Chapter Ten: Desire!

"This is abysmally cramped, Hobbit." Smaug nods about the Hole as Bilbo leads the way in, both clearing their respective throats and coughing at the little drifts of dust and stale hearth ash. "Still. There are possibilities—if it's tidied up. Perhaps I shall summon the Elf Woman?"

"Tidied up, you great smarmy oaf?" Bilbo scowls. "Look here. Stuff your 'tidying up', will you? Don't you dare go bothering Hughlauriel, either; not with the likes of this! And though I'll allow you 'abysmally cramped', you perniciously lump-headed Great Reptile—Dragon, aren't you? Everywhere's a bit cramped, isn't it, when you're You?—never mind that! Problem is, I'm more than a bit knackered."

"Hmm."

"Yes, hmm. My poor bitter-end is half-numb and what's not numb aches like the very devil behind me!" Bilbo winces, reaching back round a small hand to pet his arsecheeks when Smaug simply raises one magnificently curious eyebrow at him. "You really should show some mercy, Smaug!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," the woeful Hobbit insists, pausing to poke his guest in the very centre of what he knows most intimately is an equally magnificent chest. "It is. Smarts! If you thinking you're getting any tonight, wanker, then think again!"

"Pity." Smaug affects an air of somewhat insulting disinterest, peering in a marked manner above and around his irked paramour. "That. I was hoping…"

"Bah!" Bilbo exclaims. "Hoping, schmoping! See here, six solid hours in the air on the back of a dragon is more than enough, cheers—I've no idea how I'm even still standing, you know?!" He makes a point to rub again the aggrieved area, an Area that Smaug has decidedly claimed, judging by the way his beautifully alien eyes gleam when he deigns to at last turns his full attention back to Bilbo. "Oi! I know what you're secretly scheming, you lustful lout, and trust me, there'll be none of the naughty till I've had my tea and a rest!"

The Hobbit turns on his hairy heel and stalks off, making his way further into his ravaged dwelling, the occasional noise of disgust and consternation escaping him as he pokes about at the disarrayed furnishings and the oversized dust bunnies. "Pah!"

"Indeed," Smaug purrs, padding along behind. "You say this, my Tenaciously Tender-arsed Thief, but you likely don't truly mean it." Bilbo's huff of ire—thrown over his shoulder with an accompanying glare—is completely disregarded. "But no matter," the dragon continues in a soothing murmur, all the while nimbly ducking this way and that to avoid Hobbit-hole-sized ceiling fixtures and various hanging strings of onions, garlic, sausages and cheeses. "This Hole of yours will do, I suppose, as our pied-a-terre for the winter months. Those northern climes can be quite blustery. I've noted the Shire is appreciably balmier."

"Oh! Speaking of blustery, Smaug—oh, do look about you!" Bilbo exclaims, finally arriving at the door of his bedroom. "It's as if there's been a hurricane through!" The door swings open at his prodding with a menacing creak, entirely unlike the well-oiled hinges he'd left behind him, all those months previous. "Bugger, the mess they've left behind them, even here. Bollocks, but it'll take me ages and ages, dusting and scrubbing and whatnot to even find my own bed—"

"What, still hard at work blaming your precious Dwarves, Bilbo Baggins?" Snaug snorts and tilts his chin up at an imperious angle, which sends the most fascinatingly tiny smoke ring wreathing up 'round his horns. "Dull."

"Sod off," Bilbo mutters, barely heeding.

"Yes, dull." With one large palm Smaug grasps at the Hobbit's slumping shoulder and spins him about so the two are stood face-to-face. Or nearly so, given the size in stature. "Do tell," the dragon enquires as Bilbo squints and frowns up at him. "What exactly did you expect of those who take their comfort grubbing about in caves and crevasses? Whose race thinks nothing at all of tracking about their gold and gems about their lair as if their precious treasure was but a rubbish heap or a Muddy Mire? Whose fearless leader simply cannot even keep fair track of his own ridiculously pathetic symbol of majesty, that bloody boring Arkenstone?"

