A.N. Originally posted on AO3.

Draw You A Map

"Ah, ah, stop, not the ears! Not the ears!"

Thorin jerked back, startled by both the words and the small hands shoving up under his chin to force him away. He braced his hands on the mattress so he could lift some of his weight off his lover and look him in the eye. "Not the ears?" he repeated in puzzlement.

"Yes, please and thank you," Bilbo said, a pained twist to his mouth. His hand drifted up to rub at the reddened tip where Thorin's mouth had just been. "They're, ah… just a bit too sensitive. For that. And not the good sort of sensitive. Would rather avoid them entirely, if I'm quite honest."

Thorin blinked. "I wouldn't have thought," he said, trailing off in surprise.

Bilbo snickered at that, one impertinent eyebrow arching up. "Don't tell me you believed all those lewd stories Bofur told around the campfire?"

"Which ones?" Thorin said with a fleeting grin. "He told a great many."

"About folk with pointed ears turning into wanton creatures at the lightest touch, or something ridiculous like that?" Bilbo scoffed. "Maybe for some hobbits, but personally I've never seen the appeal. It's just… I can't explain it rightly. It's just not pleasant."

"I see," Thorin said and glanced at the ears in question. It was a shame, he thought, they had tempted him for so long with their funny leaf shape, always begging to be laved with his tongue or caught between his teeth. But one forbidden region was hardly a loss, and he dipped down to press a kiss to Bilbo's temple. "As you wish, love. I will tread lightly around them."

And Bilbo turned to gaze up at him with a faint smile of relief, like Thorin's gracious acceptance was doing him a great kindness. As if Thorin could ever refuse such a simple request, not if it meant pleasing Bilbo in any way he desired. Bilbo leaned up to burgle another kiss straight from his lips. "Thank you," he murmured.

Thorin let his own smile turn wicked. "In all things, my dear hobbit, I desire only your pleasure," he breathed in his native tongue.

"Oh, now that is just unfair!" Bilbo groaned. And oh, it was a beautiful thing, seeing his face and shoulders flush so deeply in the firelight, feeling the full-body shiver he had inspired. Bilbo was a creature of words, of story-telling, it was his craft and his passion and his first love. To be taunted and teased in a language he had not yet mastered seemed the surest way—aside from food—to win him over and earn his willing surrender. A deft hand stroked up along Thorin's arms, traced his collarbones and trailed down through the thick dark hair on his chest, the bold exploration inspiring Thorin to put his lips to good use once again, hungrily kissing down his neck and shoulders, reveling in the knowledge that he and Bilbo now had a lifetime to leisurely learn one another's bodies. Their hearts had begun to draw closer during the quest, but between the dragon and the sickness, the battle and their respective injuries, there had been no time or opportunity for anything more. A heated kiss here, a fumbled touch there, both of them too stressed and uncertain for anything further.

But in this, as in many things, they had understood one another. They had been content to wait, at least until Erebor was partway restored and peace had been made with their allies and they no longer slept with doubts in their hearts and swords in their hands. Until they were felt secure enough to stand before their friends with fingers entwined and name each other betrothed.

That, and Bilbo had wanted a proper bed with clean cotton sheets and pillows that did not reek of dust and smoke. Such a fussy little thing.

"Ohhh…"

Thorin paused with his mouth somewhere near Bilbo's navel and his hands lightly grazing down his forearms, only now realizing his possible error. In one hand he cradled fingers, but in the other he futilely grasped a healed stump. All that remained of Bilbo's left hand, sliced away at some point during the battle, though no one had seen the exact sequence of events leading up to its loss. The icy memory of Bilbo stumbling into the healing tent with one hand missing, exhausted and stricken and begging someone to help me find it, it's lost, I've lost it, please help me find it, still brought Thorin to tears if he thought on it too hard.

"Alright? Or no?"

Bilbo swallowed, eyelids fluttering rapidly. "It… feels like you're holding my hand," he said in hazy confusion. "But it's not there, I know it's not…"

"Should I let go?"

Bilbo nodded, the movement sharp and jerky. Thorin complied and turned his attention to Bilbo's thighs instead, and it was there his efforts were rewarded, the gentle graze of teeth and fingernails on soft, pale flesh eliciting all sorts of delightful and encouraging sounds. Thorin let his eyes feast on Bilbo's growing arousal and bit back a needy noise of his own, heartbeat quickening and skin burning fever-hot, overly sensitive to the chill in the air and the touch of the blankets rucked up beneath him.

