Bilbo Baggins had always prided himself on his level-headedness. One does not reach maturity in the Shire otherwise, especially not unmarried, wealthy, and well-respected. These three characteristics, so rarely paired even in the gentlest of gentlehobbits, made him an esteemed neighbour and family head. Combined with his considerable intellectual skills, he was particularly suited to administering the large Baggins estate and offering advice to the Hobbitish council whenever his cousin Fortinbras, the Thain, needed it.
Bilbo was what people called a confirmed bachelor. He had never married, nor had any inclination or occasion to do so. It wasn’t that Bilbo himself was repulsive in form or in character, although it was true that his passion for long walks had carved him a body that was stronger and leaner than the usual marriageable hobbit ideal. Particularly after the death of his parents he had wandered far from the desirable affability and domesticity of a hobbit partner: he was more prone to melancholic fits and less inclined to devote himself to the culinary arts, to a degree that would have shocked most hobbits. It was only as he approached his half-century birthday that he had been interested in developing that skill, and then as much for academic purposes than anything.
With time, he had become wary of getting too close to anyone, afraid they were interested in his riches more than himself. A suspicion that only grew after being forced to face Lobelia Bracegirdle’s bullying approach to wooing. It was clear as day that her interest was solely rooted on her greed for Bag End from the first time she had invited herself for tea and appraisingly eyed the well-proportioned home, lovingly built and fitted by Bilbo’s father as a wedding gift for his mother. That had led to months of showering Bilbo with unwanted, invasive, downright frightening attention, no matter how clearly Bilbo stated that he wasn’t interested in marrying in general, and never, ever, doing so with her. Luckily, she had finally given up on Bilbo and settled with his cousin Otho. Although she hadn’t really given up on her hopes of inheriting Bad End if Bilbo never had descendants of his own, a frightening prospect in itself, but not enough to spur Bilbo to find a lass to give him some heirs.
Before, and in particular after, the Lobelia fiasco idle tongues would whisper incessantly about his motivations for not marrying, for it was rare indeed amongst hobbits to remain single past their prime. Bilbo was such a respected hobbit otherwise that it was difficult, even for the wildest of imaginations, to muster any scandals from his past that would justify his choice. No past tragedies beyond the death of his parents before he had reached his majority, no secret lovers, not even when he had been a tween. He had had occasion to play then, as most Hobbit tweens do, attending parties with his peers, but he hadn't been inclined to use it. He ate and drank and danced and laughed liberally in the company of his Took cousins closer in age to him, but never was he seen disappearing amongst the bushes on warm summer days with a partner, no matter how indulgently he listened and nodded to Sigismund Took´s rhapsodying about the lasses’ more cushiony bits. Truth be told he held little interest in anyone’s bits, not that he was inclined to admit it.
However, Bilbo was not completely impervious to others; he had felt some sparks of interest one summer he had spent in Buckland, watching the shirtless lads working in the fields. But it had seemed so unseemly for his position, already head of the Baggins family, to mingle so far outside his social circle and class expectations, that he had quickly extinguished it, and never looked back in regret. It wasn’t explicitly prohibited or indeed unheard of for two hobbits of the same sex to choose to live together, quietly, contently and without any major scandal. But it was the type of eccentric choice that Hobbiton upper classes would frown upon for such a prominent peer. Bilbo wasn’t interested enough in anyone in particular to fight for that possibility and weather the gossip with a sunny disposition. Truth be told, he had never felt a fire strong enough in his loins, nor had he met anyone that lit a fire in his mind as well, a necessary condition for him to even consider settling down.
Surrounded by hobbits for most of his life, and never venturing outside of the Shire, Bilbo could count with the fingers of one hand the occasions he had had of meeting, actually meeting, members of the other races. As a fauntling, he had roamed the woods near Hobbiton desperate for any elven sighting after he had pestered his mother for stories of the one time she had travelled as far as Rivendell before marrying. He had spied on Human Rangers from afar, but never close enough to feel intimidated about their size. Dwarves he had seen sometimes in the summer, either travelling across the Shire for some unknown destination, or occasionally setting shop in the High Summer market in Michael Delving. He had thought them rough, rude, and loud with their harsh-sounding language, and very odd-looking with their profuse facial hair, the complete opposite of the hobbit beauty ideal. And of course there was Gandalf, whatever Gandalf was, but Bilbo had only seen him a couple of times as a fauntling, the most memorable one during the Old Took’s 100th birthday firework display. He had almost forgotten about him by the time the old man chose to tip over his life, bringing a throng of dwarves, indeed even louder and ruder in closer distances, to pillage the well-stocked pantries of Bag End.
