Work Header

I Choose This

Work Text:

Bilbo isn't sure why he chooses now. It’s certainly not the ideal moment he’s been waiting for. It’s distressingly public, for one thing, what with the other dwarrow scattered around the Company’s private sitting room. It would have been better had he chosen a time when he was sure to find Thorin alone but he’s been worrying at this for weeks. And now, having again wasted the better part of the afternoon fretting rather than accomplishing even one of the tasks he’d set himself, he has had enough of thinking on the matter.

So he’s here in a well appointed sitting room with comfortably stuffed chairs and low couches, tables conveniently placed for a book or a cup of tea, a warm hearth inviting him to sit for a quick pipe before dinner and several members of the Company. Kíli is spread across Fíli's thighs, half asleep under his brother's hands having entirely missed Bilbo’s entrance; their new, oddly matched collars catch the light in a distracting way. Dwalin and Balin are seated smoking their pipes, Balin’s hands raised and caught mid-gesture by Bilbo’s hasty steps. Bifur is slumped in one of the armchairs, eyes carefully slit against the light as if Bilbo has roused him from sleep.

All together too many dwarrows, Bilbo thinks. Although, isn’t that his lot in life these days?

At least Bofur hasn’t arrived yet this evening. His sly grin and too suggestive eyebrows always make Bilbo feel as if he should be mildly scandalized but unsure of why. Or worse yet, Nori, who most often would be found settled between Dwalin’s knees working away at some ‘useful bit of nothing’ as he liked to call it. Bilbo was entirely certain that had Nori been there, he would have had something smart to say about Bilbo’s dramatic entrance and that would have ruined it all.

The only one that he really needs for this is Thorin, of course. And here he sits, pipe smoldering in his hand as he looks at Bilbo in confusion. Bilbo, who has stalked through the door, carried across the room in grand dungeon without a word of greeting to anyone and is now standing, staring at Thorin while everyone stares at him in return. Only the popping of the fire and the soft mechanical clicks of the mantle clock break the silence.

One would think that having made his decision and having chosen this moment, that the words he’s been so fervently planning and practicing would naturally follow. And yet, he hasn’t felt this tongue tied since Thorin had declared his admiration for him in front of the whole Company and one meddling wizard nearly a year ago.

Not the auspicious beginning I’d hoped for, he sighs to himself.

It shouldn’t be this hard. They're closer now. Lovers navigating back to something with slow measured steps and the implicit understanding that though this road may look familiar, this time things must be different for oh so many reasons. Thorin is infinitely careful with him these days, something he understands, but he finds he wants more. Needs more. And now he is going to ask for it, may the Valar bless him.

"Master Baggins?"

He allows himself one moment to give his waistcoat a quick nervous tug and take a deep breath in. In every version of this moment in his head, he’s eloquent and persuasive but all of that is lost as the real moment unfolds between them and instead of his well planned speeches, he finds the traditional plea spilling from his lips without preamble.

The room seems to stutter to an abrupt halt. Bilbo feels his hands clench and his fingers twitch with the need to reach out, as if he could physically snatch the words back from the air between them. Not to take them back but to sweep them back up, arrange them more carefully and to have another chance at this first moment. To place them before Thorin in a manner that didn’t result in the shock that he can now see rippling across Thorin’s features before his face settles in a neutral mask.

Bilbo has seen this mask before, in Court, greeting visiting dignitaries, or adjudicating heated disputes between families. He knows that behind the carefully controlled expression, Thorin is weighing every thought, measuring word against action, unwilling to respond until he sees every outcome. Bilbo has never been on the receiving end of such a look and he finds that it’s not very comforting to see it now even though it means that Thorin must be just as desperate to get this moment right as he is.

So he stands, trying not to fidget, trying to meet Thorin’s gaze head on, trying to convey with his eyes everything that his mouth has failed so miserably to articulate. Then, he very deliberately lowers his gaze and tilts his head forward just enough so that he can feel the change in temperature on his exposed neck and curls made damp by anxious sweat.

Bilbo forces himself to wait and tries to will his mind blank, to not think about all the ways that this is not going as planned. He knows everyone is staring at him - them - and it makes his skin want to crawl off his bones. The blood pounding in his ears is making it harder to hear but it honestly doesn’t matter as no one will dare say a word until Thorin makes his formal response to Bilbo’s offer.

