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Lobelia resented the insinuation that she was a thief. It was utterly inaccurate and highly offensive that much of Hobbiton thought her such. In recent days – after that blasted Bilbo Baggins’ discovery of his missing spoons – she had noticed half of the Shire clutching their purses a little closer whenever passing her in the marketplace, holding their belongings behind skirts and deep in pockets.

Ludicrous, really. The very thought that she, Lobelia Bracegirdle, was no better than a common pickpocket or other ne’re-do-well was laughable.

No, Lobelia rather thought she was better than that.

In fact, before the bloody teaspoons, she had never once been caught. In her estimation, that made her so much more than a mere thief.

A necklace here, a knickknack there, she’d made quite the game of it too, until Bilbo, the utter wretch, had returned from whatever awful corner of the world he’d been skulking in with a knapsack full of treasure – actual treasure – and a dwarf on his arm. And then, with the discovery of his missing silverware, her fun had been drawn to an abrupt close.

And now there were dwarves in Bag End.

It simply wasn’t done.

Lobelia had no quarrel with the dwarves themselves, oh no. More the fact that somehow Bilbo had invited them to stay indefinitely, whereas she – having forfeited any claim to the smial with her divorce from Otho – remained only a casual visitor. Which was utterly ridiculous as there was no way such uncouth creatures would know how to behave in a hobbit dwelling.

Or so she’d thought. And then that awful Bilbo had invited her to dinner and her eyes had been rather forcibly opened.

She didn’t know why he’d extended such an outlandish request, especially after the spoon debacle. Bilbo wasn’t really one for company at the best of times, and hosting eight hobbits and dwarves – herself included – felt like it would have normally been an imposition.

As it stood, he’d been nothing but smiles the whole evening; flitting between his betrothed’s side and the wine cellar, playing the ever-gracious host. A barefaced lie if she’d ever seen one.

Bilbo Baggins did not like people in his smial. Bilbo Baggins did not like mess and disarray. Bilbo Baggins did not like her.

So why was he acting like he did?

Humming politely at something Falco was blathering on about, Lobelia cast her eyes to where the hobbit in question was scurrying around in the kitchen. They’d already eaten – loath as she was to admit it, the food had been rather good – and the plates miraculously cleared away in record time by the four dwarves that now stood laughing at the sink.

They really were a strange lot. The one with his hair styled into peaks simply would not shut up, cackling about some smudge of grime on the barbarian-looking one’s tunic, earning himself an eyeroll and a nudge for his efforts. And as for the other two…

Well. That had been rather the surprise.

Sipping her drink as she eyed them up, Lobelia was still struggling to comprehend how similar they were in both appearance and manner. Both dark-haired, tall and imposing with short beards. In fact, they were so similar that there were only two defining characteristics she had noticed that held them separate.

The first was that the one that was Bilbo’s betrothed – Thorin, she believed his name was – had a scar running the length of his face, from brow to mid-cheek. It was nasty; pink and still fairly recent, by the looks of things. What had happened for him to sustain such an injury was beyond her.

The other dwarf, and she still did not know his name, did not have a scar there, but that did not mean he was devoid of such marks. His muscled forearms had more than a few streaks of white decorating them, and his broad hands were speckled with little blotches. From what she knew of dwarves, which frankly was not a lot, they were probably from forge work or similar. He’d rolled his sleeves up as the four of them had carried out the washing up with militant precision, and the well-defined muscles found there now almost glowed under the lamplight.

Lobelia was staunchly not thinking about it.

The second of the distinguishing characteristics between the pair was the fact that, even though they were both rather quieter than their two compatriots, Thorin was by far the more talkative. He chatted to Bilbo frequently, often earning himself a playful whip of a tea towel or similar. It was sickeningly domestic.

The other dwarf was all but silent. Lobelia wasn’t even certain she’d heard his voice at all. Not that she wanted to, but it would have been nice to be introduced. Yet another failure of their absent-minded host.

In fact, he was so distracted that Lobelia fancied playing a little game. So far, it was going rather well.

Her pocket didn’t jingle – the doily she’d shoved in there masking all noise of the butterknives. And oh, it would be so utterly worth it to hear the consternation in Bilbo’s voice when he discovered every single one of them missing, even if she was sure to be the primary suspect. Lobelia really didn’t care about the hit her already fragile reputation would undoubtedly take because this was about sending a message more than anything else. It was so unbelievably rude to invite her to an event and then ignore her for the whole evening. It would serve him right.

Never mind the fact that she was far too busy shooting glances at Thorin’s apparent twin to entertain any form of conversation.

The only person outside of Falco to pay her any mind was the strange dwarf with the spiky hair, although that had mostly been contained to a glance here and a smile there with no real communication to be had. No one would miss her if she stepped away now.

