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The daily report is a routine procedure, highlighting the goings of the few select people living near the Royal court and the members of the Company — never a long affair since most stick to a well-established routine. Thorin listens to his head guard reciting times and titles, breaking his fast as he usually does.
Today, however, Thorin halts over the sound of an unusual name.
"What do you mean, Master Dugar left the court around the first maiim?"
Menhir's jolts as he's interrupted in the middle of his report, attention leaving the wall he was staring at to look at his Lord.
"Yes, Your Majesty, Young Master Dugar was seen leaving through the Front Facing door in the early morning," he answers.
Thorin frowns, in the middle of a mouthful of salep, licks his lips to ask who was he meeting at this time. Balin, as much as he worked, could not shake his overindulgence of morning sleep. However, Thorin could think of no one else who would have business with the lord. If memory serves him right, Dugar is a young aristocrat, originally of the Broadbeams clan with nothing much notable about himself except being the nephew of Guild Master Su’ad. Thorin is not aware of any trouble with the Cordwainers Guild but for Balin to rise this early, it cannot be good.
His guard doesn't answer right away and this stirs up his attention. Menhir's character isn't one to break protocol, always exacting his duties with efficiency and a placid façade. "Upright and boring as grass, this one" had said Dwalin about him. Even the slightest delay betrays his hesitation.
"Indeed, he arrived in the middle of the night, your majesty." He purses his lips for a moment. "Accompanying the Master Burglar." he delivers with reluctance, peppering halted pauses in between words, perhaps unsure of the reception of his statement or simply at a lost for the reason of the meeting.
Certainly, if Thorin had learned such news a few weeks prior, he might have frowned in confusion, racked his mind for a reason for the pair to meet.
However, he remembers, with acute vivacity, Bilbo sliding back to his seat at a banquet, cheeks red and a self-satisfied look plastered on his face, clothes and hair slightly askew.
And another time, before the end of the Restauration, Bilbo abruptly leaving a ball he otherwise reveled in as he danced with partner after partner, a dwarf Thorin hadn't recognized, taking the opportunity to leave, following the hobbit as he made his way out of the crowd.
Perhaps if Bilbo was less quick at rehashing how proper and polite hobbits were, Thorin would have been quicker to catch on and put together half a dozen similar moments.
He closes his eyes as he now places Dugar as one of the dwarves Bilbo spent his evening talking to, as yesterday's winter celebration picked up. In hindsight, the angle of their bodies, the short distance between them, the bent whispers, which he all attributed to the crowded room and the loud music, are patently evocative. He hums appraisingly, glossing over the events, solidifying his theory.
He presses Menhir on with a wave of his hand and hides the curve in his lips by biting his flatbread as the guard finishes his report.
⸺
Thorin's fixating on Bilbo's neck. He's wearing one of his scarves today, tucked in the collar of his hobbit-style vest. Thorin purses his lips to hide a smile, certain the choice hardly driven by fashion and wonders at the many times he has seen Bilbo dressed as such. He wonders what it is covering right now.
He's been thinking about it all day. Speculating on Bilbo's exploits whenever he could afford to have his mind wander. Between meetings, at lunch, walking corridors between tasks and, if he's honest, at every pause in his interlocutors' speech. Bilbo sleeping around. Bilbo bringing a lover (and such a young one too!) back to his apartments, Bilbo...
Now seated in the comparatively small and cozy living room of the Burglar, partaking in their usual "spot of tea" as Bilbo calls it, there's a million comments pushing behind his teeth, but the one he finally settles on is this :
"I'm glad to know you are enjoying my people."
A tiny frown appears on Bilbo's face as he tilts his head. Thorin can see a protest forming on his lips.
"And that my people, likewise, seem pleased with you," he adds. He lets his gaze wonder about Bilbo's form, thinks of those legs struggling to open around the width of a dwarf, big feet peeking out the sides, dangling in the air, toes curling from pleasure.
"I'm not sure I deserve the praise", his eyebrows lift and the corners of his mouth push into his cheeks in an upturned smile, humble, his hands busy with pouring tea into delicate Shire cups.
Thorin doesn't waste a breath. "I'm sure young Master Dugar would disagree."
"Who ?" There's no recollection on Bilbo's face, just polite inquiry, punctuated by the click of porcelain on the table. Thorin's lips part in gleeful shock.
"Surely, you jest."
Embarrassement and confusion rise on Bilbo's face, and he sits down on his velvety couch.
