It was warm when Bilba gradually drifted awake— much warmer than she usually kept her flat for sleeping, even with the blankets crumpled down to bare most of her back. There was also the drag of butterfly-light touches drawing her skin up in gooseflesh, tracing patterns over her shoulder blade and down her spine, and Bilba squirmed deeper into the bed with a grumble.

"Mm, tickles." Bilba reached back without looking, catching hold of Thorin's thick wrist. She reconsidered her plan almost immediately, abandoning the cushy pillow mashed against her cheek in favour of rolling over, using Thorin's arm as leverage. He hardly shifted at all, letting her pull her weight around without complaint, until she was facing him, curling up like a weevil against the hirsute wall of his chest.

"Good morning," she murmured, her eyes still not quite open, and felt the deep rumble of his chuckle before she heard it. The hand he'd been tracing over her back returned, reaching out to draw idly over her arm, and down the curve of her ribs.

"It is indeed." Thorin's voice was gruff, but laced with enough fondness to curl her toes. Bilba smiled when a kiss was pressed against her forehead, just south of her no doubt fluffy hairline. Even a braid could only do so much to tame bedhead in Baggins curls— her mother had never had such a wild mess to contend with in the mornings, as far as Bilba could recall.

"I didn't expect freckles," Thorin continued, touches tickling again, and Bilba finally forced her eyes to focus, blinking up at him. Of course, the rumpled state of his hair was deadly attractive, as was the swath of stubble darkening his jaw.

"Hadn't seen any on your face," he explained when she raised her brows, questioning silently rather than run the risk of blurting something foolish. He really was just stupidly handsome, and it was far too early in the morning for Bilba to deal with the sight of him in any reasonable fashion.

His exploring hand drifted upward, and his thumb brushed gently over the tip of her nose and across her cheek. "Until now."

There weren't many— a scant handful on her face, and only a few more scattered over her shoulders, back, and the crest of her hips. They were one of the very few things Gandalf didn't kick up a fuss about editing out of her photos, though he still clucked with mild disapproval every time he looked over any retouched proofs. Natural is beautiful.

Yes, well, natural could go soak its head in this instance. She was allowed a quirk or two, and she was certainly allowed to set a few conditions regarding how precisely her nearly-naked bottom was presented to all and sundry.

Her mother had worn her honeyed Tookish curls long and loose, down to her waist. She'd had sparking blue eyes, the same button nose that Bilba saw in the mirror every day, and freckles dashed across her cheeks. Freckles that would multiply like constellations across her chest and shoulders every sweet summer in the countryside, trekking fields and sketching wildlife with her rollicking young daughter in tow.

There were some days, when Bilba was draped over a sofa with a corset pushing her breasts up to her throat, or teetering down a runway in skimpy knickers while cameras snapped around her, when she wondered what her mother would think of all of it. Bungo was a simpler puzzle to solve— her father would have been flustered beyond measure, mortified at first, but ultimately gruffly supportive, whatever his wee girl chose. Because she'd always been his dear little bumblebee, and he'd always been her kind and patient Papa, no matter how many mad adventures she'd gotten up to her neck in as a young lass. But Belladonna...

Bilba liked to think her mother would have been pleased by the life her daughter had managed to carve out, despite everything. And Belladonna would have been especially encouraged by the patchwork little family Bilba had found and held dear— the Broadbeams, Risons, and Gandalf, of course— peculiar as they all were.

She liked to think her mother would be happy for her, and proud of the woman she had become, even if the finer details weren't anything like her childhood dreams.

Belladonna had never been one to shy away from forging a new path, after all.

But none of that meant Bilba wanted to see her own freckly bum splash across the side of a bus. It was a small, silly thing, but freckles were for a little girl with skinned knees, singing walking songs and catching fireflies in the garden behind Bag End; they were not for Belle Bijou.

"A touch of makeup does wonders," Bilba said aloud, instead of giving voice to any of memories now jostling for attention her head. She'd already dropped her gaze down to Thorin's chest, until his finger crooked under her chin urged her to meet his eyes again.

"They're lovely," he said, with a grave sort of furrow between his brows and an emphatic earnestness weighing down his tone, and leaned in to plant a soft kiss against the ball of her shoulder.

It took a long moment, but then Bilba realised where the shift in mood was coming from. It wasn't simply her momentary distraction; he thought she was self-conscious of her freckles, of course.

It wasn't entirely accurate, but it was close enough to the truth for Bilba Baggins, Assistant Director at Garnished and Gilded.

Rather than discuss it further, Bilba reached up, looping her arm around his neck and carding her fingers into the thick hair of his nape.

"You are a darling man." She shifted under the blankets until she could slide her knee up over his thigh, shivering when his broad palm pressed its way down her spine in return, drawing her in even closer. Despite the murky paths her mind had brought her down, the cosy, intimate feeling of morning hadn't quite faded, and Bilba felt an answering swell of heat between her legs when Thorin's erection bumped against her stomach.

Sweet anticipation wasn't the only thing she felt, however, twinging deep inside. She tightened her muscles, testing the waters, and tried not to flinch at the ache she found— not sore enough to be actually painful, but just a wee bit too tender for anything athletic. At least until she'd had a hot shower and a cup of tea.