His appreciation was not unnoticed. Bilbo draped his maimed arm across his forehead, peeking down at him with a cheeky grin. His toes poked Thorin lightly in the ribs. "I'm not a precious gem," he pointed out. "Made for looking and not touching."

"No, you are not," Thorin agreed amiably. Then, blatantly ignoring the obvious goal, he went further down, deeply amused by the burglar's affronted reaction.

"You've missed a spot!"

Thorin nuzzled a furry ankle, chuckling. "Oh, have I? Apologies. I must have lost my way."

"Should I draw you a map—ahhh, not my feet! Don't you dare kiss those!"

Now that did surprise Thorin. "Your feet? You do not like to have them touched?"

"I walk on those everywhere," Bilbo said with heavy exasperation. "Truly, everywhere! You know this. Those feet have been places no mouth should ever go!"

"I see you scrub and comb them every single night," Thorin said, utterly bemused.

"And for good reason!"

"And here I considered you might enjoy a foot massage," Thorin remarked. And he couldn't hold back a throaty laugh at Bilbo's horrified expression, like the mere thought was anathema. "It's seen as quite the sensual act among my people. To come home after a long day and find your love awaiting you with scented soaps and oils. To wash away the grime and toils of the day and knead sore muscles with a firm and gentle touch. Perhaps buff and paint the nails, or don sparkling rings and anklets if one is inclined…"

Bilbo pulled a face, the one that Thorin liked to think of as his Prim And Proper Baggins face. "Yes, well. Dwarves are uncivilized heathens, this is known far and wide. Paint the nails, honestly. Feet are made for walking."

Still laughing, Thorin shifted up and stretched himself out beside Bilbo, head propped on one hand and lazily stroking a pudgy hip. "Well, then. What sort of treatment do your people prefer from their lovers? Or are all hobbits so picky as you?"

Bilbo bristled, indignant in spite of his arousal, and Thorin had to fight back a smile. He should not find the sight of a prickly hobbit so endearing, he truly shouldn't. "Oh! Oh, I'm the picky one here! Me! This coming from you? Mister Dwarvish Modesty Is My Armor? Mister Swallow My Seed All You Like But Don't Touch My Hair?"

Now it was Thorin's turn to blush and bluster. He recalled very well how Bilbo had pouted in the beginning, clever hands always seeking out his braids whenever they kissed and being thwarted every single time. "That… that was different," he stammered. "It was not… the impropriety of… we were not even betrothed…"

He realized the trap from the moment the words left his mouth. And he fell into it willingly, breathlessly, at once nervous and exhilarated when Bilbo crawled upon him and straddled him with an impish gleam in his eye. Heated lips brushed against his jaw, then his earlobe and finally the hairline at his temple, charting a slow but steady path upward.

"Well. We are betrothed now. Are we not?"

And then the burglar's hand was in his hair, burrowing into his nape with such gentleness, such surety, and Thorin forgot how to breathe. All the hair on his body seemed to stand to attention, the skin beneath prickling, and his pulse thundered like he was tumbling down a cliff or charging headlong into battle. There were no words spoken, no sounds at all, save that of his own harsh breathing and the seductive slide of fingers weaving through black and silver strands. His body trembled.

"…is this alright?"

Thorin opened his eyes, unsure of just when he had closed them. And it was only Bilbo above him. Not an enemy, snatching at his hair to wrench his head back and expose his throat. Not a temporary lover, trying to take more than he was willing to give. Just Bilbo, small and unassuming and so very courageous. The one he would love to the end of his days and beyond. The one he trusted even above himself.

"Yes," Thorin said, rasping the word. Then again. "Yes."

The soft pads of fingers dug in further, kneading tenderly at his scalp, and this time the shudder that ripped through him was entirely welcome. Heat rushed to his face and down lower as well, and he became aware of what a sight he must make, laid out beneath his betrothed and very nearly panting with want. With any other, he might have felt mortified, exposed. He might have pushed them away, retreated in both body and mind, shoved this moment of vulnerability down into the recesses of his memory to be locked away and ignored.

But Bilbo had a special talent for reaching into his heart and finding everything he wanted to hide, bringing those things out into the light and tenderly nurturing them until he could see their true worth. Until he could accept all of himself, even the worst aspects, without buckling beneath the weight of weakness and failure. And all the while never seeing what he did for Thorin as anything special.