"Oi!" Bilbo interjects. "That's not true! Thorin didn't lose it! I stole it, remem—"

"Hush now," Smaug chides, stealing a glancing peck, smack on his lover's parted lips. "Shh, my Wee Wonder. My sage and sagacious advice is FORGET THOSE DULL AND PUNY CREATURES, along with your most annoying obsession with the EVEN MORE DREADFULLY BORING MESS left behind them and focus your attention upon ME."

Two hot lips press any words Bilbo may've summoned straight back down his suddenly swallowing throat. "Me," Smaug repeats. "ME, me, me." A long forked tongue delving deep continues the job well begun, effectively silencing the Hobbit and inspiring him to utter a stifled but luxurious groan of sexual interest. "Catching on yet, darling?"

"Oh, god, " Bilbo gurgles.

"Dragon, actually," Smaug smirks. "Right, as I was saying. Solely. Upon."

The Dragon draws back for the briefest of moments, surveying with pleasure his lover's flushed features and the visibly swelling bulge at the junction of his newly flexing thighs. He bobs downward, resting his weight upon one knee, abruptly exhaling a warm gust upon Baggin's bollocks, his gaze narrowing with glee as he glances upwards to see that the Hobbit's jaw has gone slack.

"Me, Beloved."

There's a rush of fabric swishing when Smaug rises again to his full height.

"Erm…you?" Bilbo blinks up at him, rather dreamily. He licks his lips and struggles to form a coherent thought over the rising red tide of lust his Dragon has exacted within; it's a losing battle. "You, then. Only you, you say? Ah…well. That's….ah. Well."

He shakes his head just a tad, attempting to clear it. He's a knowing sort of Hobbit these days and he's well aware there's more than a little Something Not Right about all this possessiveness Smaug is exhibiting, but it's also difficult to care much about it when there's a caressing hand suddenly fondling one's quite abruptly excited privates.

"Yes. It's very well, in fact," Bilbo is informed decisively. "No one. Else. EVER—only me. Now, come along." The Dragon smirks ferociously, leaving go of Bilbo's swollen prick only to seize him by his upper arms and nudge him into a backwards-going sort of stumble. "To bed, for I do desire you, Darling Thief, this very instant, and I am not one to be denied. Or kept waiting. Or FRUSTRATED, mind. Not my AREA. Oh, and you?"

"M-Me?" Bilbo stutters, absentmindedly grateful for Smaug's apparently natural ability not to accidently steer him into any of the upturned furniture along the way. "Huh? What are you on about, about me?"

"Natter on entirely too much, my Sweet Solace," Smaug snarks as he waltzes them both backwards, his gaze a'glitter with Intentions of a Prurient Sort as they near ever closer to a be-curtained and be-swagged antique of rather larger than Normal Hobbit-Sized Proportion. "Past time to occupy that argumentative tongue of yours with something more to the point, I say. Come—this is your bed, is it not? And now MINE as well. Let's claim it, then, shall we? Together."

"Smaug—oof!" Bilbo grunts when Smaug knocks his legs out from under, his much abused bum landing with an audible thump upon the mattress. A dwindling cloud of dust arises, causing him to sneeze. "Ow! Damn and blast! No, really, Smaug, I was serious," he pleads, waving off the dust as best as he can even as Smaug divests him of the clothing covering his torso. "I am serious. Stop that this instant! My bottom really does feel like it's been through the Wars. Your spinal column is as knobby as a Ring Wraith's knucklebones, you know that? And your scales are slippery and hard—very! And—and? Oh—my!"

A pause occurs whilst the Hobbit's kissed quiet again, Smaug clearly having no patience left for Bilbo's increasingly feeble protests, to wit, evidence presented, while moaning: "Ooooh! Ah! Yes! Just there—that's it—oh, you Great Gorgeous Git of a—!"

"Hush, I said." The squirming Hobbit is forced down and summarily laid out flat upon his much mussed bedclothes, Smaug rearing mightily above him, long fingers instantly at work upon their further mutual disrobement. "Lies do not become you, Little Friend, not between Us. And I'll not be hurting your delightful posterior; nay, never!"

Bilbo blinks, ingesting that concept as he contemplates the dinginess of the curtains; really, he should be up and cleaning them, but he's apparently not about to be allowed to. "Er…no? You promise?"

