DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'The Hobbit' or anything related to it. Like the movies, for example. I only own the plot and various OCs I may or may not insert in the story at some point.
FULL SUMMARY: When Frodo Baggins is thrown into Erebor's dungeons after he tries to seek refuge after an unexpected Warg attack, his uncle, Bilbo Baggins, has no other choice but to try and barter with the literally beastly King Thorin.
In exchange for Frodo's freedom, Bilbo agrees to stay with the King and his Company forever. Slowly, despite their obvious differences, Bilbo and Thorin start to fall in love. But, with Smaug, a human who wants Bilbo for his own, and the looming deadline of an ancient curse placed upon Thorin, will they ever get together?
CHAPTER 1:
Frodo Baggins awoke with a start.
Outside his bedroom window, the birds chirped and twittered, completely oblivious to the horrible nightmare the teen had just escaped from. Sweat trickled down his nape and onto his back in thin, cold rivulets. His unruly black curls were plastered to his forehead, wet and sticky and just plain gross. Frodo rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of what he'd just seen. Unfortunately for him, it was impossible.
It was like the images had been permanently imprinted in his mind's eye, firmly seared into his brain with a hot iron brand.
He put a hand on his chest, right over the spot where his heart was. It was beating faster than usual, making it harder for him to breathe. He tried to remember what the town physician had said about nightmares, and did just that. Thankfully, in a minute's time, his heartbeat had slowed down and returned to normal.
Sighing, he ran a shaky hand through his curls. The nightmares were becoming more infrequent, yes, but when they did come? Boy, were they nasty.
Last night's dream had been a whopper, even by Frodo's standards. This time, Bilbo had been with him and his parents on the stupid boat, the one that had cracked down the middle and drowned two of the people he'd loved the most. This time, Bilbo had managed to throw him to the shore, which in itself, was the first indicator that he had been dreaming.
How on earth would his sort-of frail uncle have the ability to do that?
Superpowers aside, it had still been very scary watching Bilbo thrash around in the cold lake, seeing his punches become weaker than the last. It was quite sick, seeing Bilbo try to swim towards him, but not know how to. And the worst part about that dream was that all he had done was watched.
"It was just a dream. Nothing more, nothing less," he muttered repeatedly under his breath.
He got out of bed, then. Stretching, he slipped his sandals on, donned the little bathrobe Bilbo had given him, and crossed to the little balcony his room had. When he reached it, he flung the windows wide open and stepped outside, nearly sighing in relief as the light September wind cooled him down.
Frodo sat down on the chair Bilbo had provided for him and put his chin into his hands, resting his elbows on the balcony's sill. Below him, Hobbiton was just starting to awake. And even though the name itself suggested adventure and excitement, the town was anything but: a fact that had somewhat disappointed Frodo when he'd arrived six months ago.
Sleepy shopkeepers opened up their stores, setting their wares in order. The newspaper peddler had just started his rounds a few minutes ago, calling "Papers! Papers for sale!" at the top of his lungs, voice hoarse and scratchy.
Already, gossipy women - and in some cases, men - had started to gather near the front of Mrs. Cleary's parlor, preening in the mirror and scratching away at their nails with the nail files they'd stashed in their purses, complaining about their hair-dos and ruined pedicures as if they were the most important things in the world.
Very soon, the cries of other vendors filled the air, attracting people to the various items they had on sale. Frodo scanned the busy crowd for his uncle. It was Saturday today, and as far as Saturday was concerned in the Baggins' household, it was a market day.
When his keen eyes failed to spot a certain flash of curly russet-brown, Frodo sighed, stood up, and stretched again. He still had to prepare all of the things he would need to bring to the picnic he was going to attend later, and thanks to his exhaustion from doing his homework last night, he had accomplished nothing.
Frodo tromped back into his room, grabbed the old wicker basket he would be using, and walked downstairs to the pantry. Although a few things were missing here and there, the pantry was still quite full, even by a merchant's standards, giving Frodo a wide selection as to what he and his friends would eat.
A few minutes later, just as he was finishing up, Frodo heard the front door open and close: Bilbo was home.
"Frodo? Frodo, are you awake, darling?" Bilbo called.
Frodo automatically nodded. Then he remembered that his uncle couldn't see him just yet.
"Um, yes. Yes, I'm awake. I'm in the pantry, Uncle. Just…wait a minute!"
He closed the basket, dropped it lightly onto the floor, and bounded out of the pantry, racing towards the front room, where he attacked Bilbo with a fierce three-second hug.
"Hello, love," Bilbo said, pulling Frodo back to him and giving said teenager a peck on the forehead. Out of habit, Frodo shrugged away, scrunched his nose up, and gave Bilbo his best stink-face.
After all, despite the fact that he was considered quite odd by every other kid he'd met, he was still a teenager. And teenagers hated any form of cheesy affection, comforting or not.
But, then again, Frodo would never admit that out loud.
"Uncle," Frodo whined. "I'm thirteen."