He is very much aware of the fact that he doesn't know as much as he should. Being dwarf friend grants him the right to any knowledge he seeks but that doesn't make awkward conversations any easier to have. He's spoken obliquely with Kíli. Watched how he and Fíli treat each other. Compared that to Dwalin and Nori. Spent hours wandering the public spaces of the Mountain, mouth shut, eyes and ears open. And for this moment there was the slim book of stories passed to him by a strangely fond Ori. The book had been full of love stories and Ori had cautioned him that the authors took some artistic liberties but assured him that the foundation was solid.

Bilbo definitely doesn’t know everything he should - just enough to get him into trouble. And the longer the silence stretches the more his stomach begins to ache.

Thorin’s hand in his curls brings him sharply out of his own head. The fingers don’t grab but instead ruffle his hair lightly, as if Thorin is trying to ease his anxiety.

Thorin's voice rolls through the warm air like the sound of a distant summer storm. "I won't insult you by asking if you understand what you've offered."

Bilbo’s shoulders tense and his mouth opens. Thorin’s words have released something in him and suddenly Bilbo’s carefully crafted arguments are piling up on his tongue ready to be tumbled at Thorin’s feet. But Thorin’s grip on his curls tightens and Bilbo stills his tongue.

“But I will say that this cannot be easily undone.”

Bilbo twists his head a bit to the side. Not enough to shake Thorin loose, and not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to catch the tightening of Thorin’s jaw. It makes his chest constrict.

“Not the act itself, Master Baggins,” Thorin continues in an intimate tone, “but the memories. If you - we - do this then decide not to continue, this will always be between us.”

Bilbo knows this is nothing but the truth. The same truth that has kept him silent for half a year, tempted him to return to his people and forget the confusion of dwarves, kept him up until all hours of the night caught between burning desire and the fear of embarrassment. But he wants this; he wants this enough to risk failing.

He is more careful the second time he pronounces the archaic words so that there is no room for error or misunderstanding.

I submit myself to your will.

Ori had tried to explain the history behind those simple words. Submission with its roots in the war like society of the dwarrow but an older variant that harked back to times when the defeated were stripped of not only their freedom but their names and their very identity as dwarves. Myself being not only physical but mental and spiritual, all that a dwarrow was down to the molten core shaped by their Maker.

There is no sigh from Thorin. No sound of defeat or consideration or hesitance and Bilbo is profoundly grateful for that. Thorin’s voice is clear and steady and solid as the stone that they stand upon when he replies.

“Your will shall be my own.”

And just like that, it is done.

From behind him, there is a rustle of movement and a low excited exclamation from one of Thorin’s nephews as the other dwarrow vacate the room but Bilbo’s mind has been washed clean and bright. This is what Bilbo wants. Of course, it is what he wants. But now that the words have been said, he almost wants to demand that Thorin say them again. Once was not nearly enough to convince Bilbo that they were real.

“Look at me, Bilbo.”

Thorin steps back and eases himself into his high-backed chair. Bilbo’s knees feel a bit weak himself now that the rush of nervous excitement is being replaced by something more.

“Will you undress for me?”

He blinks slowly and turns the words over in his head. He’s been here many times in his fantasies but never has it started like this. Dwalin only ever issues commands; Nori doesn’t always obey but his rebellions seem to be as integral a part of their relationship as his obedience. As for Fíli and Kíli… well perhaps they were not the best case on which to base his expectations, but even still.

“Bilbo.” The sharp tone to Thorin’s voice hooks Bilbo’s wandering thoughts, reeling his attention back to the moment at hand.

He refocuses on Thorin. Yesterday, Thorin might have asked this question with a flirtatious smile or a tempting tilt of his head. Today, his eyes are dark and focused and Bilbo can feel the weight of them as if they could pierce his clothes, crack his chest, and see down to his beating heart. It makes Bilbo’s mouth suddenly go dry.

He tuts once to himself in annoyance and sets over eager fingers to work releasing his cravat and pulling his warm vest over his head.

This is what you asked for, Bilbo Baggins, and here you are having to be chivvied into it like a party guest arrived late to the supper table.

He folds the edges of the vest in and over-top itself in the way his father had taught him and lays it to the side. The cravat is rolled and balanced carefully on top of the vest. The suspenders are folded in two, once in the middle and one again lengthwise, before they join the other items. He turns back to Thorin, fingers busy on the ties of his trousers and immediately fumbles to a stop.

He knows Thorin is watching. Thorin has asked him to undress so it follows naturally that seeing him strip was the whole point. And he’s certainly been naked with Thorin before but somehow this is sharply exotic and new. There is a fierce glint to Thorin’s gaze, something that was not there the last time they did this.


The word sends a thrill down Bilbo’s spine and hopelessly tangles his fingers in the laces at his waist. Cursing at the unexpected pinch of strings, Bilbo forces his eyes to the task at hand, trying to untangle his fingers and the knot both.