"No." The disbelieving Hobbit is treated to a deliciously smarmy smile and a very emphatic head shake, which tosses those amazing locks every which way and lands one dangling sultrily down before one sharply assessing eye. "Foolish One, not all acts of love must require the entry of my Perilous Prick into your very welcoming nether regions. Trust me, I have done my research and cogitated deeply upon the practice. While we were journeying here."

"Oh. O…kay?" A passing kiss is given over, landing precisely right upon the very tip of his slightly twitching nose. "You did? Oh, um—right! Magic, obviously."

Smaug winks. "Obviously." He tips a careless thumb at himself. "Dragon, Dearest Dimwit. Magic, yes?"

"Right, right." Bilbo gawps up at the softening glint in his Dragon's eyes, amazed to be bathed in a wealth of affection, unveiled. "They, erm. They don't?"

"Nope, not," Smaug bites out, instantly taking up the last topic of conversation and running off with it. "In place of that singularly salacious but obvious position, I had in mind attempting an act a little…different. Something extraordinary. Something…special," he goes on, his deep tones slowing to a treacly-smooth drawl as Bilbo's eyes widen impossibly ever larger. "Now that we've finally escaped all that fussss and botheration your old friends have caused to be visited upon us, I find I am indeed. Very. Much. Intrigued. By this Disssscovery."

"Oh, yeah?" Distracted, Bilbo allows his lover to ease him carefully out of trousers and pants. Those are discarded instantly over the side of the bed, likely not to be found again for hours upon hours. Tea, too, is a rapidly fading light upon his personal event horizon. "is that so." Despite these passing thoughts, he finds he's smiling, the corners of his lips curling up uncontrollably. "What, then?" he asks gamely. "What are you thinking? What new discovery is 'this' one?"

"A Serpent's Best Assset, my Ssssweet." Smaug's grin is toothy in the extreme, even as he's hissing. "I have been Thinking. Thinking about Sex, specifically."

"Ah…yes." Bilbo blushes. Or rather, he blushes harder. "That."

"Yes; do cease interrupting. And I have observed, thusly: you like my tongue, little one, do you not?"

A swipe of its moist length up the side of Bilbo's bared throat demonstrates that yes, clearly, Bilbo does.

"Nnngh…"

"Exactly so. What apt agilities I employ to inflict it upon you and elicit your purpling passssion? Deduce, then, if you will," Smaug directs. "Where may a vastly Desirous Dragon wish to pleasure his Diminutive Delight if that same Stubborn Delight forbids him the most obvious use of one of his finest physical features, his arsehole? How might a Superior Scourge then go about it, attaining that Forbidden Glory Hole?"

He licks his own lips, pressing his forehead close down upon his patently dumbstruck Thief's and nuzzles into Bilbo's neck. The tongue in question flicks teasingly about the rim of Bilbo's one ear. "Hmmm?"

"Wait! What? You're saying you like my arsehole, Smaug? Enough to eat it?"

The Hobbit cannot help himself; he bursts out into a startled gasp of laughter, cheeks reddening with a rising blush. The blush only increases when the Dragon lays a quite warm, quite large palm upon his wriggling bum and grasps it, winking knowingly as he draws back. Bilbo chokes a little, coughing slightly as a sly forefinger dips deftly and circles his other Hobbit Hole.

"Well, that's forward! I never!"

"Nor have I," Smaug frowns impatiently, flinging out his other arm in a dismissive gesture. "No matter; it's merely transport and mechanics, right? Easily sorted. But do answer my question, Bilbo Baggins, my Sweet Thief. Where might I put that tongue of mine and to what use employ it?" He sits up, straddling the recumbent Hobbit. "And what's more, will you allow it?"

Now, a Baggins of Bag End is not one to allow the opportunity for adventure to escape him—at least, not this current generation. Despite his blushes, gasps, gawps and wriggles of highly embarrassed anticipation. Sexually charged anticipation, admittedly.

Tea could wait; cleaning was boring, right?

"W-Why," Bilbo finally sputters, already spreading his legs apart as far he's able, given there's a silently staring, very intent, very much eagerly engorged Dragon perched atop him, "of-of course!"

"Bingo, Bilbo Baggins!" Smaug barks out, obviously highly satisfied with the response. "Most meretricioussss! Let's crack on, then, shall we?!"