilbo is a hobbit not an adventurer and while he may have dreamed of seeing the world as a child, he grew up and he's staying where he belongs. Even if he sees a hint of disappointment in Kíli's eyes at this announcement and the dwarves' lament to their homeland leaves tears rolling down his cheeks. Even if Bag End suddenly seems to echo with loneliness when he wakes to discover that his guests are gone and it comes as quite a surprise when he finds himself sprinting down the path.
What am I doing? The hobbit wonders incredulously without ever breaking stride. I am a Baggins of Bag End and I've completely lost my mind.
But when Bilbo finally catches up to the company, Kíli greets him with a brilliant smile and he knows that he made the right choice. Even if nothing happens, at least the hobbit will have tried and it's not as though anyone will miss him while he's gone. So all he needs now is the courage to make his interest known, and well, Bilbo has weeks of uneventful travel to find a way to manage that.
End