“May I?” Thorin asks, holding out a hand.

Bilbo looks up then nods slowly and steps within reach. Thorin gently tugs his fingers free without even looking at the mess Bilbo has made. His eyes are fixed on Bilbo and the weight of his regard warms Bilbo's skin.

His trousers loosen and drop to the floor with barely any effort on Thorin’s part. He makes to step back and continue his undressing from a safe distance but Thorin’s hands are on his hips, fingers slipping beneath the waist of his small clothes to tease at his skin.

“May I?” he asks again.

Rather than respond this time to what is obviously an unnecessary question, Bilbo twitches his hips quickly to and fro. The fine lines at the corners of Thorin’s eyes crinkle but his grip firms. He stills the movement with steady hands and a sharp shake of his head.

“Bilbo.” And there is the note of command that Bilbo has been expecting. Bilbo’s heart gives a heavy, irregular thump against his rib cage.

“May I?” Thorin repeats a third time.

The air in the chamber has turned to honey and Bilbo swallows heavily and nods mechanically. “Yes, of course, Thorin.”

With Thorin sitting, Bilbo is the taller of the two. This close, his chin is actually tilted down to allow him to meet Thorin’s eyes. One would think that this would give Bilbo the advantage, even by the smallest degree, but nothing could be further from the truth. When Thorin’s eyes go sharp and his expression heavy, they hold Bilbo just as surely as Thorin’s wide hands cupping Bilbo’s hips.

“There is no of course in this, Bilbo.”

The words fall between them like boulders and send a cold water shock through Bilbo. He knows that he doesn’t know everything about this choice but he had thought surely that this was part of it. Bilbo swallows against a suddenly dry throat, terribly unsure.

“I thought…” Gooseflesh washes over every bit of exposed skin leaving it prickling in the suddenly cool air. His eyes dart around once, taking in the empty room as if desperate to remind himself that he was alone in this potential humiliation. “Thought…”

Thorin watches him grope for the words he wants, and when no more come, prompts gently, “Thought?”

Anxiety flashes into frustration at Thorin’s obtuseness. Bilbo huffs a sharp breath and goes to fist his hands on hips. They collide sharply with Thorin’s hands, hands that have yet to release him, and instead fall to his sides, awkwardly deflating his gesture.

Thorin sighs and shakes his head once as if to himself. He uses his hands on Bilbo’s waist to push him back a few steps so that he can stand. Bilbo’s feet stumble free of his trousers and Thorin holds him a moment, ensuring that he is steady before his hands fall away entirely. Looking once meaningfully at Bilbo, he stoops down to pick up the discarded clothes.

“Why do we do this, Bilbo?” Thorin asks quietly as he folds the trousers together at the waist.

Bilbo gapes at him, wrong footed and entirely unsure of where this has gone wrong. In all of his fevered plans, they’d immediately and easily segued from acceptance to sex. But somehow he’s stalled the process, taken a wrong turn, missed some cue, and ended up in a situation he didn’t know to plan for. Never once did he think that he’d end up standing here, in the common room, naked as a needle while Thorin folds his clothes and asks nonsensical questions while giving him pointed looks that he’s not sure he understands. It reminds him uncomfortably of standing before his great aunt, called on to give an oration on the political reasons for the split between the North Tooks and the South Tooks but with a sinking feeling of not having prepared one bit.

“It’s sex,” he offers shortly. Perhaps more snidely than he truly should but he hates feeling this off kilter. And what other choice does he have? Trying to articulate the tangled mess in his head (and heart) is what has been driving him spare for the past weeks.

Thorin’s features tighten and Bilbo knows with a sinking leaden feeling that he’s truly misstepped for the first time this evening.

Thorin carefully places the trousers on the chair and stalks back to Bilbo. This time he doesn’t pause within a socially acceptable distance but instead pushes in close enough that their chests are less than a single deep breath apart and Bilbo is forced to look up at him for the first time this evening.

There is certainly not the same difference in height between a dwarf and a hobbit as say, a hobbit and a man, but Bilbo has never felt as small as he does in this moment, not even standing in Gandalf’s shadow.

It’s not just the difference in height; Thorin is taller than him, yes. But he’s also wider, his shoulders spreading past Bilbo’s own to tease at the corner of his vision. His chest is solid and his arms and neck are thick in a way that loudly proclaims his strength. Even his legs and boots, set to the outside of Bilbo’s own, only emphasize how much more of Thorin there is.

Thorin stares down at him and Bilbo resolutely does not look away.

