All that Glitters

'All that glitters is not gold, Often have you heard that told, Many a man his life hath sold' Prince of Morocco, The Merchant of Venice.

Hobbit AU fiction. In which Bilbo is an escort, and Thorin is the semi-closeted owner of a international jewelry business. Some non-con elements, Dark themes, homophobia and prostitution. Rated M for above reasons.

Disclaimer: I do own 'The Hobbit', this is merely a fan-based re imagining/bastardization of Tolkien's Brilliant fantasy novel.

Thorin tried to forget the card in his pocket, at first.

Then he tried leaving it places that he'd hope he'd forget it, but he always ended up just picking up again.

Plus he didn't want a maid at the hotels he frequented to pick it up by accident, and then word to get around that Thorin Oakenshield, Chief Executive of Erebor Inc, frequently used the services of prostitutes…male prostitutes even.

Not that Thorin had a problem with his sexuality, he'd firmly put his grandfather's disapproval behind him and had managed to have several long-term partners even. He'd just never officially come out of the closet to friends and family, but then again he didn't really have to say it, he assumed by this point they already knew anyway.

No Thorin didn't have a problem, he was just a private person, and there was nothing wrong with that.

Nothing at all.

However it did provide some barriers to meeting potential partners, which was where the card came in. Thorin had been, as one of his top investors Gandalf Grey put it 'single for so long, he might as well trade in his prick for a block of wood'. Gandalf had dispensed this advice, in a crowded café in central London, far too loudly for his liking…

Several months ago…

Thorin pulled up the collar on his coat and attempted to disguise the death glare he wanted to shoot Gandalf, into a look of bemused interest. He was uncomfortable in his surrounding to begin with, preferring to keep to more exclusive venues, with privates booths and waitresses who didn't chew gum loudly. But Gandalf, as usual, preferred them to meet at a place with more 'local flavour'. Thorin had never truly trusted this request after the dubiously named 'Fun-love Palace' in Thailand, which unsurprising in retrospect, turned out to be a rather shady strip-club.

'I'm not really here to discuss my private life…', he carefully began, through partially gritted teeth. But Gandalf, as he did more often than not, interrupted him.

'Thorin, I've known you for a good ten years, which puts us on quite familiar terms by this point, I hope.' Gandalf interjected one eyebrow raised, 'And from the looks of you, you really need to discuss your 'private life' or lack thereof, with someone!', he said this all while waving around a still smoking pipe. Which Thorin had no bloody idea, he managed to puff at all the time without being mobbed by police sniffer dogs .

Thorin shifted uncomfortably in his chair, fighting the rising urge to just walk out. If Gandalf hadn't been one of his main investors, he would have tactfully killed the entire meeting as soon as his personal affairs entered the conversation. But Mr. Grey's impressive level of stock ownership, prevented sudden displays of rudeness and also he was begrudgingly fond of the old bugger, despite Gandalf's flagrant dependency on pot and outlandish hats.

Instead he muttered, 'What do you mean by that?', in as non-committable way as possible.

'Well you look as if you haven't had a good shag in years for one!', retorted Gandalf.

Someone sitting behind them tittered. Thorin himself actually blushed, which thankfully his beard hid very well…or at least he hoped so.

'I don't think this is the time or the place!', he snapped at Gandalf, who was looking at him with an annoying twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

There was a moment of tense silence between them. Well, tense on Thorin's part. Gandalf seemed quite chilled, quietly humming to himself and watching the waitress adjust her tights from across the room. After several minutes of Thorin glaring/ Gandalf pretending not to notice, the older of the two broke the silence.

'Fair enough, we'll get back to business then', Gandalf said smoothly, suddenly producing a leather clad briefcase from nowhere. Laying it down on the table with a finality that signalled the beginning of a more serious talk, that involved elusive figures and line graphs, a far-cry thankfully from Thorin's underpants.

'Alright', Thorin agreed, surprised and a little suspicious that Gandalf would give up teasing him so easily, but pleased that such an awkward topic had been shelved, or so he thought at the time.

After a cohesive and intelligent conversation about business estimates that left even Thorin's head reeling a little. Gandalf rose from his chair, doffed his latest strange head piece (an explosion of blue feathers), and bid Farwell not before insisting on paying the bill. Thorin had relented after some persuasion, and was left watching Gandalf disappearing into the swell of people coming out of the nearest underground station.

He felt oddly ill at ease with himself after their initial conversation, not that he agreed with Gandalf…but then again it had been a long time since…no he wasn't even going to think of his name.

Thorin, my love, my treasure…

'Excuse me, love', came a tart voice, which made Thorin sit up suddenly in his chair, upsetting the dregs of his coffee onto his shirt shelve.

It was the waitress standing over him, a twisted grin on her overly lip-sticked mouth, Your friend told me to give this to you…' she said, passing him a small embossed card.

Thorin looked down at the small square of paper, bewildered for a moment. Then after scanning the words, he quietly resolved to next time he saw Gandalf, to ram that ruddy pipe straight up his arse.