Though maybe he saw it now. The mischief from before had gone, replaced by fascination and heady wonder. He looked enthralled, captivated, lips parted and eyes drinking in every little detail without shame. Like watching Thorin come undone was undoing him in turn. Laying one hand over Bilbo's to keep it where it was, Thorin leaned up and kissed his forehead, then daringly threaded his own fingers through those wild curls, mindful to avoid the ears. He anticipated a warm welcome, but the shaky whimper was something entirely unexpected, and Bilbo slammed their lips together and pressed their bodies close.

Thorin would never confess it later, but in the aftermath of their first proper lovemaking, he had quite forgotten the little throwaway remark. At least until Bilbo returned from the washbasin, curled up in his arms and slurred into his shoulder, "'M still going to draw you that map."

He let his fingertips stroke through Bilbo's sweat-damp hair, smiling softly when the hobbit snuggled closer. "Hm? What map is this?"

"…you'll see, my dear."

Finally, a productive meeting. Balin didn't often feel his age these days—and lately, hope for the future made him feel younger than ever—but sometimes when he was the only focused one in a meeting full of restless lords and ladies, he truly felt like the old fart in the room. Like a tutor trying to wrangle a bunch of young dwarflings who wanted nothing more than to run outside. Men may laud dwarves for their ingenuity and industry, but the plain truth was that if a meeting did not concern fighting something or building something, then those attending would swiftly lose all focus in favor of more interesting pursuits.

But today was going just swimmingly. Under Thorin's calm and diligent guidance, this session had lasted a grand total of four hours, a new record, and a number of pressing issues had been resolved. They had broken for lunch now, simply eating at the same table where they worked with plans to continue on for another hour or two after the meal was cleared away. For once Thorin showed no sign of impatience, and Balin had a feeling that might be due to a certain burglar. He had feared Bilbo would be a distraction now that he and Thorin were officially betrothed, but the opposite was proving true. Perhaps Bilbo was teaching him responsibility. Or perhaps Thorin wanted to be sure all royal business was concluded by nightfall so that he could give Bilbo his undivided attention.

Either way, Balin cared not, as long as the work was done.

A hesitant knock came at the door, and a young dwarf child with the sash of an apprentice scribe poked his head in nervously. "U-Um. I mean! A message, my lord. From the hobbit. Uh, from His Lord Betrothed… from Bilbo Baggins. For the king."

Balin nodded and held out his hand. "Give it here, laddie."

But the young scribe shook his head. "He s-said… he said to give it to no one but the king. He was very insistent."

"Come, bring it to me," Thorin said, dusting crumbs off his hands as the scribe crept forward and tentatively handed him the small missive. "Thank you. You may tell Master Baggins that it was delivered safely."

"Be on your way, there's a good lad," Balin said with a kind, but firm nudge to the scribe's shoulder. Poor child, he couldn't seem to tear his worshipful gaze from the king and the others of high standing, even after the door was shut in his face. Balin made a mental note to have some proper errand-runners trained, the kind that knew how to address nobility and deliver their messages without being too underfoot. He glanced over curiously as Thorin sipped his ale with one hand and broke the seal on Bilbo's message with the other. Likely nothing too urgent, or else Bilbo would have come and interrupted the meeting himself. He had proven a number of times that he had no qualms about doing so.

Thorin spat out his ale.

Balin jumped. Some of the others who had also been drinking promptly followed Thorin's example, and there were tetchy calls for the servants to bring better drink since the king himself clearly did not approve of this one.

"Thorin…?"

Thorin uttered a strangled oath, eyes frenzied as they raked over the missive. "He… I can't believe… he actually drew a bloody map…"

"Map?" Balin asked, craning his neck and catching only the barest glimpse of… was that some sort of illustration? And arrows? And a numbered legend at the bottom?

Thorin nearly crumpled the paper in his haste to shove it into his breast pocket, hands slapping on the stone table as he stood. "Meeting adjourned!" he barked.

"Thorin!" Balin called out, but it was too late. The other lords and ladies were already surging to their feet and making their escape on Thorin's heel, loudly inviting each other out for a hunt or a round of sparring or a drink in the nearest pub. Balin rubbed his temple irritably when he heard Thorin halting the young scribe who had brought the message and demanding to know where he could find the hobbit. Nothing else productive would be accomplished today, clearly.

Balin glanced over his shoulder when he heard a knock and pulled a face when Dwalin leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed smugly.

"We'll have to give them a month-long honeymoon, won't we?"

Dwalin grunted. "Told you."