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Though he has only himself to blame, Bilbo finds riding barrels down the lake a terrible experience. His clothes are drenched in a matter of seconds, weighing him down, and even his big feet are no match for the rapid current, which push him away from the Elf King’s halls none too gently. Trying to clamber onto the rolling barrels is a nightmare, his solace finally coming in the form of Thorin’s arms. They reach over the edge to haul him in, and the next thing Bilbo knows, he’s safely in Thorin’s lap, crushed against the rounded wood. Thorin’s especially thick and Bilbo has quite the stomach, so the fit is tight. But it’s better than fearing he’ll drown, so his sigh is mostly relief.

Thorin seems to have control of the barrel. It doesn’t immediately capsize like Bilbo first feared, and though it sinks deeper into the water with Bilbo’s weight, it doesn’t quite sink completely. It’s buoyant and survivable. It carries them swiftly downstream, while Bilbo squirms in Thorin’s lap, shivering from the cold and the slithery feeling of slicked cloths stuck to his skin. He sneezes once or twice, and great tremours wrack his body, but he’s alive and free and reunited, and that’s worth a great deal of discomfort. Some of the dwarves can be heard shouting congratulations to one another, but all Bilbo can coherently make out is the roar of the river and Thorin’s occasional curse. Bilbo feels the same. It would’ve been better if he could’ve been pulled into Fíli or Kíli’s barrels—they’re not quite so broad. And just his luck to get the one dwarf with a sword, too.

He’d thought the elves had taken all the dwarves’ weapons, but the hardest part of getting comfortable is doing so around the stiff hilt of Thorin’s sword. No matter how Bilbo squirms, it pokes at his backside, grinding into his cheeks each time the river throws them together. For a brief moment, Bilbo writhes all the harder, and even tries to reach behind himself to grab it, but there’s just no room, so the best he can do is wriggle his rear and hope he can find an angle where it won’t bruise too badly. Over the river’s clamour, he hears Thorin’s breath hitch, and Thorin seems to grind harder into him, probably as uncomfortable as Bilbo, but his efforts only flatten them further together. Bilbo’s stout fingers clutch at the soggy barrel’s edge, and he tries to lean his head back along Thorin’s shoulders, arching his body out, but he can still feel the tip of Thorin’s hilt. Thorin makes a growling noise that Bilbo assumes is disagreement, so he falls back again and just gives up, bearing it for the rest of the ride, even when Thorin wrestles around and pins Bilbo tightly to the side.

The river goes on entirely too long. The cries of the dwarves die down into an anxious silence. It isn’t until Thorin breaks it to growl, “Sorry,” that the ride becomes a true problem. He thrusts forward suddenly, one arm wrapping skillfully around Bilbo’s middle to steady him, and the rest of Bilbo is smashed against the wooden siding. Thorin’s hips seem to canter up into him, the sword changing position, and through Bilbo’s trousers, it presses between his cheeks. The hard shaft brushes over his hole, and Bilbo gasps, eyes fluttering. The proximity of Thorin Oakenshield is abruptly too much; Bilbo’s senses engage in quick overdrive. He can smell Thorin’s raw musk, can feel Thorin’s muscles against his back, can hear Thorin’s erotic grunts and rumbling. He’s been desperately trying not to notice these things, of course, and for a while there, he’d been doing quite well. Everything since the goblin’s town had been too chaotic and miserable to worry about incredibly attractive kings a lowly burglar could simply never have, and he hasn’t been this horribly aware of Thorin’s gorgeousness since Rivendell.

Even then, they were never this close. And now Thorin’s soaking wet and smelling of sex and knocked against Bilbo with the river’s traitorous sway. He’s been made to hump Bilbo, and even though it’s unintentional and nothing but the situation, it makes Bilbo dizzy, his round rump pressing too-eagerly back into Thorin’s hilt. With the way they’re being thrown together, he almost fears the blunt end will push right through his trousers and spear him open.

They stumble down a short hill, the splash tossing more water into Bilbo’s face, and when he opens his eyes, gasping, he finds the river much gentler. Their pace has slowed considerably, and Thorin falls back, breathing hard. Bilbo stays where he is, cheek pressed against the barrel, hoping dwarves can’t smell the self-lubrication of hobbits the way other hobbits can. He can still feel himself dilating open, growing wet, and he has no idea if dwarves work the same way, but it would be quite difficult to explain if Thorin discovered it.

“Land!” Balin’s voice calls from up ahead, and sure enough, Thorin knocks around the barrel in his haste to sit up, reaching over the edge with his powerful arms. Bilbo tries not to look at them—the last thing he needs right now is a feel of Thorin’s bulging muscles. He clenches his channel, willing it to close, but he can feel it bubble out a bit more juice that drizzles lightly down to cling to his balls, and Bilbo squirms, whining pathetically. The hilt of Thorin’s sword taps his ass again. It feels thicker than he remembers the weapon looking, but just as firm.