"Oh, am I acquainted with young master... Dugar?" he winces, slightly mortified, hesitation colors his voice as he tries the name. The smile on Thorin's face grows wider, in tandem with Bilbo's fluster. Thorin straightens in his seat, grabs a cup and sips, aiming for nonchalance.
"He left your rooms this morning."
Bilbo's reaction is immediate. He freezes, mouth open, eyes wide, understanding dawning on him and stunned by impropriety, deep red splotches start to colour his cheeks.
The fire crackles behind them.
"My, my, Master Burglar, you didn't ask his name? How scandalous." Thorin feels compelled to push, relishing the expression on Bilbo's face.
"I-" Bilbo starts and stutters, unable to continue, swallowing and blinking repeatedly. "It's not what you think," he finally says.
He sounds unconvincing, like a child caught hand in a jar of candied fruits and just as sheepish. His shoulders are tense, hands wringing on his lap, a grimace straining his chin and neck, looking to the world as a guest who forgot to bring dessert, or whatever little thing hobbits deemed embarrassing. He looks up at Thorin, somewhat sorry, somewhat inconvenienced, ready for a reprimand and pleading for the whole thing to be put to bed. Thorin laughs, breathless.
"Tell me..." he licks his lips, Bilbo's eyes drop to it and Thorin feels all the gratification of a trap successfully laid down. "What was their secret to getting such a respectable gentlehobbit in their beds?"
Leaning forward, drawn like a moth to a flame, the angle of his body is so acute he's barely sitting anymore. There is a direct link to their gaze, a solid rope growing heavier the longer they stare at each other. Out the corner of his eyes, Thorin can see the rise of Bilbo's shoulder at each breath, on the verge of overflowing with emotion. Thorin empathizes, a viscous warmth dripping on the back of his neck, pooling in his stomach. He's drinking up every twitch, every blink, hanging up on the hitch of Bilbo's respiration like on the edge of a falaise, throat parched as he swallows around air.
Abruptly, he's looking at Bilbo's eyelashes as Bilbo's eyes drop to his lips again.
"They, they just asked," he admits, voice thick, looking now everywhere but at Thorin, his fingers playing nervously with a brocade on a nearby pillow.
The words flood Thorin with both relief and excitation. He hadn't want for this game to be complicated, but the simplicity of the rules alights something in him. Washing away every thought, comes the powerful understanding that Bilbo is, essentially, easy.
Just ask, he says, alluring invitation and timid confession all at once, throwing Thorin's mind into a heady fog. The idea that Bilbo was always at the tip of his fingers, ready to be plucked at his whims is intoxicating. He could have had him on his knees, on the dirt of the road. Maybe even on the mattress of his bed in his hobbit home, that very first night.
Thorin is not smiling anymore for he wouldn't dare have Bilbo think it a joke.
Instead, he rises, steps around the low table where their disregarded teacups sit. Bilbo keeps his eyes on the pillow, still picking at the embroidery, even as Thorin lay a hand on his shoulder first and then, the other one on his cheek. Bilbo seems unable to resist the touch, tilts his head to lean into his rough palm. It's only when Thorin murmurs "May I?" that he raises his gaze again, languid and half-lidded, not quite meeting his eyes, instead stopping around his mouth. He nods but only a slight inclination of the head, and Thorin swallows the breathy "yes" that follows right out of his lips.
Hot molten rocks are pouring into Bilbo by the way of their kiss. He's soft as gold and bends in all the way Thorin desires, making space between his legs for Thorin to crowd in.
Two hands grab at his forearms, pushing his hands more into Bilbo and Thorin allows it. He slides his hand, cups the hobbit's face, digs his fingers around big pointy ears and into soft curls and their kiss becomes even sweeter. With his index, he traces the shell and the tip of an ear, Bilbo's mouth open under his lips in a soft gasp, and he licks into it and the sound becomes low and needy. As he stands over him, his face in his hands, Thorin thinks he could spend decades kissing Bilbo like this.
A tug at his belt snatches him out of his reverie and the stretch of his smile breaks the kiss.
The initiative pleases him and he doesn't swallow his moan as Bilbo's hand stops along the length of him. It makes Bilbo glance at him again, a part of uncertainty lifting from his gaze, but Thorin doesn't feel like probing at it. Instead, he gets distracted by Bilbo's scarf, his earlier curiosity coming back to him in a rush. Bilbo goes very still when he tugs at it and exposes the red love bites at his neck.