“There are consequences for a lack of respect, Bilbo, and a sharp tongue will surely earn them for you. That will be our next lesson.”

Thorin’s tone isn’t overly dark or menacing but it is deadly serious. Thorin isn’t touching him but Bilbo can physically feel the censor in Thorin’s words. His rib cage feels tight and his hands fist against his naked thighs. He has the insane urge to rock up onto his toes, to put them on more even footing, but Thorin’s closeness keeps him solidly flat on his feet.


He doesn’t fear Thorin, not precisely, and isn’t that a grand thing to be able to say, but neither can he ignore the implicit threat. However, instead of making him quail, the power radiating from Thorin seems to settle something deep within Bilbo. Warmth curls up his spine and wraps around his chest, loosening his lungs.

His throat clicks as he swallows and gives Thorin the most honest answer he can. “I know why it is that I do this,” he begins.

“I do,” he swears as Thorin gives him a doubting look.

“At least mostly, I do,” Bilbo amends, erring on the side of honesty. “But I don’t understand why you do this,” he rushes to get to the answer he’s hoping will satisfy Thorin. “Not truly,” he ends softly.

Thorin’s expression relaxes. He brings a hand up to Bilbo’s cheek, cupping it carefully in silent praise. His pointer finger rests just at the corner of Bilbo’s eye and catches on his lashes as Bilbo closes them to better savor the feeling of his gentle handling.

“If all I wanted was unthinking obedience, I could take it,” Thorin almost whispers. “Easily by force. Perhaps by coercion. Almost certainly in the name of our friendship.”

The words hang darkly between them, their shared past making them all too real, but Thorin’s hand is soft on Bilbo’s face and his touch is still tender.

“My pleasure is that you choose to give me this. That you choose to make yourself mine.”

Thorin’s thumb curls up to trap the lobe of Bilbo’s ear and rub softly in counterpoint to his seductive words. And when Thorin says them like that, with the rough edge of need barely smoothed by the warm depth of his caring, Bilbo can’t help but understand.

He nods absently, turning his head into Thorin’s touch. He seeks the contact like a cat chasing the elusive satisfaction of a strong touch.

Instead of giving Bilbo what he's silently seeking, Thorin’s hands ghost down his arms and along his ribs until they come once more to rest on Bilbo’s hips. “May I?” he asks.

Where before, to Bilbo’s ears the request had just been a polite inquiry, one of many that someone might offer throughout the day. Now there was a depth to it that caused Bilbo’s toes to curl and dig into the plush rug. Perhaps it had been there before, perhaps not, but now he hears it and it thrills him.

“Yes.” He offers and hopes that Thorin hears something more in his response than just the word he speaks.

Thorin closes the final few inches between them and kisses him chastely. Bilbo isn’t sure it even counts as a kiss because all he’s left with is the impression of Thorin’s soft, oiled beard against his own chin and the overwhelming scent of him. Then he’s pulling back and Bilbo feels the air rushing in around his newly naked form in the wake of his passing.

Bilbo takes a quick step forward trying to catch up with Thorin’s movements but he’s already out of reach. Instead of kissing Bilbo like he absolutely should be doing, he picks up Bilbo’s newly discarded braes and folds them just as meticulously as the trousers and places them with the rest of Bilbo’s clothes.

The cold distance between them suddenly, savagely, reminds Bilbo of his own nudity in what is, ostensibly, a public room. Without Thorin there to engage all his senses, his brain is suddenly supplying scenario after scenario of dwarrows barging into the room and seeing them - him - thus.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, how to shield himself, but he feels cold and small of a sudden. He’s looking around for some sort of cover and turning away from Thorin before he’s even fully aware of his own intentions.


Thorin’s voice snaps his attention back to his dwarrow and Bilbo’s gaze fixes on Thorin’s open palm, hanging between them.

“Your hand, Bilbo.”

“I..” His voices fails him again and Bilbo thinks a bit hysterically about how often he’s lost his words this evening.

Thorin either doesn’t notice his distraction or chooses to ignore it. Instead of asking again, he reaches out and takes Bilbo’s right hand, tucking something into his palm. Bilbo looks down reflexively and sees the end of his cream colored cravat clenched in his now closed fist. It was thick and serviceable rather than flashy, having been made from heavy brushed cotton to help ward off the cold of the Mountain. It feels solid in a way that nothing other than Thorin does in this room.

As Bilbo stares at the article of clothing, Thorin circles behind him to take his left hand. Again a bit of cloth is tucked into his palm and now Bilbo finds himself standing facing Thorin, his cravat stretched behind his back and held tightly between his fists. The loose loop of fabric is just long enough to tease the swell of his backside.