Thorin paddles them towards the shore, Bilbo being utterly useless. The others collide with the rocky ledge one by one, tipping over and scrambling out. Ori has tremendous trouble getting up, and Dwalin claws out of his barrel to lift Ori, shouting a mix of encouragement and demands for him to make it.

Thorin and Bilbo’s barrel makes a dull clank and tilts—Bilbo can feel it scraping against the bottom. He has no idea how to clamber out, but he doesn’t have to. Thorin’s arm loops around him again, and he’s half picked up, half dragged, out and up over the slippery shore. He stumbles onto all fours himself, shaking like a petrified rabbit, and he shakes his head to try and get the water out of his curls, his knees shifting against the river-beaten rocks. His hands find better purchase. He’s just about to lift up when a heavy weight lands against his back, and he nearly topples down.

Instead, Thorin’s arm is back around him, and Thorin’s smell wafts into his nose, Thorin’s dark hair tumbling over his shoulder and Thorin’s stubble scratching his cheek. Thorin’s crotch shoves against Bilbo’s backside, the sword hitting him again. Thorin growls like a ravenous wolf, “I can take this no longer, burglar. It was one thing resisting when we could walk apart, but how am I to manage with you wriggling in my lap like a ripe harlot?”

Bilbo just barely manages to mumble, stunned, “What?”

He’s turned in a heartbeat—his limbs give out, and he rolls, his back hitting the uneven shore and his mouth letting out a squeak. His knees are held against Thorin’s chest, and when Thorin applies a bit of pressure, Bilbo has to open them, spreading his thighs around Thorin’s waist. Thorin’s staring down at him with obvious, unadulterated hunger. Blushing furiously, Bilbo murmurs, “But... but you’re a king and...”

“And I would have you,” Thorin hisses, his hips rolling into Bilbo’s; the tent in Thorin’s trousers presses against his own, and Bilbo realizes with a shocked gasp that it’s not a sword at all. It’s Thorin’s dick, rock hard for him. Despite the cold water still clinging to him, Bilbo feels distinctly hot. “Would you have me?”

At first, Bilbo can only blink. Thorin’s arms are spread to either side of him, Thorin’s huge weight blocking out the sun, dazzling and lit golden around the edges. Bilbo breathes hoarsely, “What?” then hurriedly corrects, his own buried want clawing through, “Yes. Yes!”

Thorin slams down. His head crushes into Bilbo’s, nose digging in at Bilbo’s side, lips sealing around his. Thorin’s beard scratches, but Bilbo barely has time to feel it—he’s dizzy from the pressure against his skull, the heat in his face, the wetness that slips into his mouth—Thorin’s tongue thrusts right between his lips. Somehow, he knew Thorin would be rough. That’s how he always fantasized about it. But he never thought they’d be more than that, and he barely has the wherewithal to lift his fingers into Thorin’s matted hair. As soon as he regains himself, he kisses Thorin back with vigour. Thorin’s hips grind him into the stone, the outline of Thorin’s huge cock pressed against Bilbo’s own bulge, his hole twitching wildly, dribbling all down his cheeks. When Thorin finally releases Bilbo’s mouth to nip at his chin and gnaw at his jaw, Bilbo gasps, “Thorin—oh! Thorin, please—”

Thorin doesn’t seem to need to be told. It happens as fast as this did, like the ride down the river was all foreplay and every moment they’re not connected is wasted. Thorin supports himself with his thighs, his arms disappearing between them. Thorin’s thick fingers clasp onto Bilbo’s waistband, and then they’re sliding the slick fabric down, and Bilbo makes a keening noise into Thorin’s mouth, trying to keep his hips still to help. His trousers and underwear are both rolled down his sides, revealing his bare rear to Thorin’s insistent crotch. Bilbo has a split second of worry over staining Thorin’s clothes, then remembers that they’re both drenched anyway. His legs are pressed back, knees pinned against his chest, and Thorin breaks the kiss to sit up, staring down. He grins at what he sees, and Bilbo can feel his hole flexing under the scrutiny. It must be obvious that Bilbo’s more than ready. Thorin presses one thumb against it anyway, easily popping inside, and Bilbo squeals, toes curling. He makes a whining noise, reaching up to bid Thorin back into his arms, but Thorin’s busy opening his own trousers. Only when the bulbous tip of his fat cock is pressed to Bilbo’s entrance does he sink back down. Bilbo doesn’t get much of a chance to look at it, but hopefully he will on the next round—and hopefully there’ll be lots of rounds to come.