Thorin's breath gets stuck in his throat, his veins filling with so much arousal he feels light-headed. He uses his thumb to graze at the marks and, compelled by the sight, digs in the skin and shivers at the vibration he can feel beneath the pad of his thumb as Bilbo hums sweetly. When his hand slides into the collar of the linen shirt, Bilbo sets into motion again, like freed from his stasis by some silent incantation.
They undress quickly, Bilbo's nimble hands working fast as he undoes buttons and removes tunics and shirts. Thorin mostly gets in the way, pushing him down to lie on the bench of the sofa, but removes his bottoms and heavy socks (Bilbo forces everyone to remove their boots in his rooms and the Company oblige him) when Bilbo chooses to do the same.
When he's done, he's welcomed by the appreciative stare of his soon-to-be lover, focused on his hard cock then following the hair up the curve of his belly and settling on his chest and the two piercings adorning it.
Thorin smiles knowingly and pets at his breasts, heavy and soft in their relaxed state, tugs at a pierced nipple. Bilbo seems enraptured by the gesture, hands reaching to touch when Thorin joins him on the couch again. Thorin grunts at a mean yank and bites Bilbo's shoulder in warning even as he grinds his hips on a pale thigh.
The hands on his nipples become cajoling and soft, penitent. They drift down to the sides and then to his backside, grabbing his rear to press them together. They both hiss as their cocks slide together.
"Do you have something to ease the way?" Thorin asks, a hand coming around them both.
"Ah, uh, yes", answers Bilbo with some difficulty, and he points back at an unpretentious metal jar on the mantel of the fireplace. Thorin rises up from his position after one last stroke of their pricks. The tiles are cold beneath his bare feet when he slides off the couch and sidesteps it to grab the jar. He opens it to find the familiar sight of soft jelly.
He smirks again, and brings his prize back to the velvet sofa, his right knee finding rest against the soft cushion. He scoops some of the jelly, well acquainted with the algae concoction that is common use in Ered Luin and circles his own cock and then Bilbo's, tearing him from his intense study of Thorin, eyeing the dwarf like he's one of the riddles he likes so much.
"It's cold!", he sucks a breath in and tuts and Thorin laughs at him, his cheeks starting to ache from such mirth. He silences the complaint by licking at Bilbo's lips and then his tongue, Bilbo opening his mouth with little resentment.
Like this, elbow by the side of Bilbo's neck, his body covering Bilbo's, the way the flesh gives underneath him sends his blood further down. Bilbo's cock is stiff and hard in his hand, big and red. Thorin enjoys the feel of it, but pressed by designs of a different nature, he shifts his hand down. Bilbo moves his thigh without a thought, giving him better access, and the gesture sends another wave of arousal rolling through Thorin.
He caresses the balls but quickly, presses against the taunt skin under them. Bilbo opens his legs more and Thorin is afraid he'll lose his mind. He nips at Bibo's chin and then his neck as punishment.
He reaches back to dig his hand in the jar on the table and slides his fingers between Bilbo's cheeks, covered in soft hair, relishing the feeling and finds exactly what he's looking for. He circles Bilbo's hole and two of his fingers slip in almost by mistake, the muscle yielding easily. He moans against Bilbo's chest then and Bilbo tries to hold on into a moan of his own when he slides without stopping into his flesh, made tender by Bilbo's last coupling.
Bilbo's hand grabs at his back, at his hair, starts to tug at it and gasps when Thorin sets a pace and hits the little pebble inside of him or crowds another finger in.
"Please, please, Thorin, please," he says, with a somewhat delirious lilt to the litany. He drags his nails on Thorin's back and Thorin's skin rises in shivers.
Against his wishes, he relents and removes his hands from Bilbo.
He grabs at the soft underside of Bilbo's knees, fine hair grazing the pad of his fingers. He pushes forward, slow and steady, and his smile gets bigger and wicked as Bilbo's legs stretch farther than he predicted. Of course. He can see the tremor in his muscles, the dark rim of his hole clenching erratically, greedy, hungry.
Oh yes, Bilbo Baggins is terribly easy.
"Hold it," and Thorin could barely remove his hands before Bilbo's clutches at his own knees. He hums his appreciation, grabs the jar, stabs three fingers in it and carefully lays it back down. He spreads the lube in a long slow stroke on his cock. He gives himself a squeeze at the head, grunts and cants his hips so Bilbo's hole kisses the tip, twitching and pulsing while a breathy whine escapes his lips. If this is a play the hobbit loves, who is Thorin to deny him? His cock slaps against Bilbo's taint, in unison with his little gasps, and when he has enough of this particular melody, Thorin pushes his cock inside.