Despite the fact that the average dwarf wasn’t that much taller than a hobbit, their sheer bulk made Bilbo feel small and fragile, cowering against the wall as the dwarves passed him in the winding corridors of Bag End. They carried furniture and beverages and platters full of food, paying little heed to his stammered attempts to curb their enthusiastic plundering. When he had first opened Bag End’s door, expecting to find Hamfast Gangee or some other neighbour asking for an unexpected favour, he couldn’t stop himself from gaping at the great mountain of a dwarf that stood in the doorway, clad in dusty clothes and carrying two mighty axes on his shoulders, his bald head shining ominously under the moonlight. Bilbo hadn’t had the willpower to protest when the dwarf, without as little as by your leave, started munching on his own carefully-prepared dinner and after rudely burping, requested more without even looking up at Bilbo’s startled expression.
The other dwarves that had soon invaded the smial hadn’t been quite as intimidating, physically-speaking, but they were large and strong enough to push Bilbo aside as if he weighed nothing when he tried to bodily prevent a couple of them from rolling a big barrel of ale, and then a wheel of cheese down the corridor, wrinkling and smudging his father’s precious carpets. Their voices were indeed harsher and lower than the average hobbit voice, and they seemed able to sprout long, thick hair everywhere; from their heads and faces to forearms and knuckles, showing little regard for keeping it outside their drinks and food platters. He hadn’t seen them wash before or after their meals either! Bilbo shuddered at the greasy, unsanitary aspect of long moustaches soaked in chicken juices and sprinkled with bread crumbs; they had even let the ale run freely down their beards into their clothes, when they all toasted, which prompted a scandalous burping contest that not even the youngest Took cousins would dare to suggest.
It went without saying that Bilbo wasn’t impressed with his first close contact with members of a different race. That was perhaps why when he had felt lightheaded and speechless upon seeing the gentian-blue eyes of the last uninvited guest on his doorstep, he had attributed it to the stress and instinctual aversion that had clouded his senses for the last couple of hours. It was later, when he had had a soothing cup of tea provided by a surprisingly solicitous white-haired dwarf with complicated braids, and a pipe packed full of Gandalf’s fragrant Old Toby stash, when Bilbo, with a much clearer head, started to suspect that he might have had a different reason for his reaction. Even several minutes later, with his eyes closed he could sense the effect of those piercing blue eyes. That assessing gaze that had burned into Bilbo as he prowled around him, making him feel like a snared bird. He recalled that the sudden lack of air which had made him light-headed had been because he simply hadn’t been able to breathe for several seconds, overcome by the allure, the sheer power, that emanated from Thorin Oakenshield. The leader of the company of dwarves was simply breathtaking.
And something inexplicable, burning low in his stomach, had motivated Bilbo to leave Bag End behind in the mad dwarven quest. Still getting used to riding a pony, he entertained himself with idle rhyming as the road from Hobbiton to Bree went on and on, down from the door where it began. He tried with all his might to never look purposefully at Thorin, scared of getting lost in those bright blue eyes again, their hue under the spring sun perhaps closer to forget-me-nots than gentian. But the problem was his eyes weren't the only breathtaking element the leader of the Company possessed. Even though Bilbo tended to ride near the back, conversing with Gandalf and occasionally with the light-hearted dwarf that had offered him the piece of torn cloth as handkerchief, he couldn’t help noticing how broad and strong the leader looked from his position at the head of the Company. The sleeveless fur coat draped over the armour beneath only made him cut a more imposing, alluring figure.
When they camped at night Thorin was usually a quiet, majestic presence ever-watching from the outskirts of the campsite, never getting caught in the banter from the other dwarves. Like today, being a particularly hot spring day, they had stopped earlier than usual, just after crossing the Brandywine bridge. The younger dwarves had pleaded to Thorin to let them wash off the sweat from the road in the river, and he had graciously acquiesced. Bilbo had watched perplexed when not only Fili, Kili and Bofur - that is, the dwarves he would have considered more likely to be shameless - but most of the Company, stripped themselves completely, scattering their clothes around and jumped in the river with much revelry. Meanwhile, Bilbo sought the shade of the nearby trees, an orchard full of apple and cherry, magnificently blossoming in pink and white hues in the early Spring. It was a popular spot for fauntlings in late summer, when the fruits had ripened.
“Aren’t you joining them, Halfling?” asked a low voice from just a couple of handspans behind. Bilbo startled, turning with a jolt. He was already feeling light-headed from the overwhelming smell of the blossoming trees. Under the pale blue stare, he staggered back a few paces for good measure. Thorin was leaning against the bark of one of the many blossoming trees, most of the blooms wilting and fallen in the spring warmth, but no less lovely dancing in the breeze under the soft light of the late afternoon. Bilbo even spied a few rosy and white petals tangled amongst the long dark locks falling over the dwarven king’s wide shoulders, and had to inhale a couple of times to stabilise his voice before speaking.
Bilbo was not used to long hair, you see. Male hobbits kept their hair respectably trimmed, and female hobbits usually bound theirs in a high bun upon reaching majority, sometimes even covered with a bonnet, and as tweens would wear it partially bound in braids and tails. Only the youngest fauntlings ever had their hair completely unbound. To see an adult, a male, attractive adult, with such thick luscious locks that reached mid-chest was positively scandalous. But that new, itchy feeling burning within wasn’t disapproval at all.
