AN: This is approximately 2500 words of unapologetic, schmoopy sex. I think it's the least these two lovely chaps, and you fantastic folks, deserve after sticking with me so far. Thank you all for your wonderful, thoughtful reviews/comments, for your kudos and the messages on my tumblr, and simply thank you for reading. I appreciate it so much.
And speaking of reading, a few of you have asked about Dwalin/Ori Heartsong things (about which I have been intentionally mum, and will continue to be, bwahaha), and as luck would have it, the wonderful rachel4revenge has provided a gorgeous companion story inspired by Made & Remade. It's incredibly well-written, bittersweet and beautiful, and I cannot recommend it enough: Sing Me a Lullaby (this site hates hyperlinks, but you can find the story over on Archive of Our Own under rachel4revenge)
Enough of my yammering. On with the sex!
"I have sliced onions," Bilbo muttered, plucking open buckles and peeling back wool and leather, only to find even more wool waiting beneath, rather than naked skin and hard muscle. "With fewer layers than this. How in the world do you get dressed? How do you make water?"
Lying on his back again, cushioned from the slightly damp grass by the thick fur of his discarded coat, Thorin flicked open another small, pearly button, baring a bit more of Bilbo's chest. The urgency of shortly before had eased to a simmer as the mulish hobbit insisted on removing Thorin's garments himself, and Thorin found himself far more amused by the scowl being levelled at his undershirt than he was frustrated by the delay.
And Bilbo had the nerve to call him stubborn.
Chuckling earned him a swivel of that dark scowl towards his face rather than at his skivvies; kneading his hands into Bilbo's ribs (with only a thin shirt and a pair of braces between him and the promise of skin), Thorin made absolutely no attempt to stifle his grin. "I can drop my braies easily enough. If you want at my chest, you'll have to dig for it."
"I am digging; I simply didn't realise I would be digging so deep. Folk talk about dwarven puzzle locks being impossible, but this— this would drive me mad." In all honesty, Bilbo was doing surprisingly well considering his inexperience in removing armour and the like. His gambleson undone, Thorin sat up just enough to free his arms from the padded cloth, then took advantage of the new angle to steal a kiss from Bilbo's frowning mouth. With Bilbo distracted momentarily, it was a simple enough thing to hook his thumbs around the hobbit's braces and drag them off his shoulders.
"It's merely habit to me by now," Thorin said, peppering Bilbo's chin and cheek with a few more kisses for good measure; the peach-like smoothness was odd, but not enough to be off-putting. "Another thing for you to practice, perhaps. And often, if I have my way."
"If I can manage once before the next Age—" Wriggling a bit to assist Bilbo in yanking his shirt free from his trousers, Thorin took great pleasure in watching that furious glower slacken into something much more agreeable. Then he took even greater pleasure in the sensation of Bilbo's fingers burying themselves in the dark hair that trailed up his now exposed stomach. "Oh, thank goodness, finally… hmm, that's lovely. Soft."
And it was quite lovely indeed, as Bilbo's hands slid firmly up, pushing cloth out of the way— Thorin arched into it, groaning deep and low at the much anticipated touch.
Bending forward, nuzzling kisses up the centre of Thorin's chest, Bilbo's smile curled wide and rascally. "My cousin had a great lazy tomcat who purred just like that when you rubbed his belly."
"Cheeky halfling." Rather than raise his arms to allow the shirt to be removed entirely, Thorin reached down and grabbed two handfuls of Bilbo's arse, kneading intently, pressing blunt nails into soft flesh. Bilbo's head dropped, and his breath stuttered against Thorin's throat. "It would take a stonier dwarf than I not to purr under your attentions, but what sounds can I wring from you, I wonder?"
"They can't see us through the hedgerow," Bilbo said, his tone hitching unevenly as he began pushing insistently at Thorin's shirt again. "But noise still travels, so hush."
"I want to hear you," Thorin carried on, as if Bilbo hadn't spoken, and used his grip to hoist Bilbo closer before rolling them both over, pressing Bilbo against the clover. Bilbo's thighs spread wide under his weight, and the last tiny shirt buttons gave way easily for Thorin's fingers. "Let me hear you sing for me."
With patience drawn thin but not snapped, Thorin dragged his hands over Bilbo's bare trunk, marvelling in the soft, tufting hair and impossibly softer skin, like honey drizzled upon cream. Bilbo squirmed, giggling when Thorin's touch became too light, and sighing contentedly when he firmed his strokes, petting and learning every plane and curve. Bilbo was nearly unblemished, pristine as new porcelain compared to the scars that peppered Thorin's flesh... save, of course, for the deep crimson runes across his wrist. Unmarked, except for Thorin's own name.
In all his long decades— from the gilded treasure rooms of Erebor, great vaulting walls glittering with gems and precious veins, to the radiance of the Arkenstone itself— Thorin had never before been so struck by beauty.