Excusing herself from the horribly boring chat she’d been having with Falco, she placed her empty glass down on an end table and slowly walked from the room, only stopping to collect her umbrella and hat from the hallway before disappearing into the night; her ill-gotten gains burning a hole in her pocket.

She’d moved to Frogmorton some months prior, and the walk was thankfully not that far, but it did send her through Bywater. A much-needed escape from the stuffiness of Bilbo’s smoke-filled smial.

Goodness, those dwarves certainly put away pipeweed! Inhaling the cool night air, she relished in the feeling of not having her lungs choked by the stuff. A silly thing indeed.

The road was quiet this time of night and the sensation of the dusty path against her feet did nothing more than relax her as she sauntered down the road towards the Three Farthing Stone. She was feeling altogether a little smug.

Naturally, that did not last long.

Somewhere around the time she passed into Bywater proper, she heard it. A soft shuffling coming from the lane behind her; a sound entirely unlike the footfalls of a hobbit, but steps nonetheless, which only really meant one thing.

Lobelia’s blood ran cold as she realised she was being followed by a dwarf. That she’d been discovered so soon – and by one of Bilbo’s houseguests at that – was bordering on humiliating. She hadn’t got away with it at all. This was worse than the spoons, worse than being caught in the act itself. She was being hunted.

And then a sickening thought struck. No wonder the one with the pointed hair had been staring at her, he’d been watching her movements from the start. That no-good Bilbo Baggins had ordered her to be surveyed like a common criminal. The utter cheek of it all! She had a good mind to pay a visit to the Thain over this.

Fearing the worst, Lobelia neither looked back or broke into a run. She quickened her steps, striding through the square with purpose, but as her pursuer grew closer she knew she had to do something to lose them. As she turned a corner, she spotted the thin passageway leading to the rear of the Green Dragon inn and without a second thought slipped away to hide behind the pub.

Her deception seemingly worked, for as she stood – back pressed against the boards and heart in her mouth – the sound of footsteps died away around the other side of the inn.

Lobelia exhaled hard, the fear and frustration leaving her in waves as she sagged back against the boards. She remained undiscovered. Sticking her head out into the passageway, she risked a glance at the main thoroughfare. It was eerily deserted for Highday, but that was a good thing. Fewer people to witness her flight from Bilbo’s dwarf.

She was so preoccupied looking for her pursuer that she didn’t see the broad hand looming from the darkness until it caught her by the scruff of her dress, dragging her back against the wall with a yelp of horror. That too was cut off as a second palm slapped over her mouth, silencing her cry.

There was no way she could defend herself. Her umbrella had fallen to the floor, her hat following it, and the hands that pinned her back were far stronger than her own and-

“What have we here?” a deep, but still decidedly feminine voice rumbled in her ear, and oh my, it was the dwarf that looked almost identical to Bilbo’s betrothed.

Lobelia didn’t know much about dwarves in general, but she’d considered her knowledge to be of passing quality.

It seemed she had been mistaken on that.

“Y-you’re a woman?” she spluttered as the hand withdrew.

The dwarf chuckled, her blue eyes sparkling in the night. “Dwarrowdam or simply dam is preferable. But yes. I understand where your confusion may have come from.”

Lobelia cast her eyes down over the short beard, resolutely not focussing on the mouth it framed. There was a tiny scar bisecting her top lip, the little white streak cutting through rosy pink as if she’d taken a blade to the face. She probably had.

Lobelia gulped. “The, ah, beard. From a distance I thought you were… oh, never mind. What is it you-”

She was cut off when she became acutely aware of a hand that was not her own making its way into her pocket. Lobelia very nearly shrieked but before she could protest, to her absolute horror, the knives were in the dwarrowdam’s hand.

“When Nori informed me that you had made a hasty exit, I suspected as much,” she murmured, pushing the doily aside with her thumb and eyeing the maker’s mark on the handles with disdain. “I had hoped to catch you before you vanished altogether to see if I was correct. It appears I was.”

Lobelia felt her cheeks heat. She’d been caught red-handed. In an attempt to save face, or some other vain notion, she squared her jaw and stared up at the dwarrowdam in steely rage.

“And just what gives you the right to follow me and go through my pockets like that? That is simply not done here-”

“And is spending your entire evening staring at a stranger done here, or is that simply something you do?”

Ah. She’d noticed.

Blast.

“I-I hardly think that warrants chasing someone down,” Lobelia choked out, shuffling a little. Goodness, regardless of gender the dwarrowdam was extremely attractive. Her flustered demeanour really wasn’t helped by the fact she was backed against the wall with the towering woman forcing her to practically melt into the boards. Something in her was rather enjoying this exchange and Lobelia wasn’t entirely sure it was innocent.

Then the dwarrowdam spoke and changed everything.

“I think it does,” she murmured, leaning forwards a little more. “You have obviously seen something you like. As have I.”

O-oh Yavana’s green gardens.