Art created by MulaSaWala
Draped so artfully against the bark, letting the blossoms cover his shoulders and hair, Thorin was almost offering himself like a god of Spring for Bilbo’s suddenly hungry gaze. Gasping for clean air, still heady with the mad scent of blossoms and the warmth of the afternoon, Bilbo felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to bury his hands in the dark mane and pull him down, closer to him. Cherry blossoms, the first and shortest-living of the blossoming fruit trees, were a reminder of how every single fleeting moment needs to be enjoyed, while apple blossoms stood for fertility and temptation. Very fitting, and yet, Bilbo daren’t.
“Aren’t you?” replied Bilbo with a nervous laugh.
“Someone has to keep watch” said Thorin, his blue eyes boring holes into Bilbo’s face. What could he be looking at so intensely?
“We are still in the Shire, there is nothing to worry about” explained Bilbo. “I can keep watch anyhow. We are not very fond of open waters, we hobbits. Only fauntlings would wade in like this, and only in shallow creeks. Hobbits don't swim."
Thorin had frowned, and looked as if he wanted to ask more, but Bilbo had smiled uneasily, and excused himself to go foraging for something to add flavour to Bombur’s dinner stew. Morel mushrooms liked the sweet ground of apple orchards, and it was the right season for them. It was the first time they had exchanged words alone, and he felt his strength drained by just a few minutes under the direct blue stare that reminded him now of the bluntness of borage. Neither Bilbo nor Thorin bathed that day, at least not to Bilbo’s knowledge. He had, however, washed his sweat away after dinner, just rolling up his shirtsleeves and opening the first few buttons at his neck. Later, when he retreated to his sleeping roll, he kept seeing the pink and white petals floating in the air, framing the broad silhouette of the dwarven leader, edges blurred like a dream he could now gladly embrace.
The next few weeks rolled by, but Bilbo and Thorin didn't have another opportunity to speak alone until after the episode with the Trolls. It was shortly after the dawn which had turned the mighty beasts to stone, and Bilbo was sitting miserably outside their cave. Most of the dwarves had dug enthusiastically into the hoard, despite the appalling smell, but he preferred to wait outside. After wandering for a while amongst the tiny blue flowers that had miraculously survived the Troll’s trampling around, he sat down and grabbed fistfuls of grass to clean the crusty remnants of troll’s boogies from his fine red coat. His dinner jacket was starting to look much worse for wear as weeks went by on the road that went ever on a on, over rock and under tree, by caves where never sun has shone. He was startled from his senseless rhyming by Gandalf’s voice.
“Bilbo”, said the wizard, offering him something long and shiny. “Here, this is about your size.”
Bilbo blinked, shading his eyes from the sun reflecting off the metal, and saw that Gandalf was offering him a sword.
“I can’t take this!”, he said, appalled. A hobbit with a sword! The mere idea was absurd.
“The blade is of Elvish make, which means it will glow blue when orcs or goblins are nearby”, explained Gandalf patiently.
“I have… I have never used a sword in my life”, stammered Bilbo then, but took it nonetheless.
“And I hope that you never have to. But if you do, remember this: true courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one”. With these ominous words, Gandalf turned and walked away, his busy mind already occupied with something else. Bilbo stared down at the little sword, speechless. It was indeed very beautiful, and very shiny, but he hadn’t the first clue of how to wear it, not to say wield it.
He suddenly noticed that a broad shadow had fallen over him, and looking up, he locked gazes again with Thorin. The dwarf looked as tired as he was, for neither had slept a single wink, but there was still a breathtaking appeal in his disarrayed appearance, his eyes under the early morning light shining a purer blue than the surrounding periwinkle, despite the dark circles under them. Bilbo remembered the determination with which Thorin had headed the attack on the trolls. His heart had been jumping in his throat, but it wasn’t just because of the danger. He had been mesmerised by the stealth and strength of Thorin’s every movement during the short battle with the trolls, before he had willingly given up his weapons just to spare Bilbo’s life. Bilbo couldn’t fathom why, his little hobbit life was not worth that of thirteen dwarves. He opened his mouth to say exactly that, but Thorin started talking:
“It is a small sword, but not worthless”, he started, a little hesitant. “May it be useful and keep you safe as we continue our Journey.”
His words sounded strangely ritualistic and Bilbo didn’t know what to make of them.
“I… I think it may have been part of a set with this sword”, explained Thorin then, showing Bilbo his own elven blade that he had rescued from the troll’s hoard. It was twice the size of Bilbo’s own, which he was still holding a little helplessly in both hands, but the pommel of the long sword didn’t seem big at all in Thorin’s calloused hands, despite being made for the Tall Folk. “You see these marks here on the blade, near the pommel?”