“If I’d known you were so wet and loose for me, I wouldn’t have waited until we landed,” Thorin purrs. Bilbo mewls and fists his fingers in Thorin’s tunic, tugging him down.

They kiss again, and Thorin’s cock shoves inside, so fast that Bilbo’s world shakes, his head going thin, but he’s too open and slick for there to be pain, just surprise, newness—he’s never been filled so thickly before. He always thought his fingers fat, but now that seems silly—he doesn’t even have toys this big. Yet it just keeps coming and coming, the length shocking him, and Thorin’s mouth swallows all his screams. It seems to take forever for all of Thorin to be inside him, but finally, he can feel Thorin’s large balls against his ass, and he knows that Thorin’s mammoth cock is completely sheathed. Bilbo’s never felt so full in all his life. It’s huge, hot, and pulsing inside him, like one more Dwarven muscle made so much better than all the other races’. When their kisses pause, Bilbo looks at Thorin with complete adoration. Thorin’s eyes meet his just as fiercely, and all of a sudden, it feels strange that they’ve never done this before. Bilbo can’t fathom why they waited so long. It seems he could’ve been riding Thorin’s cock since the handsome Dwarven lord first landed on his doorstep, and every night between was wasted lying alone.

Thorin makes up for lost time. He starts to pull out, kissing Bilbo quick to kiss away the cries, and then he’s plunging back in, deep and hard and sliding Bilbo up along the rocks. Bilbo’s too dizzy to register the discomfort of so many uneven surfaces. He’s trembling with pleasure, delighted to be stretched open, to be full of Thorin, to have the King Under the Mountain atop him. Then another thrust comes, and it slams against a certain spot that makes Bilbo shriek, arching up. He tosses himself around Thorin, clinging tight with hands and thighs and feet and shaking like a bunny, while Thorin hammers mercilessly into the same spot, over and over. Each thrust wrenches a cry from Bilbo’s lips, and Thorin swallows half and lets the other half fill the air, joining the rapid slapping noise of their slicked flesh. The stench of sex is almost overpowering. Somehow, Thorin gets his hand between them, and his huge fingers close around Bilbo’s stiff cock, starting to pump in time to the rhythm.

Bilbo can’t think straight from there on out. He keeps his mouth open for Thorin’s tongue, kissing only at Thorin’s whims, screaming himself hoarse the rest, his eyes close to watering from the overwhelming sensations of it—he’s wanted Thorin so long and it feels so good, so wonderful, so perfect—Thorin fucks like a dream, so much rougher than anything he could’ve had in the Shire—exactly what he used to long for, and when Thorin isn’t kissing Bilbo’s mouth, he’s mouthing at Bilbo’s throat, biting Bilbo’s cheeks, licking Bilbo’s shoulders, marking Bilbo all over—he feels like he’s being claimed by a possessive, feral beast. He’d have it no other way. He tries to be good, and he clenches his channel around Thorin’s cock when he can gather the wherewithal, earning himself howls of bliss.

Then it’s over, not quite as fast as everything else, and Thorin’s pounding him forward to stay, grinding him down into the earth. Bilbo writhes, cries, clutches to Thorin’s back and bursts in Thorin’s hand, his hips shaking almost violently, completely beyond his control, his channel spasming. Thorin follows shortly, and seems to explode in Bilbo’s ass—a rush of hot, thick liquid fills him, shoved deeper by Thorin’s dick still housed in him. Bilbo gasps, squirming, writhing but still impaled and unable to move. Thorin kisses him all over, murmuring things that Bilbo’s too far-gone to understand.

Only when Thorin’s completely finished milking himself out does he stop. His hand slips off of Bilbo’s spent cock, and his hips still. He takes a moment, panting but not as much as Bilbo, and then he gradually pulls out, drawing his seed with him.

And it’s only when Thorin’s sat back between Bilbo’s spread legs does Bilbo realize where they are. As his mind slowly comes back down, he remembers all the other dwarves. He doesn’t have the strength to sit, but he tilts his head back, looking upside-down at the rest of the company. Some have politely turned away, others are gaping, some are watching awkwardly, and Nori is staring lecherously, Dwalin jealously. Bilbo’s never blushed so thoroughly in his life.

Eventually, Thorin cleans him off. The water makes it easy. Then Thorin pushes his trousers back up and helps him to his feet. Bilbo stumbles, clinging to Thorin’s side, feeling weak and heady and like it’ll take him a good deal of time to close properly.

When he leaves the shore, it’s limping with half a hop, and Thorin half-sheepishly mumbles, “Perhaps when we make camp... we should talk.”

Bilbo nods, but doesn’t answer.

He’s busy stepping in front of Thorin and reaching around Thorin’s neck, bidding Thorin to carry him. Thorin scoops him up easily and totes him off, grinning a proud, charming smile.