Bilbo's entire body responds to him. He shifts his hips, bares down his core, fingers readjusting on his legs. His moans are decadent, and they don't stop until Thorin's stones brush against his ass. The warm muscles inside shift around him, soft and then tense and soft again as he grinds gently forward.
"How am I, Master Burglar? Do I satisfy ? Is this the biggest cock you ever took ?", he says, crowding closer still.
No answer comes, Thorin knows himself bested. It sends a shiver down his spine. He lowers himself so he can murmur his thoughts into Bilbo's ear, one hand to his stomach, the other one on his thigh.
"How greedy you are. How was it to be split open on young Dugar's sword? Did he fill you to the brim ? Did you struggle to take him in as he stretched you wider than you ever been?" He starts to thrust, uses every pause as an opportunity to draw back and push forward.
Bilbo gasps at his words, a loud silly sound, but what follows is Thorin's name and the slap of their bodies slowly picking up a rhythm.
"Next time he fucks you, come to me."
Bilbo's cock jumps on his belly, brushing the underside of Thorin's wrist as his calloused hand keeps a steady press against the flesh there. It's like a vice around his prick, the drag, the pressure... each thrust prompts him to come back faster, to plunge deeper, to get closer. Bilbo gives Thorin a wide-eyed look, jaw fallen open, cheeks flushed, head bobbing from the movement. Visions of pearling seeds inside and around that pink mouth flood Thorin's mind, made sharper by the conviction he wouldn't be the first to paint this face.
"Let him spread you for me," he grunts.
"Thorin!" Bilbo whelps. He's overheating, every filthy word buzzing in his ears as Thorin's pace starts to make him lose his mind.
"Get you warm and loose and wet." The creaking of the bench is getting louder with the force of their thrusting and Thorin is not whispering anymore. Bilbo nods feverishly, and he can't say if he encourages the fantasy or the pace or both.
"So I can fuck you", Thorin growls and pistons his hips just so, "right on the floor." The change in position is perfect and Bilbo lets his head roll back and his eyes closing to savour the sensations. Thorin shoves deep inside and finally, finally, feels himself under his palm, below Bilbo's belly, so he does it again. And again. And Bilbo's moans get shorter and breathier and whinier, his stones contracting, the tip of his cock dripping until he scrunches his eyes, every muscle locking, the grip of his insides on Thorin delicious and dangerous. He comes shooting strings, dripping on his stomach and Thorin's hand.
Brought to the edge by the sight, hips speeding up until Thorin knows himself too close, he slides back on the next thrust and tugs on himself frantically until he ejaculates with a shout, painting Bilbo's belly with a sordid joy, mixing their seeds, some of his catching at a collarbone.
Their panting echoes in the room.
Thorin grabs at Bilbo's hips, lowering his lips to that collarbone, tongue flat as he licks his own spending, climbing up skin to bite on the side of his neck, Bilbo's breath catching. He lets his hands wander, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of Bilbo backside, parting the muscle.
" Can I?", he murmurs, mouth to skin and feels Bilbo throat as he swallows, then nods. Thorin shuts his eyes, the possibility that Bilbo would deny him nothing seizing him, yanking at something in his heart with force, and he urges himself to move past it. His own cock twitches as he pushes three fingers in Bilbo's, the warm, abused skin pulsing around him. With much care, he finds the precious pebble inside and starts stroking it.
He lays more kisses and bites over older ones on his neck, goes down, grazes his teeth on a nipple and then lowers on a rib, and he meets Bilbo's eyes over his small gasp. His eyes are big, like he can't fathom this is real. Smug, Thorin feels even more gratified when he bites over the soft flesh of his stomach and Bilbo breaks their gaze, his head settling back into the heavily decorated pillow, eyes shut. His cock is already hard anew — or has it ever gone soft? — and he presses his hand around it, slow and steady matching the movement between Bilbo's legs. He lets the flat of his tongue drag across the cockhead in his fist and is rewarded by two hands tugging at his hair and soft, decadent mewls. Bilbo's thighs are shifting against his shoulders, torn between falling open for his fingers and shutting close to better trap Thorin's head to his crotch.