He'd promptly left the café, after leaving the giggling waitress an overly large tip, hoping to God she didn't recognize his face from the financial section of The Times.

The card was shoved into the anonymous darkness of his coat pocket. Written upon it in golden copperplate, were the words…

'Underhill Escorts, providing attractive and charming male company to any gentleman who so desires it.'

Gandalf had scrawled underneath 'just in case you change your mind, hugs and kisses until we meet again xxx'

Yes, he was definitely going to murder Gandalf. Slowly.

If you saw Bilbo Baggins walking down the street, on say, a nice golden Sunday morning. Shopping bag in hand, wearing a carefully ironed waistcoat. You wouldn't say to yourself, 'there's a prostitute' . Actually if you were invited over to Bilbo's cosy flat, decorated with comfortable chairs and sporting not only the occasional doily but also a large framed picture of him and his late parents over the mantelpiece. You would most likely not conclude 'Prostitute'. If you spoke to Bilbo, on the street, you would find him unfailingly polite and positively genteel.

Bilbo Baggins himself, would not have ever imagined five years ago, that he would end up in his particular profession. A self-confessed reclusive, he had spent a good decade doing continuous open university courses, while caring for his aging mother. However all things must come to an end, and when Bilbo's mother Belladonna, finally became to challenging to care for, Bilbo had been forced to place her in a nursing home. The depressing and crowded establishment, 'Oaklands', drained away the last years of his mothers life, as well as Bilbo's life saving. After packing up the last of his mothers possessions from the care home, and finalizing the funeral arrangements. Bilbo realized with sudden dawning clarity, that he had no money left. The Baggins legacy of respectful landownership was at a close, he'd been forced to sell the last of the property to pay his mothers care fees. The snug little 18th century cottage, 'Bag-end', was a distant memory. Bilbo was left with no home, no stable income and no savings. His numerous degrees counted for little, as he had no real work experience, unless you counted the volunteering at the local library, which to his dismay most employers didn't. He couldn't even get a job at the local McDonalds, it was already filled up with college kids trying to earn extra pocket money.

Bilbo ended up moving from sofa to sofa in his friends flats. Luckily he still had some good friends from his university days. Bofur, a struggling artist, who lived in a renovated garage, put him up for six months. But unfortunately Bofur's income was sporadic at best, and although he assured Bilbo had he could stay for as long as he liked, Bilbo could see the increasing frowns of worry over bills and household expenses. When Bofur finally lost his job, and had to resort to playing his violin on street corners, Bilbo knew he couldn't be a burden to his friend any longer and moved out.

His other friends were kind, but none of them, could truly cope with an extra mouth to feed. Bombur, had five kids and was trying to manage a fledgling restaurant. Ori, lived with his two brothers, one of whom was a petty criminal, who made his distaste for Bilbo's presence clear from day one. Gloin, also had a young child in the house. And Oin, although sympathising to Bilbo's plight, was really to wrapped up in his biochemical research to do anything concrete about it.

Bilbo ended up in hostels. Wandering around the cold grey streets of London or sat in the local library, at the times he wasn't still desperately trying to find a job.

It was on one such dismal stroll, when he took a short-cut through a side-street. In the dim twilight, everything looked different, and Bilbo got lost quickly. As the darkness set in and the cold, Bilbo began to panic. London was a dangerous place, especially at night. He was quietly debating whether to knock on a door and ask for directions, when a nice car pulled beside the pavement he was standing on. Bilbo, who really knew nothing about cars, only noticed its quality because it seemed so out of palace, in the otherwise run-down area. The gentleman inside the car, was wearing a dark suit, he met Bilbo's fearful gaze with a warm smile.

'I haven't seen you down here before?', he said.

Bilbo muttered something about getting lost.

The man chuckled, 'Well that's a new opening line, refreshing', he fixed Bilbo with a friendly, if slightly heated gaze, 'let me give you a ride home then'.

Bilbo thought about saying no, but the cars warmth radiating into his face. He hadn't had a lift anywhere in a long time, and his scuffed, hole-filled shoes were a testament to it. Also it looked like rain, and one thing Bilbo hated was getting wet.

So against his better judgement he got in the car. And later when the stranger suggested they go back to his, he also accepted, lulled by the prospect of a warm house and possibly even a hot cup of coffee.

Later when the man was putting his clothes back on, Bilbo tried to collect his scattered thoughts, he'd done an incredibly stupid thing, the guy could have been an axe-murderer for God's sake!

'Thanks', the man said, adjusting his shirt collar. He was cooler now, no longer honeying his words, 'the doors unlocked, just go straight out'. As Bilbo staggered out of the darkened bedroom, the man slipped a roll of notes into his coat pocket and smiled at him, before closing the door in his face.

It was half-way back to the hostel, that Bilbo actually managed to think straight enough to count the money.

It was £500 pounds, in £100 notes.

And that was how it all started.

Well that's the first chapter, it's a shot in the dark.

Thanks for reading.