Thorin’s index finger, two times thicker than Bilbo’s, pointed at the oak leaf motif that ran under the elvish script of the blade. Bilbo felt an electric shock when he felt Thorin touch his hand, as he leaned down to caress the exact same motif, mirrored on Bilbo’s short sword. They locked gazes again and Bilbo held his breath, feeling the same light-headedness he had felt in Bag End. Their little moment was broken when a sudden havoc was wrought as an eccentric cloak-wearing figure appeared amidst the trees, in a sleigh drawn by rabbits, of all things.
“Thieves! Fire! Murder!”, shrieked the man, whose looks reminded Bilbo too much of Gandalf, but with brown tones instead of grey. Indeed, the grey wizard did not seem surprised to see him, nor did he seem to necessitate any greeting or explanation, before he bellowed to the group of dwarves, some of which were still at the troll’s hoard, or idly scattered nearby.
“Stay together! Hurry now! Arm yourselves!”. Gandalf’s words were followed by a rushed escape from orcs and wargs until they finally entered the safe haven of the Elves’ last homely house. Bilbo seemed to be the only member of the group, besides Gandalf, that was happy to be there amid such beautiful architecture that sprung almost organically from the surrounding nature. He was especially pleased with the possibility of bathing and sleeping under a roof again.
After the first night in Rivendell, Bilbo woke up feeling well-rested for the first time in ages. He had gone down to the gardens with the rest after breakfast, but had wandered away from the group while looking at the interesting flowers that grew in Rivendell’s protected ecosystem. He felt inexplicably drawn to a luxuriously blooming group of bushes where he could recognise starking blue hydrangea amongst other bushes he had no name for.
It may be the slightly different latitude or elven secret lore, but Bilbo had never seen so many different species of flowers together. As he strolled aimlessly, he ran into their host, Elrond, who was peacefully pacing in the garden, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He however was kind and welcoming to Bilbo:
“Not with your companions?”, he asked.
“No, I shan't be missed” answered Bilbo, a little wistful. “The truth is that most of them don't think I should be on this journey."
“Indeed? I've heard that Hobbits are very resilient, not to be dismissed lightly despite your size” insisted Elrond, and then smiled: “I've also heard they're fond of the comforts of home.”
Bilbo had stared down at a group of calla lilies that stood high and brazen, their moist peristyle almost lewd, in that corner of the garden, feeling his tongue was too big in his mouth, and not sure what was polite to answer:
“I've not heard much about elves in the Shire. Just that it's unwise to seek their council, for they will only answer with 'Yes' and 'No'”, he had finally said, cringing a little at how this could be easily misunderstood for the insulting remarks the dwarves kept mumbling to themselves, not very quietly.
Elrond looked down at Bilbo with an unreadable expression in the face of Bilbo’s own insecure one, and then unexpectedly broke an amused smile which Bilbo couldn’t help but mirror.
“You are very welcome to stay here, if that is your wish.”
Bilbo shook his head sheepishly, and was trying to think what was best to answer when they were interrupted by the haughty-looking elf that had first received Thorin’s Company in the courtyard yesterday. There followed a conversation in Sindarin, of which Bilbo understood a few scattered words like kitchen, wine, savages, dwarves and fountains. It wasn’t difficult to cobble together the meaning, though, as the two elves were now staring at the far end of the garden, where a big fountain with finely carved statues stood. He had been so distracted he didn’t even notice the dwarves disrobing (even though they apparently did so in a very disorderly manner, judging by how scattered and mixed all their clothes were over the grass and low bushes) and jumping in the water to desecrate lord Elrond’s fountain.
When he eventually meandered back to the fountain after saying his goodbyes to the two elves, he was flabbergasted by the scene that awaited him. There was a dwarf tower! Indeed two! Three-tiered! And they were wrestling! And the less-rowdy dwarves, Balin and Bombur, although they were standing a few paces back, quietly conversing, didn’t tell them off, but rather seemed amused by their antics.
“Won’t you join us today, Halfling?”, came a rumbling low voice from the left, just behind one of the delicately carved stone pillars of the fountain, covered by bindweed and other luscious creeping plants. The words were immediately followed by the rushing sound of water being displaced by a moving body. Bilbo looked in that direction and instantly regretted it. “There is no current here, and as you see, the water is rather shallow”.
The water was indeed shallow, barely level with the dwarf king's sharp hip bones, which left almost everything else on display, as the green-tinted water was translucent under the sun. Thankfully there was a big water lily floating in front of his groin, obscuring just enough to prevent Bilbo’s cardiac arrest. The dwarf’s thick body seemed carved by Mahal itself out of white marble, like the legends claimed. Sharply defined muscles on his torso, generously covered by dark fur, here and there scattered with white hairs, parted by rivulets of water that made his pale skin shine. Bilbo felt once again a sudden, inexplicable urge clouding his mind. What would he give to be able to thread his fingers in that thick soft-looking pelt, creating curlicues with his small fingers as he grabbed him close, not letting him go, what for, he wasn’t sure yet.
His thoughts racing and at the same time, slugging, Bilbo whimpered as he tried not to stare. He really did. It was difficult but he was a level-headed hobbit, not a creature driven by impulses. He wouldn’t look down, he wouldn’t, so instead he looked up for any distraction, which unfortunately came in the form of Kili and Fili’s bare asses and hanging bits a couple of metres away as they climbed over the stone maid of the fountain, apparently looking for a good place from which to jump into the water below.