It was forward. Almost too forward, but Lobelia found that for once she really didn’t care. There was a tall, gorgeous dwarrowdam practically pinning her to the wall, breathing such words into her ear in husky tones… and she was more than willing to see where this was going.

“Y-you have?” she whispered.

The dam nodded. “Mm, I have indeed. Besides, I know who these knives belong to, little thief. Shall we drag a confession from you?”

“O-oh.” The phrase little thief sent a great swooping feeling through her lower stomach. The dwarrowdam had somehow found a part of herself that even Lobelia hadn’t known existed, and despite the fact she utterly resented being called as such, it was apparently more than palatable when purred into her ear by a tall, muscular dam… who was looking at her with a heavy gaze, filled with intent.

Well. Lobelia was not a prude by any standards, and the firm form before her was tempting. And surely, it would be rude to not entertain a guest to the Shire. She was dutybound to make certain this imposing dwarrowdam left well fed and satisfied with her visit.

Arching a brow and pulling up to her full height, Lobelia levelled a careful stare at the stranger.

“Then I suppose you will simply have to interrogate me. Thoroughly, mind you.”

The dwarrowdam tilted her head, the start of a sly smile playing around her lips. “A brave response, little thief. Tell me, do you think you are up to the task? Stronger beings than you have struggled when subjected to my methods.”

Lobelia was nothing if not up for a challenge… especially when said challenge was sending her pulse haywire down below. Reaching out to trail her fingertips over the dam’s forearm – and supressing her smirk at the sharp intake of breath that accompanied it – she lowered her voice further.

“You have obviously not interrogated many hobbits. I believe I am more than up to the task. Besides, I could be hiding more silverware. You’d be remiss not to check.”

Regardless of how much she thought about it after the fact, mulling over the events of the evening with a dark-haired form tucked up beside her in bed, Lobelia was never totally sure what happened next. The dwarrowdam must have kissed her… or did she kiss the dwarrowdam? It was unclear, but what remained an undeniable fact was that Lobelia was kissed.

And what a kiss. She whined as the dam’s lips slid over her own, a heady, woodsy scent pervading her senses as she breathed her in. And then breathing became a secondary concern when those strong hands dragged up her arms – the slight dig of the metal butterknives into her skin entirely forgettable – to press her shoulders back into the wooden boards of the inn, and then the dam licked her way past the seal of her lips to claim her mouth completely.

This was decidedly not like kissing a hobbit. It was better. Dear Yavanna, was it better.

The scrub of the dam’s beard against her face – a source of confusion at first – had become an aching rasp; addictive and coarse, only serving to heighten Lobelia’s growing want as she was roughly pushed into the planks. And the size difference… She had not understood Bilbo’s fascination with the broad, bulky dwarves until that very moment. Hard muscle and towering height, caging her in and all but crushing her.

Lobelia rather liked the idea of being crushed.

“What-” she inhaled raggedly as the dam pulled back, giving her a moment to catch her breath. “What do I call you?”

“I have many names,” the dam murmured, and Lobelia felt rather smug at the obvious breathlessness in her voice. “But you may call me Dís.”

Dís. It was a nice name; foreign to her ears but somehow perfect, nonetheless. “Then you may call me Lobelia.”

Dís smirked, leaning back in to ghost her lips over Lobelia’s trembling mouth once more. “Should you earn my respect, I may. Until then, you will remain little thief to me.”

To her utter surprise, Lobelia moaned; the sound spilling forth entirely unbidden, and reality came crashing back. Oh goodness. That… that was humiliating. To have such an unseemly noise tear from her throat was surely the most mortifying of embarrassments – and in public, no less! Never mind the fact that Bywater remained deserted, with nothing but the quiet shufflings of the creatures of the night to keep them company.

It was a scandal! It was an outrage! It was simply not done!

A low snarl had her flicking her gaze back up and… oh. It appeared dwarves were not quite so driven to propriety. Not at all.

“I will devour you, little thief,” Dís rasped, eyes bright in the dark as they dragged over her body. “I will consume you and have you at my mercy, and I will not stop until you beg me to.”

This time Lobelia was all too aware of her cry, and it was – in part – allowed. How anyone could have imagined her to stay silent after hearing such a thing was beyond her. But she was no shrinking violet.

“You can try,” she replied, willing her voice not to wobble. “If you can make me beg it would be a feat none have yet accomplished.”

Dís shot her a devious little smile. “I have my ways. Hands and mouth are acceptable, I presume.”

“M-more than acceptable.” It was getting harder and harder to reply, especially as the hands that had remained at her shoulders had begun to skate back down over her arms, the bundle of butterknives still locked in her grasp catching on the fabric of her dress.

Dís nodded. “If I do anything you do not like, tell me to stop. As much as I am looking forwards to having my way with you until you cannot stand, I would not cause you any real distress.”