Bilbo raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"So? Turning thirteen doesn't necessarily mean avoiding affection like the plague, you know," he said knowingly. Frodo stuck his tongue out at him playfully, earning himself another hair-ruffle, mussing his curls up more.
"Come on. Let's get these bags into the pantry. I'm practically starved from walking around all day long. And if my memory still serves me right, you have a party to attend, don't you?"
The teen nodded and grinned, reaching eagerly for the still-wrapped packages, if only to make time run a little faster. Together, the two of them hauled all of Bilbo's purchases into the kitchen, making idle chitchat all the while about any topic he thought was important.
Finally, when his precocious nephew stopped talking, Bilbo cleared his throat and asked a question of his own. It had been bugging him ever since he'd woken up this morning and saw the calendar, and he would very much like to get it out of his system now, please.
"Frodo, by the way, dear. Er, how long is this picnic going to take?"
The teenager turned to face his uncle, biting his lip and hoisting himself up on the sink as he went. It was obvious from the way his eyebrows were furrowed that he was calculating mentally.
"I don't really know. Two, three hours? You know how Mrs. Gamgee gets whenever Sam doesn't go to bed on time. And that's definitely something that I don't want to see. You're scary enough."
Bilbo laughed, but it wasn't without his usual bite: a thing that the teenager noticed quickly. He was a smart kid, and he could sense whenever people were lying to him or not.
"Why?" he asked, hopping off the sink and walking over to Bilbo, who up until now had been restocking the teabag shelf with, well, bags of tea. "Would there be something wrong with that?"
"Well, Smaug's coming over this afternoon…"
Bilbo stopped talking when he felt his favorite nephew stiffen. He turned around, plastering a fake smile on his face.
"Hey, come on! He's not that bad!" he cajoled unsuccessfully.
Frodo shook his head firmly.
"Uncle, the both of us know the truth: I hate him; you hate him. There's no need to sugarcoat it." He huffed before he finished the rest of his sentence.
"Besides, he kills animals for pleasure! Why, just last week, I saw him take a potshot at Farmer Maggot's cow, and just because he'd stepped in her dung a few minutes before. Also, he's vain, a pure slob, arrogant, rude, a womanizer, needs to be put in his proper place, and, not to mention, a complete shit-brained idiot!"
Frodo crossed his arms over his chest.
"Shall I go on?"
Bilbo fought the urge to smile. Instead, he fixed Frodo with an admonishing look, and simply said, "Language, young man. I won't have you saying those words under my roof."
Frodo rolled his eyes. "I said a ton of insults, and yet you chose to comment on that one. That could only mean that you agree with me, right?"
"Now, see here, young man. Mister Smaug merely wants to be friends with us. And, yes. I know that he nearly killed Brigitta last week. You told me that at least a hundred times. I also know of his…interest in me. But, the point is," Bilbo stressed when he heard Frodo mutter "Interest in your money, you mean" under his breath, "he's the only one who's taken to us so kindly after my, and now, yours, as well, after such a short-notice move here. Besides, he's –Oh, don't you roll your eyeballs at me, Frodo Baggins!" Bilbo scolded him, despite the fact that even he had a hard time believing his own words.
Smaug was, indeed, not a very nice person. He used people for his own personal gain, and often liked to shove his successes into other people's faces, just as Bilbo had found out last week when the former had invited his self in for tea.
But, still, he was a very attractive man. One who hundreds of village girls fawned over, thanks to his unnaturally good looks and elegant features.
"Well, it's not like you like him, either," Frodo said, albeit a little snappishly. Then, his face took on a worried look, blue eyes growing wide as he contemplated what he'd just blurted out. "You…don't, right, Uncle? Never in a million years?"
Bilbo sighed, resigned. He ran his fingers through his hair before he answered.
"Well…I mean-"
"Uncle, a simple 'yes' or 'no' would suffice. What's your answer?"
"Well, no. And-for the Valar's sake, please watch the earl grey!"
For Frodo, upon hearing that he and his uncle shared yet another thing in common, had begun to whoop and cheer, pumping his fist into the air like a Western Indian. Bilbo could only shake his head and look at his nephew affectionately.
"What on earth am I going to do with you?" he asked.
His question was met with a low gurgle: Frodo's stomach hadn't been filled since last night, and now, it was demanding that it be given attention.
"Er, you could feed me, for one?" Frodo said cheekily.
Bilbo laughed.
"Sure. I think we've got all the supplies we need for some pasta, and then some."
A/N: This story is loosely based on Disney's "Bilbo and the Beast". Hence, the title. Also, I personally imagine this story's version of Hobbiton as the same one in Beauty and the Beast. You know: old-fashioned two-story houses, cobblestone walkways, messy marketplace, flirty girls who fawn over a certain hunter who may or may not have a slight resemblance to Benedict Cumberbatch (a.k.a. Smaug) who is Gaston's counterpart in this fic.
Er, yeah, right.
Moving on!