“There is running water in my room”, he finally said, with a strained smile he aimed in Thorin’s direction, still not looking, hoping his brightly stained cheeks would be attributed to sunstroke, and nothing else. Thankfully he was wearing a clean elvish shirt that was too long and broad for him, reaching his knees, so it couldn’t be tucked inside his unusually tight breeches. Just then, Kili and Fili dropped like a bomb into the water, soaking Bilbo’s clothes, and he was so thankful for the distraction he didn’t even yell at them, but used the occasion to mumble some excuse and disappear back into the palace, where he took care of what he discovered, flabbergasted, were very pressing needs indeed, and had to do so again several times, in between feverish naps.
Of course after that it became even more difficult to look Thorin in the eye, for he would remember how he had abused his confidence and pleasured himself like a baseless tween, incensed by a lust that he hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever. The rest of the stay in Rivendell passed in a rush, and despite seriously considering Elrond’s offer, Bilbo joined the dwarves when they finally left.
What followed was the most difficult stretch of the journey so far, first scaling the progressively wilder and riskier terrain of the Misty Mountains, facing the cutting winds and cold rain, and then the fearsome stone giants. When Bilbo lost his footing in the narrow path, he almost felt thankful that his suffering would end soon. And then he was rescued by Thorin, who risked his own life again to save poor little Bilbo's. The dwarf’s strong hands had appeared out of mist and drizzle that blinded the hobbit and just grabbed Bilbo’s own weak ones and pulled, as if he weighed nothing. Hours after, he could still feel their phantom touch, their paradoxically gentle coarseness, as Thorin’s harsh words afterwards kept resonating in Bilbo’s head: “He's been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come. He has no place amongst us.”
Bilbo felt consumed by guilt, as the fate of the whole Quest couldn’t depend on his own frail shoulders. What would the legends say, if the worthless halfling brought about the too early demise of the last Durin king. His thoughts increasingly darker, that same night, Bilbo attempted to flee back to Rivendell, but was stopped when Bofur noticed the blade of his small sword shining blue just a few seconds before the whole world capsized as they all tumbled into the goblin tunnels.
Although he didn’t realise until much later, Bilbo’s lonely hours in the dark tunnels and his encounter with the grim creature that called itself Gollum would become the cusp of his life, for it forever changed his fate and that of the whole Middle Earth. For now far ahead the Road was gone, and he had to pursue it with weary but eager feet until he met his companions again.
Surviving in that fathomless darkness and soul-wrenching solitude, Bilbo discovered a new side of his personality that reinforced his sense of self-worth. It was therefore a reinvented hobbit that emerged into the sunlight and confidently announced his presence once back amidst the group of dwarves, passionately defending his motivation in the face of their doubts about him. Bilbo had Bag End, and missed its commodities terribly, but the dwarves did not have a home to call their own, and he would help them with all his might. The smell of the tall pines surrounding them, of life itself, buttressed his determination. He could feel Thorin’s eyes on him as he spoke, but he didn’t waver away from the pale blue stare that evening, allowing himself to look back, his back straight, until the dwarf finally nodded, as if they had sealed a silent pact. And when the night fell and they were surrounded by wargs and orcs, a new will and strength in his arms made him wield his little sword to defend the fallen dwarven king, not a second lost to hesitation.
As he later flew safely suspended in the eagle’s talons, thousands of metres above the green forests and grey mountains, he didn’t dwell on circular thoughts like he had used to. He didn’t feel any self-doubt, guilt or shame or fear, and just breathed, free and painlessly for the first time in his life, and let himself be overcome by awe, at the never-before seen landscape yes, but also his own peace of spirit.
Thorin’s words and the smothering embrace that followed on the Carrock was just the coup de grâce that settled Bilbo’s new self. As they all stood in the high peak, devoid of vegetation but a few sprigs of heather that dared grow amongst the rocks, Bilbo filled his nostrils with the smell of the salvia paste that Oin had put on Thorin’s wounds, its sharp notes mixed with the earthen musk of Thorin’s furs, the bergamot of his hair oil and the mineral scent of his skin, and he just smiled elated when he felt how it stirred him inside.
Sojourning in Beorn’s lands provided the perfect respite to make the old and new Bilbo come to terms. He no longer shied away from the company of the dwarves, but cheered and joked with them while they ate their meals. He also still found time to be by himself, many hours peacefully strolling in the marvellous gardens, with their overgrown flora and fauna, looking at the giant bees merrily gathering pollen from the honeysuckle and sweet pea and lavender flowers that gave their sweetness to the rich honey Beorn had offered with his bread and butter.
If his journey had begun amidst the first cherry and apple blossoms of early Spring, there were no blossoming trees in his orchard this late in the season, for they were all heavy with fruit, ripe for plucking, and pluck did Bilbo, his hands and lips and chin soon stained with juice he didn’t bother to clean. He had never tasted fruits this big and sweet, and he ate his fill until his tongue tingled in his mouth, overstimulated.