“Don’t let go?”

It’s still a question rather than the command it might have been. It nonetheless sends a shiver through his frame and sets his head bobbing. “Yes,” he adds proactively just so his response is clear.

Thorin doesn’t smile widely nor does a grin split his face like it might his nephews but Bilbo feels his approval just as keenly as if it had. There is a softness to his eyes and brow that speaks to his happiness and this, too, is why Bilbo does this. Not for the sex. They could, and did, have that already. No, he wants these moments when Thorin is happy and it is him - Bilbo Baggins - that has accomplished that.

The room recedes further from his thoughts again as Thorin stares at him for long moments. Under Thorin’s heavy gaze, the potential embarrassment that has cooled Bilbo’s skin is replaced by a lustful heat that fills his prick and causes his body to flush.

“Beautiful,” Thorin says softly. So softly that Bilbo isn’t sure that he is meant to hear. And he certainly isn’t sure that he agrees but the weight of Thorin’s regard keeps him silent.

Thorin’s eyes sweep from his crown to his toes and back again. “So small,” he muses with a satisfied air.

Bilbo can’t help the inelegant snort that escapes him at that. Half a year has been time enough for Bilbo to regain his hobbity thickness and then some.

Small indeed. Why, his belly has rounded out so nicely that he’s even regained the creases at his hips where it now spills over into a very respectable paunch.

Thorin steps close and draws his thumb along Bilbo’s lips as if he’d spoken his thoughts aloud. And Bilbo finds he’s suddenly less interested in correcting Thorin’s misguided musings on his size and much more interested in capturing the taste of him. Bilbo licks his lips in the wake of Thorin’s thumb and watches hungrily as Thorin’s eyes track the movement.

Thorin glances up to meet Bilbo’s eyes deliberately and then passes his thumb along Bilbo’s lips a second time. This time Bilbo shadows it closely with his tongue, tasting salt and the earthiness of dust and dried ink.

Thorin’s eyes crinkle but rather than bend close for the kiss Bilbo invites, his hands cup Bilbo’s jaw and smooth down the column of his neck. Together, they easily encircle his throat fully and more over.

“This,” Thorin says, illustrating his point with his wide palms. “And this,” he continues as his hands spread outward to cup from the base of Bilbo’s neck down to the wings of his shoulder blades and out to the balls of his shoulders with barely any stretch.

“Here,” he whispers leaning towards Bilbo, breath hot against the shell of Bilbo’s ears as he brings his hands forward to splay across Bilbo’s naked chest. The five points of the fingers on each hand seem to brand Bilbo with heat across the full width of his chest. Bilbo’s eyes flutter closed. Without the image of his dwarrow to distract him the heat of Thorin’s palms seems to burn straight through him.

“Like this.” He feels Thorin’s hands pass over his outer arms and then he is being drawn tightly against Thorin’s chest as Thorin’s arms band around him. His hands meet in the small of Bilbo’s back and press Bilbo ever closer.

Bilbo feels like he’s being buried in Thorin’s bulk. His cheek rests against warg fur. His chest is crushed against Thorin’s own with the warm, heavy fabric of the shirt Thorin still wears serving as no barrier at all to the feel of heat and solid muscle hidden beneath. Bilbo’s suddenly achingly hard prick catches against the metal links of Thorin’s heavy belt, not pinching but startlingly solid against his heated skin.

In this position, like before, there is no way to not be aware of how much larger Thorin is. How small Bilbo feels crushed against the length of his King.


Thorin’s name is less of a word and more of a long, low inarticulate sound caught somewhere between a question and a plea. It feels like he might be drowning, like he might be consumed, like Thorin might press him close until there is nothing left of him that isn’t Thorin as well.

It’s perfect.


Thorin knows that Bilbo doesn’t fully understand this. But Thorin has a selfish heart, has always wanted things he can’t have and doesn’t deserve. And this? This is something he’s dreamed of for months on end. Longer still. Since that first night when he’d watched Bilbo preparing for bed and absently wondered what it would be like to push past all the social boundaries of new acquaintances and take one night with the odd, little creature.

And now Bilbo has offered himself. And Thorin is going to take it all.

With a hand beneath his chin, Thorin tilts Bilbo’s head up and steals a kiss. Bilbo tastes like the ginger roots he uses to keep his mouth occupied between meals. Sharp and clean. Thorin dips his tongue in to chase the taste and Bilbo surges up trying to deepen the kiss. He holds Bilbo still with firm fingers on his jaw and ruthlessly controls the pace. Instead of plundering Bilbo’s mouth, he intersperses soft brushes of his lips with playful nips until Bilbo sighs and goes pliant, opening to him and welcoming everything Thorin gives him without pushing for more.