"Shirt off, confound you, Thorin—" Grabbing hold of a worn, woollen hem, Bilbo yanked, and Thorin submitted to the stripping, losing sight and feel of his prize for just a moment as Bilbo dragged the shirt up over his head. "There. I worked hard for this, you know."
"You did indeed." The sun heated his naked back, but it did not feel nearly as warm as the body beneath him. Suddenly greedy for more of that warmth, Thorin braced his hands on either side of the riot of light brown curls spread across green, grinding their hips together with an unhurried roll. The sound of his name, Thorin, cried out with a keening tail and clinging hands around his ribs was glorious, stoking his blood. He bent, claiming that mouth and all its sweet sounds, dropping to his elbows when Bilbo's arms slung around his back held him tight.
"Bilbo," he said, their mouths sliding together and apart, and his fingers tangling in short, unbraided hair. "My Bilbo, hmm, mine..."
Bilbo had never been near a forge in his life, content to buy whatever metalwork his home required at the market rather than bothering to visit the smithy directly, but he could not imagine it being hotter than the flush of his skin at that very moment. Hemmed in by thick muscle and rough, scarred flesh on all sides, his heels digging into the backs of Thorin's thighs and the dwarf's weight pressing down upon him like a pestle in a mortar, Bilbo was shocked by every heartbeat, half-expecting to burst into flames.
Dwarves, especially this dwarf, seemed to have the patience of the very earth, while Shirefolk were much more in-tune with the seasons of growth and harvest— patient to a point, but certainly not willing to wait for the stones themselves to weather to dust. There was a time for sowing, a time for tending, and a time for savouring the fruits of one's labours.
Long hair hung around them like a curtain, dark and private with only the wet sounds of tongues and lips and the soft rasp of beard against his cheeks, but there was still enough to grab hold of at Thorin's nape. Tugging, not pulling, earned him a shudder and heavy panting against his jaw, and Bilbo pressed the advantage of Thorin's very promising distraction.
"Trousers," he said, and tugged again. Thorin's hips jerked against him with enough force to make Bilbo's eyes cross, but not quite enough to distract him from his goal. With his free hand, Bilbo sought chest hair and the firm pebbles of nipples, pinching and rolling under his thumb. "Off, off, now, please, off—"
Some noise rumbled up from the very depths of Thorin's throat, and Bilbo would have bet his finest silver spoons that the growl was proper words, Khuzdul. Bilbo's left hand, pressed flat against Thorin's chest, tingled from wrist to fingertips.
"Fine," Thorin said, his Westron cracking around the edges. "Yes, here—"
There was some fumbling, a few knees ending up in the wrong places and graceless shuffling between the grass and their growing nest of discarded clothes, but it wasn't terribly long before Bilbo found himself bare-bottomed on the plush fur of Thorin's coat, with an equally naked dwarven king kneeling unashamedly between his feet.
Of course, Thorin had precisely nothing to be ashamed of, built as though he'd been hewn from boulders. Broad shoulders and chest, and the thickly corded arms of someone accustomed to the swing of a smith's hammer— that vision alone was enough to send Bilbo's pulse racing, but now his unfettered view descended lower than it ever had before. A trim waist for a dwarf, though still stocky, and a darkly furred belly drew his eye down, where Thorin's pride stood stiff and impressively (almost alarmingly) stout.
Bilbo wasn't entirely certain he'd be able to close his hand fully around the thing, but he was eager to try.
"Such a beauty." Large, rough hands landed upon his feet, carding through the thatches of hair before sliding up his ankles and calves, and Thorin leaned forward to trail kisses and rumbling words against Bilbo's bent knee. "Such a sweet thing. Tell me..."
At the first wet suck against the inside of his thigh, Bilbo buried both hands in the heavy waves of Thorin's hair, parting his legs and biting his lip. His own cock was lying hard against his stomach, perhaps not so thick as Thorin's but not entirely unimpressive (he hoped, at least), and it twitched with interest as kisses and the light nip of teeth moved ever closer.
"Tell me," Thorin said again, nosing teasingly at the crease between Bilbo's thigh and hip and tickling with his beard. Bilbo inhaled a deep, steadying breath and looked down; had he missed something? Tell him what?
Thorin's eyes, dark as nightfall, peered up at him hotly, and Bilbo could not smother the whinging little groan that snuck out of his throat under that scrutiny. Hands gripped behind Bilbo's knees and pushed, spreading him wider and wedging broad shoulders between his thighs.
"Tell me I might taste you—" Thorin's breath was excruciatingly warm and welcome against Bilbo's cock, gusting out like a summer zephyr from root to slick, shining tip. "Tell me I might have you."