“Enjoying yourself, Halfling?”, asked a rumbling voice, closer than would be expected. This time Bilbo didn’t start up like a bird in a cage, but the sound made him curl his bare toes for purchase in the rich dark earth of the gardens. The hobbit turned his head, calm and steady, and there he was, again just a few handspans away, as breathtakingly beautiful as that first night in Bag End, that far-away evening by the Brandywine, or that sunny morning in Elrond’s gardens. But this time Bilbo didn’t look away, and just let his eyes roam free instead.
“You look beautiful”, he said, and felt no shame when his first instinct was to lick his lips, tasting some of the juice that had gathered there. Thorin seemed surprised by that direct approach, but not displeased, for his smile grew and his bright blue eyes were twinkling in the afternoon sun, blue as some of the sweet pea flowers that the bees insistently prodded in the background.
“Do I?”, he said, coming closer still. His steps were almost noiseless, and when Bilbo looked down, he saw that he had discarded the heavy, steel-capped leather boots and was as barefooted as the hobbit, his feet smaller and almost dainty, completely devoid of fur. He came so close that their toes touched, making Bilbo shiver. Thorin had obviously washed, judging by his relaxed appearance and still wet locks. He was holding a linen pouch from which a silver comb and other grooming tools could be spied, and it was evident he had been meaning to find a place to sit and braid his hair that now hung loose as Bilbo had never seen before.
Being so close, Bilbo could fill his nostrils with Thorin’s scent, not completely masked by the sweet smell of Beorn’s own honey soap. That sharp musk so intrinsically Thorin’s had stirred him so deeply when they had embraced on the Carrock. Bilbo sighed but didn’t fight the desire this time, letting it overcome his senses, surrendering to the hunting spirit he now recognised in Thorin’s stares. Indeed, when he looked up again, he saw his desire mirrored in Thorin’s eyes, the bright blue barely visible, engulfed by dilated pupils. He licked his lips again and relished noticing how Thorin hungrily followed the movement of his small red tongue, and leaned a bit closer still.
But it was Bilbo who finally closed the gap between their lips, simultaneously rising on his tippy toes and grabbing a fistful of those luscious black locks in each hand. He tugged down on the sensitive place just before Thorin’s ears where his braids usually hung, eliciting a low growl in the dwarf’s chest like that of a purring cat. As their lips met for the first and tenth and hundredth time in a hungry fast-paced dance of touch and breath and spit, Bilbo kept on grabbing and caressing and squeezing, his hands never stopping now they could roam free on that statuesque body he had long desired. He had many years of idleness to compensate for.
Surprisingly, Thorin just followed his directions as obedient as if he was not a king, but a servant to Bilbo’s recently unleashed desires. After some indefinite amount of time, for seconds seemed to slip by slowly like molasses, they found themselves kneeling down on the rich brown soil, almost reverently, like paying homage to Yavanna. Their lips never too far from each other, as they embraced, their hands wandering first over their loose linen clothes, and then snaking underneath, until they pulled off each other’s shirts over their heads, discarding them over the grass.
The weather was warm, yet Bilbo shivered at the feeling of the soft breeze on his bare skin, his nipples stiffening completely in mere seconds. Intent on joining their mouths again, he leaned forward a bit to plaster his nearly hairless chest against the dense yet surprisingly soft hair in the dwarf’s midriff, and then whimpered a little at the tickling stimulation on the hardened nubs. Their size difference was even more noticeable now that they were both kneeling, because though their legs were actually not so disparate in length, Thorin’s barrel torso dimensions were almost double those of a hobbit. That left Bilbo’s mouth conveniently hovering over Thorin’s nipples, dusty pink like rose petals, paler even than his thin lips, though those were now redder and kiss-swollen. Bilbo’s mouth, wet and hungry, opened of its own accord to latch on the closest one, laving it profusely before sucking it greedily inside and then moving over to the other one to do the same, making Thorin moan low and needy over his head.
Bilbo could still taste the sweet sharpness of peaches on his tongue, paired now with the salt of skin and something new, mineral and addictive that seemed distinctly dwarven. His free hand wandered lower and lower, following the direction of the flexing muscles of Thorin’s stomach until he could snake the tips of his fingers under the tight material of his trousers, caressing the coarse hair there. He only needed to loosen the laces, go a little lower and grab again for his prize, which he could feel pulsing hot and unyielding against his lower stomach. He flexed the fingers of his trapped hand, overpowered by his desire and yet slightly cowed, his heart rabbiting madly in his heaving chest. Suddenly, he felt one of Thorin’s hands on his chin, encouraging him to lift his head from where he was gasping, half hidden in the black fur of the dwarf’s pectorals. He noticed the other hand going lower and then loosening the trousers himself, and then groaning a little in relief.