Thorin lets Bilbo guide his rhythm, follows the clues of flexing muscles and heightened moans. He laps at the shaft, tugs his stones, licks around his fingers inside Bilbo. He pushes them deeper, he spreads them, revels in the gutted sound Bilbo lets out. He wishes he had Bilbo's endurance so he might replace his hand with his cock, slide in that warm hole again. He sinks his teeth in the fleshy part of Bilbo's tight (which is abundant), a promise and a threat in one.
He can hear a new whine in the twang of Bilbo's voice and, ever merciful, he sucks hard at the tip of Bilbo, bobbing softly, the circle of his fingers in a loose stroke and his other hand shoving, stroking in deep. Bilbo's moans swell and echo in the room until they completely stop, breathless and choked up, and Thorin finds himself squeezed between two thighs, hair tugged in a fisted grip, Bilbo scrunched up in a ball around him.
Thorin closes his eyes in delight, savours the salty burst on his tongue and the spasms around his fingers. When he can finally remove his head, Bilbo is still coming, belly twitching and small bursts of come dripping out of his cock, in time with Thorin's hands, still moving. Thorin kisses all the flesh he can reach until Bilbo finally relaxes again and whispers, voice rough and soft, "Mercy, please."
Thorin takes his hands off and out and lays his head on Bilbo's chest, listening to their breath and Bilbo's heartbeat coming back to their natural pattern.
"You!" Bilbo starts, "Are!", he continues, still catching his breath. "An insatiable lover!" he finishes with feeling.
At this, Thorin's laughter erupts in the room, filling the space and jerking the couch, soon joined by Bilbo's snickering.
"So we're well-matched then," he says, regaining his composure. "Perhaps you'd have me again."
Bilbo puts on an exaggerated pensive moue, pursing his lips. "I think I can squeeze you into the roster, if you insist."
Thorin hears the challenge in it. "I insist." Thorins responds with a touch of his lips to Bilbo's chest.
The fingers in his hair slow, Bilbo's stare is gauging, musing. He seems to reach a conclusion, the hesitation in those eyes turning into a thousand promises.
"I'd like that."
⸺
When he gets the chance to meet Master Dugar, he welcomes him with a smile, pats his shoulder heartily, asking after his aunt's well-being with warmth. An unexpected familiarity that his entourage note with incredulity. Balin only raises his eyebrows at Thorin, intrigued, but Thorin ignores him in favour of the young dwarf in front of him.
Dugar himself is left amazed, spluttering a little before answering in a pompous tone, clearly flattered and elated by the partial treatment. Thorin nods magnanimously but cares little for the response. He sizes him up and down, takes note of his wide bust, feels the solidity of his shoulder under his palm, gives it a small squeeze. Master Dugar is young and dashing, with a pretty beard and manners to go with it, all eagerness to please and posture.
Like a key sliding in a lock, his eyes raise up to meet with Bilbo's, Thorin's lips parting in a knowing smirk at the flush of color on his cheeks.
Bilbo is as much relieved as he is embarrassed. True to Thorin's word, there is no jealousy or grievance about him when facing Bilbo's previous lover.
It only aggravates his infatuation. Thorin loves his proclivities, likes learning about them, always eager for more details. It unsettles Bilbo sometimes, his guts twisting and neck prickling with a low simmer of sticky shame, having his escapade observed so, but it only takes the awed look on Thorin face to dissolve the feeling into something terribly pleasant.
The way his eyes go wide in surprise at an anecdote, and his laughter comes out a little breathless, head nodding left to right in disbelief, the corner of his eyes wrinkling in mirth and recovering, his gaze grows bright and warm and Bilbo feels like the treasure under the mountain instead of a promiscious bachelor with questionable tendencies. It makes him puff up and open like flowers in spring for Thorin's attention.
Thorin warned him of Master Dugar's attendance beforehand, cajoling him when Bilbo had been overwhelmed by mortification at the idea of two of his lovers (one he had not bothered to learn the name of!) meeting in such an official set up, himself present.
He knows enough now. He knows Thorin is adding details Bilbo might have overlooked to the mental image of their coupling because doing so pleases him. He knows he's thinking of Bilbo bent over his desk, struggling to take the young lord's cock and Bilbo can't sustain looking his eyes any longer, certainly not in present company.
He aims his gaze at the floor until Thorin declares loudly.
"Ah, you must not have met, yet. Let me introduce you to Bilbo Baggins, Master Burglar and Ear to the Crown."
Dugar thumps his arm to his chest, hides a warm suggestive smile in his bow. Bilbo's heart is aflutter.
"Young Master Dugar, was it?" he bows back, ignoring the soft chortle Thorin tries to conceal with a cough.