"Yes," Bilbo hissed, fingers tightening around hanks of hair, and then Thorin was upon him, scorching mouth closing over the head of his cock and drawing him inside. The world narrowed to heat and suction, finally, and the messy slide of hungry lips and lapping tongue. The sticky, jolly fumblings of his younger years had not prepared Bilbo for this, for this fervour— Thorin worked him with little finesse and no fancy twists of his tongue, but Bilbo had never felt as though his very marrow was being sucked from him. He was pinned, barely able to wiggle his hips let alone thrust as his blood urged him to do, but he learned quickly that a tug of hair could guide Thorin's attentions just where he needed them, making Bilbo's toes curl in the peaceful morning air.
"Ah!" Pressing his skull back against the fur, Bilbo barely managed to stifle his shout when Thorin's tongue slid firmly under his crown, playing over that sensitive spot that made whizzpoppers go off bright and colourful behind Bilbo's eyes. Thorin's satisfied hum was a spark to tinder, especially paired with that wicked tongue, and pleasure poured down Bilbo's spine like hot water, pooling low. "Ah—ah—ah!"
He was teetering on the very edge of the precipice when Thorin released him, thin lips gone obscenely red and beard gleaming wet, and Bilbo wailed at the loss, uncaring for propriety if he could simply get that mouth back. Ignoring a fiercer yank to his hair, Thorin heaved himself up, folding Bilbo near in half before sliding tautly stretched legs off his shoulder and settling their hips together, hardness gliding slick with spit. Bilbo gasped, wrecked and desperate, then gasped again when one broad hand wedged between them, wrapping them both in a shared, snug grip.
"Together," Thorin murmured, hoarse and deep as thunder, and Bilbo would have kissed him silly if he'd been able to catch his breath. "Aye... aye, just like this."
Free to thrust much more than a moment ago, Bilbo's hips snapped up, relishing the feel of Thorin's cock pressed against his own. He blinked, thrashing his head to clear the worst sting of sweat from his eyes, just as Thorin's fingers twisted just so; the world blurred to colour and Thorin's indecipherable muttering against his neck. He spilled with a cry, sharp and shrill, and Thorin's hand sped in its already quick pulls, striping their slick cocks— just when Bilbo thought he could take no more, shuddering and too tender, he felt Thorin jolt and tense, and the warm mess grew between them.
Wheezing under Thorin's slumping girth, feeling altogether boneless himself, Bilbo sucked in a few bracing lungfuls of air and wriggled, letting Thorin sprawl more beside him than atop him.
They laid in the sunlight, curled sticky against each other, and Bilbo nuzzled lazy kisses against Thorin's brow, waiting for the quivering in his muscles to fade to sated comfort. One hand, he kept tangled in the sweat-damp nest of Thorin's hair, while the other trailed slowly down over a scarred shoulder, following the arm Thorin had slung over Bilbo's middle.
"There it is," Thorin said huskily, his head pillowed on Bilbo's chest, and took hold of Bilbo's wandering hand. Drawing it near, Thorin pressed a fond, whiskery kiss against the sensitive skin of his Mark, and Bilbo huffed with amusement at the tickling sensation.
"You're appallingly satisfied with yourself," he said around a laugh, fingertips stroking Thorin's beard and the strong jaw beneath.
"More so with you." After bussing the Mark again, Thorin shifted back, raising his head to find Bilbo's mouth and claim that for a moment as well. He tasted faintly of salt and musk, and Bilbo groaned quietly at the flavour. "Mm, much more with you, and I've barely had a taste. Might I hope you will allow me more?"
The question was playful, but also achingly sincere, and Bilbo reached up to stroke stray hairs from Thorin's face, smiling. "I think that's a safe hope, especially if you'll allow me the same."
"I would allow you everything," Thorin said, butting their brows together and resting there. Bilbo felt his heart, having so recently calmed, flutter madly behind his ribs; soppy old dwarf, indeed.
Swallowing over a conspicuous lump in his throat, Bilbo didn't quite trust his voice to speak; instead, he decided to risk one better. Burrowing nearer, until he was wrapped cosily in Thorin's arms, Bilbo plucked a simple walking song from his memory. When he began to hum the melody, the brief tune restful but glad, Thorin's smile was the very picture of peaceful contentment.
It was the perfect sort of morning for a bit of a kip, and Bilbo felt himself start to drift, sinking into the comfort of Thorin's body, the smell of wildflowers, and the drone of bees. He was not so far gone, however, that he missed the near-silent whisper into the curls of his hair.
"Tell me I might have you." The slide of Thorin's callused hand over his bare back was gentle, and Bilbo shivered, struck with gooseflesh. "Tell me I might keep you."
"You had better," Bilbo murmured, keeping his eyes closed and sighing as Thorin's arm tightened around him. His stomach would wake him soon enough, grumbling for food, but a nap sounded blissful for the moment. "After keeping me waiting all this time."