“Come here”, said Thorin then, his words rumbling in his chest before he actually heard them. He looked up and saw Thorin looking down at him, his eyes warm and inviting, despite the overblown pupils. The dwarf smiled as he beckoned him upwards, both hands now digging into Bilbo’s waist, helping him close the distance between their mouths to kiss again, less frantic and more exploratory this time, their tongues getting acquainted. Thorin’s big hands around his journey-trimmed waist spanned so far into Bilbo’s back that his middle fingers touched near his spine.
“You taste like summer peaches”, chuckled Thorin when they took a break to breathe. He lifted one hand to caress Bilbo’s beardless cheek, while the other wandered low to squeeze Bilbo’s rump, and whispered: “You are soft like one too.”
Bilbo blushed like a fauntling, and lowered his face again, mortified. His own small hands lay now idle and lax by his side, and he could feel the self-doubt creeping into his mind. Thorin mouthed now on the pointy tip of his left ear, eliciting a full body shiver down his spine. “I wonder if you taste so sweet everywhere.”
“You taste like salt and stone and dwarf”, mumbled Bilbo in reply, and then cringed a little at his own word selection. Thorin just laughed, and pinched Bilbo’s nose, before replying:
“It is to be expected, for Mahal carved us out of stone, while from what I have heard, his wife grew the hobbits in her own garden like curly cabbages.”
Bilbo squealed in indignation, and batted Thorin’s hand away from his nose, and when the dwarf kept laughing, he just silenced him with a kiss. It wasn’t long after that Bilbo toppled Thorin over the nearby herb patch to straddle his hips and thighs, which were so thick under his bum that he actually struggled to find his balance, flexing the arches of his long hairy feet until his toes were buried in the moist soil. Amidst the tall growing stalks of the herb garden, Thorin’s body hollowed a distinct silhouette over the crushed valerian, coriander, marjoram and thyme leaves, their mixed aroma tickling Bilbo’s nose and reminding him of the essential oil collection he kept in Bag End, that would be very useful in a moment like this.
Bilbo laid his right hand proprietarily on the centre of the dwarf’s chest, his small fingers threaded in the patch of thicker hair above his sternum, as he had wanted to do in Rivendell, and bit his lip in reflection. The dwarf king was a sight to behold, his pale skin stark against the flattened greenery, shirtless and dishevelled, with his trouser’s laces wide open, displaying a wealth of dense black curls cradling the upper section of a mouthwatering thick member that was still mostly trapped and throbbing under the fabric.
“I have hair oil”, rumbled Thorin, grabbing Bilbo’s left hand and putting it straight over his groin, like a promise. “We can do whatever you want”.
Bilbo considered. He knew there were several possibilities, probably a lot more beyond what he had ever stopped to think about. Just having this magnificent body under him, so willing and pliant, was far more than what he had dared to fantasise. He was a famished man in front of a banquet, but the level-headed hobbit in him advised caution, lest he overindulged and spoiled the meal.
Breathing deeply as if he was about to plunge into deep water, he lowered his head to nuzzle and nip at Thorin’s chest again, relishing in the smell and texture, but with a clear downwards direction. His left hand reached its destination first, just having to aim into the open flaps of his trousers. Thorin was throbbing, impossibly hot in his small hand. He couldn’t quite close all around it, and Bilbo’s desire skyrocketed as he fished him out completely to stare and squeeze.
Looking down, from his still prone position against Thorin’s chest, he couldn’t see much more than a bulbous, purplish head resting now near the dwarf’s navel, a clear fat bead suddenly appearing on top as if beckoned forward by Bilbo’s hand. Mouth suddenly filled with saliva, Bilbo mouthed hungrily down one of Thorin’s sides, revelling in the narrow hairless patch that stretched from the shade of his armpits towards his protruding iliac muscles. The skin was surprisingly soft and unmarred by the abundant scars that littered other parts of his torso, and Bilbo’s lips lingered, caressing the spot, almost forgetting he had another destination in mind. Thorin shivered under the hobbit’s breath on his sensitive skin, and closed his own hand over Bilbo’s, encouraging, and prompting another drop to appear.
When the hobbit finally closed his mouth over the expecting member, his own moan was louder than the low growl the movement elicited, the big dwarf’s hand reaching upwards to caress Bilbo’s curls. The mineral saltiness was stronger here, with a bitter aftertaste that reminded Bilbo of baking soda, of scraping a batter bowl clean with his spoon. The head filled his mouth almost completely and he could do little more than slurp on it, as his small hand travelled up and down the shaft, squeezing more and more clear beads onto his awaiting tongue, tingling now with the new, addictive taste.
Bilbo couldn’t help the happy little sounds that came out of his overstuffed mouth as he continued to suck and squeeze, intent on going lower, deeper, fuller until he retched and had to come up again for air. His other hand joined in the enthusiastic effort now, and between both he made Thorin squirm and thrash, a continuous torrent of praise barely understandable in between gasps and increasingly urgent low moans that made his whole torso vibrate. With his mouth then hovering near the end and licking like a kitten, Bilbo persevered with his hands, his mission clear in his head now, and it wasn’t much later that he was rewarded with spurt after spurt that he hastened to clean away greedily before they got lost in the pube forest below. The flavour was much more concentrated and delightful, making his taste buds prickle under the onslaught he barely managed to contain. When he finished chasing the last remnants from all over the girthy shaft, he came up again to draw the last drops directly from their source.