He pulls Bilbo closer still, tucks him in tight against his body and feels every one of the fine tremors that travels through Bilbo’s frame. It wakes something old within Thorin, a desire to hold and own that he is always so very careful not to give in to, especially when it comes to Bilbo.

Except now Bilbo has chosen to offer himself up for it.

He forces himself to relinquish Bilbo’s mouth and instead buries his nose in Bilbo’s curls and can’t help the contented growl that rises in his chest. He feels Bilbo squirm against him in response, his arms coming up to grip but stopping abruptly as he reaches the limits of the tie that connects them. Thorin’s heart trips into a faster pace as Bilbo goes stiff in his arms. Anticipation uncurls within him and flexes its claws like a hunting cat.

With the cravat clutched in his hands, Bilbo won’t be able to touch Thorin - something Thorin knows Bilbo deeply enjoys. He is intimately familiar with just how handsy his hobbit can be when he’s lost in passion. Thorin’s been tempted more than once to introduce Bilbo to the ropes that he keeps carefully stored away but he’s always shied away from the thought, afraid to find the limits to Bilbo’s trust.

Still, this is not yet a test, not this early Bilbo passes with barely a struggle, dropping his arms back to his sides and relaxing in Thorin’s hold. The cravat, which had been pulled tight against Bilbo’s back, trapping one of Thorin’s fingers against Bilbo’s skin, goes loose again. Looking down, the generous swell of Bilbo’s backside tempts him, the sun-shy skin pale and nearly indistinguishable from the cravat the brushes against his skin. Thorin is assailed by the sudden desire to see Bilbo’s arse flushed with warmth. He has a flogger with soft leather tails that would thud beautifully against his skin, if Bilbo allowed it.

Bilbo moans quietly, reminding Thorin of their state. The scent of his arousal is carried aloft on the warm air and it stirs Thorin’s blood, makes him want to pin Bilbo down, hear him whimper, hear him plead. He wants to see everything, drive him to pant desperately for breath, to mindlessly rut against nothing, to lose his voice to his need.

With one hand, he tucks Bilbo’s face beneath his chin. The feel of his smooth cheek against the open skin of Thorin’s throat thrills him. No matter how many times he has had Bilbo, it’s always a surprise to feel bare skin rather than the familiar sensation of hair. Bilbo is far from hairless with his thick curls on his head and feet, beneath his arms and along the center of his chest, and the wonderfully deep forest of curls that surround his prick. But everywhere else his hair lays fine and nearly invisible, lending his skin the most indecent of covers.

Thorin’s tilts his head so his own hair falls, long and loose, over Bilbo’s shoulder to spill across his back. The thick mass of it nearly reaches Bilbo’s fingers and he can see them twitch and clench as if they are tempted to seek it out. Bilbo’s fingers in his hair is a well known pleasure and the thought of Bilbo’s fingers making quick work of his shirt and burying themselves in the hair on his chest in search of a sensitive nipple is enough to edge Thorin towards distraction.

Setting his chin in Bilbo’s curls, he turns his hobbit slightly to the side, pulling him more securely against his shoulder while simultaneously giving him enough space to reach around Bilbo’s front. He threads his fingers through the sweat damp curls between Bilbo’s legs in a quick tease before curling his palm around Bilbo’s straining prick.

Bilbo bucks in his grip, body going rigid with pleasure as Thorin strokes from base to tip. “Breath for me, Bilbo,” he husks. The sweat between them and the drooling interest from Bilbo’s prick is barely enough to allow his hand to slide along Bilbo’s length but the occasional catch of skin against skin only makes the Hobbit shudder all the more sweetly in his arms.

Bilbo takes a deep breath, straining the bounds of Thorin’s hold, and immediately loses it to a lewd sound as Thorin adds a sharp twist to the end of his stroke. The sound sets every hair on Thorin’s body on end and he immediately repeats the motion on his next pass, trying to illicit more of the same.

Bilbo moans but his response is muffled as he turns his face further into Thorin’s neck. Thorin can feel the hot air of Bilbo’s panted breath and the occasional press of lips, but all sound is lost between skin and beneath the curtain of his hair.

Thorin rears back enough to throw his hair back over his shoulder and expose Bilbo’s face. The move bumps Bilbo’s chin sharply against his collarbone which causes Bilbo to try to focus blearily on him.

“I wish to hear you, Bilbo,” he growls.