It was oddly considerate. Lobelia wasn’t exactly used to this level of thoroughness from a sexual partner… but then again, most of her previous experiences had consisted of quick fumbles in cornfields or telling Otho not to try and stick her up the arse again. Not delicious dwarrowdams with the most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen. Maybe this is how it always should be. Expectations and boundaries stated upfront, instead of halfway through when one wrong move could ruin what had been built. Maybe-

She was dragged from her musings with a mild yelp by the most unforeseen of things. Dís’ hand, still holding the butterknives, had reached her exposed forearm and… oh, wasn’t that strange? The gentle scrape of a dull blade against her skin was like a shock, sending a bolt of something straight through her and Lobelia shuddered in response.

Dís – who had been clearly moving to put the knives away – paused.

“Did you like that?” she murmured, tracing the metal back up her arm and ohh, Lobelia most definitely liked that. She nodded, breathing suddenly a tad harsher than it had been a moment ago, and Dís… Dís grinned.

“As much as Bilbo would loath me saying so, these knives are blunt. They will not harm you, and neither will I.” She inclined her head, casting all but one of them to the floor. “I can continue, if it would please you.”

It most definitely would. Without even a second thought towards the oddness of the action (because really, she was being ravished by a dwarrowdam behind the Green Dragon, what could be stranger than that?) Lobelia allowed Dís to trail the blade up and over her sleeve, nearly gasping when silver met her clavicle. The barely-there touch of cool metal to her skin was almost maddening in its teasing approach, caressing parts of her that she wished Dís would take her mouth to.

Lobelia was beginning to think the dam wouldn’t have an issue eliciting any form of begging from her. She’d been slowly soaking through her smalls for a while now and as of yet, no clothing had been removed.

As if sensing the direction her thoughts had taken, Dís smirked and then Lobelia found herself once again being kissed in a slow, toe-curlingly lush manner, the flat blade dragging down between them to trace the swell of her breasts. She had no idea which aspect of the embrace was pushing her to the brink of insanity more; the slow slide of Dís’ lips against her own or the fact she was caressing her chest with what had essentially become an extension of her fingertips. She twisted, attempting to press her breasts further into the dam’s grasp, but Dís infuriatingly retreated.

“This is a punishment, little thief,” she murmured softly. “You must abide by my methods, or the repercussions will be severe.”

Lobelia wanted severe. She wanted to be completely and thoroughly wrecked, and damn the consequences… but this little game they had begun could not be stalled by her own wants and desires. Dís was methodical in her approach, working her over from head to toe in a slow perusal downwards and interrupting was not something she wanted to do.

Saying that, Lobelia didn’t have to wait long as barely seconds after their lips touched once more, she felt a firm hand move up from her waist and a sharp gasp forced its way through her lips as Dís cupped her breast, palming her through her dress.

“Oh,” she moaned as clever fingers immediately found where the fabric peaked over her hard nipple, gently plucking and stroking as if she had all the time in the world for this. Lobelia was so desperate to feel her against her skin now, but she was resolute in letting Dís do what she wanted, regardless of how much it ached.

And then she resisted no more as within moments her sleeves were being roughly yanked down her arms to flop by her sides, and cold air hit her exposed chest as Dís ripped through her stays, as easy as if she were tearing paper.

As they fell away, so did the top half of her dress, pooling around her waist in a loose mess of cloth, but Lobelia hardly cared because Dís was staring at her in a way that made all else seem superfluous in comparison.

“Bunmel,” she breathed, reaching out to trace the cool blade over an aroused nipple. Lobelia tried not to keen at the featherlight touch. It was nothing but a prelude; a tease of what was sure to occur, and she needed it like she needed air. Those searing eyes, tracking a line across her chest as it heaved, each lungful heavy and ragged from the state of neediness she’d been driven to. It didn’t matter that she had no notion as to what Dís had meant by that strange word. She felt as if the definition was clear enough in the way her gaze held heady and laden with promise.

Quite without warning, the dwarrowdam stooped and, with one arm pressing her back into the wall, licked a stripe over the swell of her breast and to her collarbone.

“Ohhh, yess!” Lobelia moaned, her cries only increasing as Dís’ lips latched around her nipple, drawing it into her mouth to lash it with her tongue and Yavanna, she was so good. Her very movements were practiced and controlled, but they were edged with this undeniable passion that spoke of very real need.

One could only imagine what she’d be capable of delivering on down below.

The moment the thought struck, Dís pulled back to trail the butterknife down the curve of her other breast and past her waist.

“Are you wet?” She purred, tracing the seam where Lobelia’s leg met her hip with the dull blade. “You are. I can almost smell you.”

And then she dropped to her knees and Lobelia felt her face turn scarlet. Tracing the contours of her upper body had been intense enough, but as Dís’ hands slipped beneath her skirts, caressing up her calves with slow, deliberate strokes, she could feel the heat between her thighs building to a fever pitch.