Bilbo was so focused on analysing the new taste and gathering his breath back, his senses clouded by overstimulation, that he didn’t identify the sudden jiggly, rhythmic movements under his hands as laughter until he lifted his dazed head to look up at Thorin who was almost guffawing, his eyes crinkling and moist in the corners.
“Come up here, you wanton creature”, he managed to say, his breath stuttering with mirth, and manhandled Bilbo up, up until he was almost sitting on his chest. Still chuckling, Thorin tried to take Bilbo’s prick out, no doubt to reciprocate, but the much tighter and higher waistband of the hobbit’s breeches prevented him. He commanded, his usual authority back in his voice: “Take these off, hobbit, so that I may pay you back for your enthusiasm, or else my dwarven pride would be vexed owing you my life and the best org*sm of my life in barely two days.”
Bilbo wanted to feel offended at his laughter and sudden bossiness, but he just harrumphed and acquiesced. As soon as he kicked his last piece of clothing off, he found himself suddenly overturned and helpless, his back pressed on the grass, his legs sprawled wide to make room for two big thighs in between.
Thorin grabbed his hips possessively, lifting them over his thighs to spread them further, squeezing his arsecheeks apart, exploring the in-between crease with his thick fingers. Folded like this, Bilbo’s angry red prick was bobbing near his bellybutton, oozing helplessly as he was overwhelmed by hot breath and slippery spit covering every inch of his groin, which in combination with the bristling brush of stubble made him shiver and quiver with delight in places he had never before considered erogenous.
Everything turned even more slippery all of a sudden as the scent of bergamot oil filled Bilbo’s nostrils. Then he felt a thick dwarven finger caressing insistently into his most vulnerable place, which easily yielded to the dwarven assault with the aid of the oil. The sudden, but not unwelcome intrusion dug deeper and deeper, confidently prodding with a beckoning movement that filled Bilbo’s tightly shut eyes with blinking stars, his whole body seized by an overwhelming coil of pleasure that built up and up, impossibly tight, and was only released when he finally felt Thorin’s close his mouth over his prick and suck, once, twice, thrice and then let it go to break free like a dam overflowing after the spring’s rains. A high-pitched cry wrought from Bilbo’s throat as the suddenly freed member spent profusely over his own body, one spurt reaching as far as his quivering chin. Still trembling and dazed with pleasure, he snaked his tongue down to get a taste, just for comparison’s sake, for he was but a hobbit.
“This was but a small part of my debt paid”, promised Thorin, who while Bilbo was busy comparing flavours had crawled forward so their heads were level with each other. Leaning on one elbow, he smiled lazily down at Bilbo’s elated, dishevelled and completely spent face. “I want to make you mine, completely, as soon as possible.”
He sealed his promise by licking away the pearly line that crossed Bilbo’s chest, as the hobbit just nodded, still unable to gather words, until Thorin claimed his mouth again, and they shared the surprisingly honey sweet taste.
Later, as they gathered their breath, Bilbo still laying partially over the prone dwarven body, Thorin started playing with Bilbo’s hair, softly twisting and pulling on the sweat-moistened tight curls that sprung near his nape, as if fascinated by their texture and give. Bilbo sighed contentedly and let him play, too happy and relaxed to move or speak. Long minutes passed by, the sun already disappearing behind the far tree-line to the west.
“Would you let me put a braid in your hair?”, asked Thorin softly, his breath tickling Bilbo’s nose. Bilbo lifted his head a little, leaning his weight again over his hand that rested on the muscular chest, to look directly into the incomparable blue of the dwarf’s eyes. Maybe it wasn’t a flower but sky colour, but when exactly in the day he didn’t know, he had to think about it. Seeing he was not replying, Thorin insisted, caressing the shell of Bilbo’s pointy ear before grabbing a longish lock with a possessive grip: “I think it's long enough here, behind your ears”.
Bilbo nodded. He intuited what dwarven braids signified, though he didn’t have the full meaning range yet. But it just felt right, the gentle tugging of Thorin’s surprisingly nimble yet thick fingers as he gathered and twisted several strands from behind Bilbo’s left ear, and then capped it with an intricate bead he had extracted from the linen grooming bag. It was a small but significant weight against his neck, not yet touching his shoulder.
“And will you do mine?” The question was more hesitant now, and there was almost a shy glint in Thorin’s eyes that were however firmly locked in Bilbo’s hazel ones.
“I’ll do all your braids if you teach me how”, he said with a wide smile, tangling his fingers in the soft black mane.
Everyday, he didn’t say. Wherever this mad Quest leads us to. Until death do us part.
Thorin was his to keep now.