This, at least, is familiar between them. Thorin has always enjoyed the noises Bilbo makes when he has him in his bed and his Hobbit responds beautifully. Bilbo’s mouth falls open and the sounds of his pleasure and need spill from his lips like the best of secrets. With every moan and ragged cry, he can feel Bilbo’s body tightening on itself.

Thorin rewards each sound with a caress and each caress is rewarded by another more unrestrained sound until Bilbo is strung tight against him and he is babbling, begging, Thorin to stop.

“Thorin, please. Please! I can’t…”

Thorin ignores him, driving harder, forcing pleasure on the body within his arms. His heart is pounding in time to his harsh breaths and his muscles protest the hold he has on Bilbo but he can’t look away from the picture his Hobbit presents.

“Thorin!” The high pitched cry is strangled enough to be a wail and Bilbo fights his hold, bucking and trying to pull his hips away from Thorin’s grip. His face, half hidden again against Thorin’s chest, is screwed up with effort as he tries to hold off his release. He seems lost and Thorin can tell that in his fight to stay in control, he’s forgotten what this is.

“Like this,” Thorin commands, “I would have you like this.” He shifts the arm holding Bilbo against his body to grip Bilbo’s shoulder more tightly and pin him once more. To ground him and remind him.

Bilbo keens and fights the hold all the more strongly and something a bit sharp cuts through Thorin’s pleasure. Thorin clamps down on his own passions, leashing his own pleasure and stilling his hand. With deliberate care, he forces himself to transfer his hold from Bilbo’s prick to his wrist and loosen the arm around Bilbo’s shoulders.

He counts his own breaths, loud in his ears, and tries to force his heart to slow its pace as he waits for Bilbo to register the change in situation.

For the second time this evening, doubt cools his skin. It had been a natural choice to ask Bilbo to offer himself piece by piece for Thorin’s pleasure after he’d so sweetly offered his submission. But Bilbo’s confusion had led them here instead, to something a bit more direct and easily understood for this first encounter. Even so, Bilbo was struggling and Thorin wasn’t confident yet in his ability to recognize how fundamental of a struggle it might be.

Bilbo’s head finally comes up and he looks at Thorin with dazed eyes. Trying to ignore his body’s demands, Thorin waits for Bilbo’s eyes to fully focus before he asks, “Do you wish to let go?”

Bilbo’s nose wrinkles and a crease forms in his brow. He looks blankly back at Thorin.

“Do you,” Thorin repeats slowly hand tightening on Bilbo’s wrist just above his clenched fist and the cravat that he still desperately holds, “wish to let go?”

Thorin knows they should have talked about this before he started. Bilbo doesn’t have the benefit of being raised in their society, of having grown up with the social cues and shared history that would give him the context he needs now. But when Bilbo had stormed into the common room and offered him the traditional words like a fantasy suddenly made real, Thorin’s sudden, raging desire to have this had burned away any discretion he may have had.

They can learn this together; everyone learns at some point. But that learning requires trust and willingness. This was the true test of the evening and Thorin tries to ignore how his stomach feels as if it is being weighted with stones as he waits for Bilbo to chose.

“No, no, no.” Bilbo’s eyes are clear even if fever bright. The words trip his silver tongue but he’s clutching the cravat so tightly that Thorin can see his fingers pale and white against the warmer fabric.

Thorin knows the sound he makes is far from civilized but Bilbo flushes red in response and goes easily when Thorin pulls him tightly against him again. He bends Bilbo back against his hold, stealing his balance and takes a firm grip on his hard prick. Bilbo remains compliant, even as he’s forced to hang from Thorin’s grip with nothing other than Thorin to anchor him.

Thorin sets a punishing pace, not giving Bilbo any further time to recover. Bilbo responds beautifully, squirming against Thorin’s hold and crying out with renewed passion. His struggles drive Thorin’s own passions higher. Bilbo’s writhing pulls his shirt across his nipples and causes Thorin’s breath to catch on his own moans. The pressure of Bilbo’s heaving stomach against his trapped cock is its own delicious torture. But it’s that sight and sound of Bilbo that truly holds him hostage.

Bibo can’t seem to help but fight against his hold, twisting beneath his grip, bucking and cursing and pleading, but his hands are pressed desperately into his hips and his grip never loosens. He is beyond beautiful as he’s forced accept every touch Thorin gives him.

Bilbo fights his release with every breath in his body and it is Thorin’s pleasure to break him.