“Lift,” the dwarrowdam said, holding her dress up, and Lobelia complied instantly. A sharp pinch at her hip nearly made her jump, but Dís’ steadying grip prevented her from moving.

“Careful,” she murmured, dipping out from below her skirts to shoot Lobelia a lopsided smirk. “I would not wish to cut you unintentionally.”

Oh. Oh.

Lobelia whimpered, resisting the urge to clench her thighs together. The flat of a blade was pressed into her skin. And it was certainly not a butterknife.

She was more turned on than she’d ever been in her entire life.

The noise of a knife slicing through fabric only made it worse, because dear Yavanna, was Dís… was she cutting away her underwear?! She couldn’t see below her skirts, the thick material obstructing any view other than that of the dam’s dark head.

But she could feel. The slick slide of metal against her skin, the very tip of the blade scraping but never catching… and then the flutter of lace as her smalls fell away; first dropping from her hips in a susurrus of fabric, then trailing down her legs as Dís stripped her cunt bare.

The dwarrowdam inhaled sharply; the knife slowly withdrawing from her skin as she took her in, and Lobelia could only stand there, clutching at her skirts and fighting back a moan as breath ghosted over her exposed flesh.

This was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. The implications if someone caught her here, behind the bloody Green Dragon with a kneeling dwarrowdam between her thighs and almost all of her bare for the whole Shire to see… it was insanity! It was not done!

It was perfection.

And that heat – that wonderful, blazing heat – only increased when Dís leant forwards to press a kiss to her slit. Lobelia hissed, her head falling back against the boards with a light thump.

She couldn’t actually remember the last time anyone had done this to her. Certainly not Otho, he was far too prudish for such nonsense. Lanterns extinguished, sex only carried out beneath the covers and all that. No, it would have been some dalliance of her youth. One of the farm boys, perhaps. Eager to please and overenthusiastic in their approach. But it had never been like this.

Dís teased; her tongue lightly tracing the shape of her, staunchly avoiding her clit. Each time she came close, her path swerved down, collecting the wetness that seeped out before smearing it back over her skin, almost as if she were painting a picture. It was so utterly erotic that Lobelia could not help the way she sagged; her knees trembling as she struggled to hold herself upright.

She felt Dís smile rather than saw it. Her lips quirked up, narrowly missing where Lobelia needed her attentions most, but all thoughts of frustration fled when two strong hands latched over her behind and she was pushed into the wall.

“Let me take your weight,” Dís said, doing just that with as much ease as if she carried a sack of flour. Her shoulders were between Lobelia’s legs now, forcing her to widen her stance – to spread herself open – but she no longer shook. Well, not from her lack of balance, at least. No, her quivers now had more to do with the fact her whole body was perched atop the strong muscles of a dwarrowdam, who had returned to lightly lapping at her core.

Oh, she was twitching. She was actually twitching. Her clit spasmed each time Dís’ tongue came close, the intense pressure building and piling up with every would-be touch until finally Lobelia could take no more.

“P-please,” she whimpered, well aware she had resorted to begging, despite her assurances otherwise. “I-I can’t-”

To her utter consternation, Dís pulled away to shoot her an amused glance through her lashes.

“Patience, little thief,” she gentled. “You can and you will. But first you must learn all good things come to those who wait… and you will wait for me, Lobelia.”

The way her name fell from Dís’ lips – her accented tones caressing each syllable – sent a pulse straight to her cunt and she actually felt the gush of wetness at the sound.

Her name in Dís’ mouth. Her very body under Dís’ tongue.

This dwarrowdam was going to kill her… but Lobelia always rose to the challenge and she. Would. Wait. Balling her hands up in the fabric of her skirt, she set her shoulders and braced herself against the wall, ready for another onslaught.

As if sensing the change in her demeanour, Dís cocked her head to the side. Her eyes ran down and over her bunched fists and rigid spine.

And then she smiled.

“Good girl,” she whispered, and before Lobelia even had a chance to react to that, her tongue was pressing against the one part she needed to be touched most of all.

“Ah!” Lobelia keened, one hand releasing her dress to slap over her mouth, muffling her cries as Dís ravished her. For there was no mistaking what this was; a ravishing, plain and simple. Lobelia’s body was hers to toy with, hers to devour, and she wanted every last bit of it. The flick of Dís’ tongue against her clit was maddening and Lobelia yearned to tangle her hands in all that thick, dark hair and press her against it, but to do so would result in her dropping the heavy skirt and that would not do. But the temptation only grew, mounting further with every passing second.

A light pressure at her opening ripped another muffled wail from her, but it was nothing compared to the almost shriek as one of those lovely wide fingers slowly pressed inside her, breaching her in a wonderful slide of slick pleasure.

And Dís’ fingers were big. Bigger and thicker than her own, and certainly more so than any hobbit’s… and this was just one. With a harsh gasp, she canted her hips forward, pushing the digit further in as the kneeling dam only chuckled.

“Needy,” Dís murmured, the vibrations rocking straight through her core. Lobelia only moaned in response, pitching back against her finger to meet every little thrust with one of her own.

And then Dís’ tongue met her clit once more and she howled. The sensation of cold air hitting her wet breasts combined with the ministrations she was enduring from below was just right, just enough, and Lobelia felt with sudden sparkling clarity that she was hurtling towards a precipice with no brakes.

“I’m-I’m-” she couldn’t even get the full sentence out, her body twisting and clenching against the building wave of pleasure, but it seemed Dís understood because moments later that wonderful, delightful, lovely finger crooked inside her and suddenly every last nerve ending in her body was on fire.

Her orgasm was almost blinding in its intensity, and Lobelia was under no illusion that if Dís hadn’t been holding her upright she would have fallen to the ground immediately. Regardless, as waves of pleasure licked through her body she felt herself being slowly lowered onto the grass, legs boneless beneath her. When she finally became aware enough to look up and take in what had happened, it was into a slightly smug bearded face, wet with her own slick.

“I do not believe I need ask if that was enjoyable for you,” Dís chuckled, sweeping a thumb over her mouth and licking it clean, and despite the state of woozy satisfaction she was in, Lobelia could not suppress a whimper at the sight. That the dam looked so put together, so totally at ease after doing what she had just done… part of her wanted to see exactly what it would take for Dís to lose her composure.

The rest of her was fixated on the dark little look in her eyes that was only growing more intense with each passing second. That look was dangerous.

As it turned out, this was a brand of danger Lobelia quite liked.

“… you’re not done with me, are you.”

Dís shook her head. “Have your previous experiences been so lacking that you would think us done after such a short time? I pity the halfwits that believed that was enough.”

With a little hum, Lobelia waved her hand vaguely. “Oh please, pity away. If it means I get more of you then I am most in favour of a little commiseration.”

She laughed. “Fools. They did not know what a delectable creature they had, or else you would have been worshiped each and every time, until you could no longer take any more. No, allow me to educate you on what it means to lie with me.”

And, without any further ado, Dís pushed her gently back in the grass, the blades tickling her bare back, but all thoughts of that fled when the dam tossed her coat to one side and crawled over the top of her to seal their mouths together once more.

It was a carefully controlled thing; Dís’ weight mostly taken by her forearms as she kissed her, but Lobelia found herself pinned to the ground, nonetheless; caged in by those lovely muscles. Her legs, already spread wide, unconsciously wrapped around Dís’ hips and the dam smiled against her lips.

“So eager,” she whispered into Lobelia’s open mouth, stifling her little cry with a firm kiss. “You came from such simple things. I wonder… how many fingers can you take before your body will only respond to my hand?”

The feeling of a digit teasing once more against her cunt had her moaning, and thanks to Dís’ earlier attentions, it simply slid straight inside. The dam herself exhaled sharply at that and struck a slow rhythm, pumping through her wetness with a soft squelching that under normal circumstances would have been repulsive. But not now. Gods, not now.

A loud bang from somewhere off in the distance made Lobelia jump and suddenly, to her utmost horror, voices spilled out into the night. They were still outside. They were still in public, and the risk of discovery was a true worry. The little bubble she had inhabited with Dís up until that very moment had remained solely theirs so far, but now… now there were others about. Detection could be imminent.

And that was a very real concern, considering the fact that she recognised the loudest of the voices.

“Anyone up for a nightcap?” the unmistakeable drunken slur of Otho Sackville-Baggins, her ex-husband, called out into the night.

Lobelia froze. She barely felt Dís withdraw her finger.

“You’ve had enough already,” one of the others called. “Come on, we’ll see you home.”

Otho made a noncommittal noise of disgust. “You’re no fun, you lot. Can’t a hobbit get drunk with his friends anymore?”

“Not when he spends the whole time moaning about his ‘bitch of an ex-wife’.”

Oh. That’s what this was about.

Trying not to let her frustration show on her face, Lobelia fought against a rising tide of disappointment. Their separation had been simple and – mostly – amicable. No faunts, and their assets split neatly, with enough afforded to her to allow a smial in Frogmorton, far enough away from both Sackville and Hardbottle that she did not have to risk running into either her ex or her unhappy family. Everybody won.

But apparently not in Otho’s eyes.

“Yes, well you didn’t marry her,” he snorted. “A good decade of my life tied to that witch, and what do I get in return? An argumentative trollop who couldn’t cook to save her life. Throw in the fact I have to find some other bird to get pregnant, just to have a successor. By rights, I should be a father by now. She wasn’t even that good looking.”

Was that… was that really what he thought of her? Not that it mattered anymore, but that he’d held back on these feelings for ten years and now spilled them freely to relative strangers at the inn… it hurt.