His eyes go wide and blind, his back bows further into Thorin’s hold and his mouth opens on a soundless wail as his release takes him. Within Thorin’s grip, his prick jumps and spills across Thorin’s fist and Bilbo’s stomach to drip down to the rug beneath them. A dark wave of possessive satisfaction swamps Thorin at the sight and smell of Bilbo’s ecstasy.

He did this. Bilbo gave this to him.

As Bilbo sags in his arms, Thorin pulls him upright, tucking him close, holding him safe.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, taking a kiss from Bilbo’s lax lips. “Beautiful,” he praises nipping gently at his jaw and indulging in a lick of the salty skin in the hollow of his throat. He sweeps his hands down Bilbo’s sweaty back and feels the Hobbit shudder under his touch, overly sensitive.

Bilbo opens his eyes and the color is nearly lost beneath the blown black in the center. He gives a lopsided grin and Thorin can only growl and steal another kiss, this one a bit more demanding. Bilbo responds enthusiastically with lips and tongue and Thorin feels a brush against his own neglected cock setting off sparks beneath his skin.

With a moan, he forces himself to step back, leaving Bilbo standing once more alone on his own two feet.

Bilbo sways forward a step as if his body has forgotten what it is to exist without Thorin. The sight sends another thrill through Thorin and he can feel his galloping heartbeat stretching the thin skin under his jaw tight like the skin of a drum.

Bilbo’s eyes are fixed on his groin as he takes another step forward. “Let me,” he croons.

He reaches out with one hand, unconsciously folding the other behind his back so that he doesn’t let go of the cravat. The move sends fire roaring through Thorin’s blood. His lesson having been so well internalized that even after being tumbled by his own passions, Bilbo still holds tight.


He sees Bilbo start at the rough response and forces himself to take a deep breath and moderate his tone.

“Not yet,” he amends. He wants Bilbo in his bed before he seeks his own release. He will be satisfied with nothing less than burying his cock deep in his Hobbit’s heat and taking his own pleasure with Bilbo pinned beneath him. But first, there is something more important to attend to.

He reaches out and captures Bilbo’s extended hand in his own, cupping Bilbo’s fist in his palm.

“May I have the tie?”

Bilbo’s eyebrows draw together in confusion and Thorin is hard pressed not to reach up and smooth the line of his brow. He knows that Bilbo must want to protest but surprisingly he only looks down at his hand for a moment before he turns it palm up in Thorin’s grip and uncurls his fingers.

Thorin watches, fascinated, as the end of the cravat is revealed, creased and discolored with sweat. Bilbo’s fingers are crisscrossed with vivid lines where the fabric bit deep. Reverently, Thorin traces his fingers along the red and white lines, soothing the skin and massaging the tight tendons beneath. When the fingers are pink and plump, he raises the hand to his mouth and places a soft kiss in the center of Bilbo’s palm.

Bilbo’s eyes meet his as if drawn by command and Thorin looks his fill as he offers the same treatment to Bilbo’s second hand. This time, he lets his mouth wander, nipping at fingertips and boldly taking the smallest finger into his mouth to suck strongly. Bilbo’s breath stutters in the silence of the room and Thorin grins around his prize before pulling back.

“I will have something made for you but until then, this will serve.”

He takes the cravat, folds it in half and quickly twists it back on itself, creating a simple knotted design. He wraps it tightly around Bilbo’s throat twice before securing the loose ends together in a square knot that both holds the design and prevents the cloth from slipping free. He twists the makeshift collar around so the knot rests at the top of Bilbo’s spine and traces the curve of it admiring how it sits against Bilbo’s collarbones.

Bilbo’s fingers immediately come up to trace the length of cloth and tug experimentally. It’s simple but effective - satisfying at the most basic level of his being. He’ll have an official collar made, one from leather for days when they are outside of the mountain and one from precious metal and stones for occasions when only dwarrows will see. See and know that Bilbo has agreed to be Thorin’s consort. See and know how Thorin sets Bilbo above all others.

“You’re planning the number of gems for the Court collar, aren’t you?” Bilbo asks smartly and Thorin cannot help but laugh.

“I think it is time we retire,” he says instead, admitting nothing. He pulls the warg skin mantle from his shoulders and wraps it loosely around Bilbo’s shoulders. Anyone that sees them will know that Bilbo is nude beneath it but it is enough protect his Hobbit’s modesty. And the way it gapes at his chest only emphasizes the twist of fabric around his neck.

Thorin doesn’t even try to suppress the possessive delight the sight inspires in him. With a hand between Bilbo’s shoulder blades, just close enough to finger the knot of his collar, Thorin guides him to the door.

There is much still to discover between them but whatever comes, Thorin cannot regret choosing this.