She was so wrapped up in frustration and disgust that she barely heard Dís’ breathed question.

“Are you alright?”

Turning back to the concerned dwarrowdam, her heart twinged miserably. Dís’ face was full of genuine worry for her wellbeing, and part of Lobelia idly wished she’d been married to someone like her for all these years. Someone who actually asked after her feelings. Someone considerate. Someone who knew how to handle her body.

“It’s my ex-husband,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “I suppose now I’ll be subjected to listening to every complaint he had of me over the years. Miserable git.”

Dís stilled.

“He… he is speaking ill of you?”

“Yes,” Lobelia murmured, completely missing the way her hands flexed at the confirmation. “Probably thinks he’s well within his rights too. I’m sorry you have to hear that.”

“You are sorry?”

Lobelia looked away. “You didn’t sign up for this. I’m sure he’ll get bored in a minute and leave-”

She was barely able to stifle her cry as lips pressed to her neck, teeth running down to the juncture of her throat and shoulder.

“Dís!” Lobelia hissed. “What are you-”

“Giving you something else to think on,” she growled, her voice suddenly almost feral beneath the blanket of night. “You can say no, Lobelia. I will stop if you so ask.”

“They could hear!”

“Say no.”

“B-but…”

She couldn’t. Lobelia actually could not say no, not whilst Dís’ hands were still touching her, not whilst she lay in the grass, bare breasts pushed up into the dwarrowdam’s soft tunic.

She needed this.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice breaking as Dís ran her tongue down to her collarbone. A satisfied hum was all the warning she had before that finger – the one that had seen to her end before – unerringly found her opening once more.

“Let me show you how beautiful you are, Lobelia,” Dís murmured, driving back inside her and drawing a small cry from her throat in the process. “Let me show you what you do to me.”

Oh, her hands. They were so much larger than Lobelia’s own, each callus a storied drag against her walls, making her clench and writhe. And before she could even begin to acclimatise to the wonderous feeling of being so full, a second finger was joining the first, forcing a harsh pant from her as they pumped in and out, filling her entirely.

She could still hear the words spoken around the front of the Green Dragon, but they were so utterly secondary now as Dís fucked her in the grass, the flat of her tongue making broad stripes over her nipple. And when she took it into her mouth, Lobelia nearly screamed. It was only through clenching her hands in her dress and biting down hard enough to draw blood on the inside of her cheek that she avoided it.

“-and she hated sex,” she could hear Otho saying, as Dís’ fingers picked up the pace, her thumb beginning to make slow circles around her clit. “Couldn’t stand it.

Dís bit down lightly on the skin of her breast, soothing the soreness away with a small kiss, and-

“Utterly frigid, she was never interested in anything-”

Lobelia’s eyes rolled back, her hips pitching up-

“Not like anyone would be interested in that-”

-to meet Dís’ fingers as they plunged into her-

“I doubt anyone could make her come, she’s just too-”

-as she broke, falling to pieces and being rebuilt in one motion-

“She’ll never find anyone better than-”

-the only thoughts in her head screaming for Dís’ fingers, Dís’ mouth, Dís, Dís, Dís.

The smallest cry of Dís’ name left her mouth as the world exploded into colour.

“…did you hear something?”

“Must have been the wind. Oi, you getting a little too drunk on us, Otho?”

“Shut up.”

The voices faded off into the distance, the group seemingly beginning the long trek back to Sackville utterly unaware of the fact that behind the Green Dragon, Lobelia was gazing slack-jawed up at the stars, having just had the most powerful orgasm of her life at the talented hands of a dwarrowdam.

She felt… well, Lobelia didn’t really know what she felt, other than totally and completely content. She pried her hands from the death grip they’d sustained on the skirts of her dress, flexing them as feeling flooded back into every inch of her. Her toes. Her wrists. That she’d partially forgotten how it felt to breathe too was a testament to the thoroughness she’d been graced with.

But Dís wasn’t looking at her.

“Dís…” she cautiously began, but was silenced the moment the dwarrowdam’s eyes met hers. They were all cold fury and disgust, and for the first time since meeting her properly, Lobelia felt the smallest tinge of horror.

Until she spoke.

“To speak of one’s prior lover as such would be considered the lowest of behaviour amongst my people,” she snarled, gaze flickering over in the direction the voices had disappeared in. “That he was celebrated for doing so… if I only had my sword.”

Lobelia couldn’t say she’d ever had anyone offer to fight for her honour before. It was rather sweet. “I can’t say I minded. You gave me something else to focus on,” she murmured, stretching her fingers out to trace the back of Dís’ arm. The dwarrowdam froze for a moment, but it really was only a moment, and then she flipped her hand over to twine their fingers together.

After a few seconds of comfortable silence, Lobelia cleared her throat. “Thank you, though,” she said softly. “It’s been quite some time since anybody stood up for me. Even Otho was a bit of a pushover when it came down to it.

Dís looked a little puzzled at that. “It is only natural to wish to protect one’s lover, is it not?”

Lobelia’s mind screeched to a halt.

“Lover?”

“Do you wish for another term? I do not mind what-”

“No, lover is fine, I just thought… well, that this was a one-time thing.”

Dís frowned, a little dimple appearing between her brows. “Did… did you wish it to be? I did not know of such concepts… was I to follow courting customs? Did you require a gift? Was I not-”

“Oh,” Lobelia breathed, brushing a strand of hair from her face to hide her reddening cheeks. Really now, she had already been laid utterly bare before the dam, and yet this was the part that embarrassed her? “Y-you wish to court me?”

Scowling, Dís looked away. “I had thought that was obvious from my invitation to Bilbo’s party. It seems not.”

“You invited me?”

“I wished to get to know you!” the dam almost shouted. Realising her tone was turning more agitated, she quietened immediately. “I saw you in the marketplace and wished to know you better. Once I found you were unattached, my path was clear. Is that not enough?”

Maybe to the Lobelia from an hour or so ago it wouldn’t have been. This Lobelia – the one who was still reeling from being devoured behind the bloody Green Dragon by a relative stranger, and would like very much to do so again as soon as possible – had no such qualms.

“Yes,” she breathed, watching as Dís sagged with relief. “Yes, it's enough. We can give it a go. At least there’s no question as to if we are suitable for each other in the bedroom.”

At that, the dam let out a harsh laugh. “You hobbits have everything backwards,” she chuckled, leaning in to press a light kiss to Lobelia’s confused mouth. As Dís pulled away, she dropped her voice conspiratorially. “Finding out if you are sexually compatible comes first. And there is much testing yet to come, little thief. You must wait to have me until there is a bed that can accommodate us both. That is your punishment for stealing.”

Oh yes, Lobelia thought as she jumped to her feet, ignoring Dís’ amusement at the rate she began yanking her clothes back on. This could most definitely be enough.

*

“Lobelia,” Otho drawled, eyeing her over the pile of potatoes on the market stall.

“Otho,” she nodded back, barely sparing him a glance. One and a half pounds of the yellow tubers should be enough. And one onion. She could get the eggs from the chicken coop, of course, and-

“I hear you’ve moved on fast,” he sneered, folding his arms across his chest. “What, couldn’t stand being by yourself? Missing me already?”

Not in the slightest. Shooting him a little smirk of her own, she selected a few potatoes and passed over some coins to the stallholder, who looked rather amused at the proceedings.

“A year hardly counts as fast, Otho. Now, if you don’t mind-”

“I heard you’re seeing a dwarf,” he remarked. “What, hobbit cock not good enough for you?”

Of course it was going to come down to that. Ignoring the shocked gasp from the assembled few who had clearly been listening in, Lobelia simply loaded her basket and smiled sweetly up at her ex-husband.

“Yes, I am seeing a dwarf, Otho,” she replied smoothly. “As a matter of fact, she’s standing right behind you.”

At her words, he turned. And looked up.

And gulped.

“Dís, at your service,” the wonderful dwarrowdam that Lobelia got to call her own offered, subtly tensing a little as she inclined her head in a short bow. Glancing over his head to lock eyes with her, she smiled. “I see you have found the potatoes, mizim. I was unable to procure butter, but the stall owner has assured me there will be fresh supplies tomorrow. We have enough to last us until then.”

“Perfect.” Lobelia flashed her a grin. “Shall we go home, love?”

Sidestepping Otho, who was still spluttering over the sudden appearance of the tall dwarrowdam with a very large sword strapped to her waist, Dís offered her arm. Lobelia took it, relishing in the feeling of all those delectable muscles hiding behind her tunic. As they turned to leave, Lobelia leaned back over her arm to shoot one last look at Otho.

“It wasn’t, by the way,” she murmured, watching as his eyes blew wide when he realised what she was talking about. “Yours wasn’t, at any rate.”

There was a snort from somewhere behind the stalls. Otho looked as if he might explode, but his eyes flickered down to Dís’ sword and he settled for muttering a curse under his breath before vanishing into the crowd.

“A well-earned retaliation,” Dís chuckled low in her ear. “Although do not think I missed you take that pocket watch from him.”

Lobelia shrugged, her thumb idly tracing the clockface hidden in her skirts. “A trophy. He won’t miss it.”

“Like Bilbo does not miss his silverware?”

Remembering the pale face that had greeted them when she’d attempted to return the butterknives, and the insistent ‘no, you keep them’ that had accompanied it, Lobelia laughed.

“Not quite,” she said softly.

Dís grinned. “Good. However, I did catch you stealing again. Shall I drag a confession from you once more, little thief?”

Lobelia’s shudder was entirely pleasant. “Yes,” she murmured, beginning to walk that tiny bit faster. “Yes you may.”