There were innumerable other options, however, and Bilba could think of at least one off-hand that she could hardly imagine Thorin finding disagreeable.

"Good morning, again," she said with a smile, finding his cock with her free hand and giving it a soft rub of greeting. Thorin curled closer to her, nuzzling against her hair as he rumbled with a low, pleased sort of growl.

The angle wasn't quite right, and he was thick enough that both hands would have been better than one. Thorin didn't seem to mind overly much, however, rutting into the circle of her fingers when she slid back his velvety foreskin, teasing her thumb over the damp head beneath. His breath was huffing hot, ruffling the few loose curls that had escaped her braid, gusting over the crook of her neck.

His hips jerked forward when Bilba's mouth found his collarbone; she sucked, just hard enough to draw up a faint redness, then nipped the spot with insistent teeth, and Thorin's cock pressed harder against her palm.

His own hands weren't idle, one squeezing her bum while the other stroked along her thigh where her leg was still hooked over his side. His touch was firm, not tickling at all anymore, and his chest hair was delightfully scratchy against her nipples.

It was beautiful, especially the urgent sound of her name tumbling from his lips, which she managed to draw out of him by nibbling another red mark on his chest, not far from the first. He said it again, more strangled this time, when she stretched up just long enough to peck a kiss against his chin, before disappearing beneath the quilts.

Under the cocoon of blankets, the air almost stifling hot and thick with the scent of sleepy skin and musk. There seemed to be acres of nude body, as well, stretched out across her sheets, and Bilba burrowed deeper for a taste.

Mouthing over Thorin's hipbone, where the hair wasn't quite so thick, was faintly tangy with sweat; the softer skin of his cock tasted the same, until she licked up to the head, slick and saltier. The stuffiness of the blankets over her head and the impossible heat Thorin apparently exuded like a furnace was much more comforting than claustrophobic, making Bilba feel sheltered and hidden away from the rest of the world. Hidden away from secrets, and jobs, from responsibilities and ugly realities. There was only this: a little den she'd hollowed out for herself, a lazy Sunday morning, and a sweet, gorgeous man writhing under her.

Her jaw was twinging by the time Thorin lifted the quilts, muttering a hoarse warning and staring down at her with his face flushed bright and a dark, fiery gleam in his eyes. It had been ages since she'd done this, usually preferring to back off and finish things with her hand at this point in the proceedings. After a split-second of consideration, however, Bilba took a deep breath through her nose and sank lower instead, steadying him with a hand wrapped around the base. She couldn't take the whole of him, but judicious application of her tongue seemed to do the trick.

The blankets were pushed down to her shoulders, and Thorin's hands fisted in that soft fabric as his entire body tensed, and he came groaning the same quiet, broken cursing she remembered from the night before.

"Fuck, Bilba—" Bilba pulled away gently, ducking just long enough to wipe her mouth before crawling back up to settle against Thorin's side. He made space for her immediately, tucked in between the cradle of his arm and his ribs, which were still shuddering with unsteady breaths.

"Fuck," he said again, then scrubbed his free hand over his face. "Sorry, just... Damn it. Come here."

The world shifted as she was rolled, flat onto her back with Thorin leaning over to bring them face to face, his elbows propped on either side of her. He bent, kissing her forehead, then down to the corner of her lips.

"I'm man enough to admit," he murmured, dragging his nose lightly over her cheek. "That after all that, I'm still concerned my morning breath will put you off."

Bilba laughed, reaching up to cup his raspy jaw. "Oh, I'm hardly put off. It's not— oh!"

She'd been distracted enough not to take too much notice of his shifting balance and wandering hand, until the first touch of a broad palm against her stomach, sliding down slowly below her navel.

"It's not awful," she continued, her words catching on a gasp, and used her hold on his jaw to draw him in for a long, lazy kiss. By the time they broke apart, Bilba was squirming from the slow roll of fingertips teasing her, pleasure overcoming any lingering discomfort.

"Softly," she said anyway, spreading her thighs wider even as Thorin's fingers paused. She made sure to infuse her smile with a healthy dose of reassurance, and all the keen arousal thrumming through her as well. "Soft and sweet, darling, and afterwards I'll wash your back in the shower, if you like."

"You do drive an easy bargain, don't you," Thorin said after a moment or two of silence, letting his own answering smile rise back into place.

After enjoying the hot, friendly shower Bilba had offered (and secretly enjoying some entirely unnecessary fussing when he peeled the plaster from his finger, and she noticed his blackened fingernail), Thorin was presented with a neatly folded pile of clothes. There was a plain, greenish t-shirt, faded and worn soft with age, and a pair of dark brown joggers— all much too large for Bilba.

He took them in hand, standing in her bathroom with just a fluffy beige towel tucked around his waist, but made no move to put them on immediately. "Whose are these?"

"You're welcome," Bilba replied dryly, cinching the tie of her elaborate patchwork robe. It wasn't quite as appealing as the flimsy slip of a nightdress she wore beneath it, but Thorin remembered enough of his family's business to appreciate the quality and craftsmanship.

"They belong to a friend," she continued. "But he won't mind the loan. As lovely as the scenery might be, I assumed you wouldn't be keen to eat breakfast in the buff."

They belong to a friend. Thorin was reminded, with a sour twist in his gut, of the conversation he'd had with Kili the day before.

She's not your girlfriend.

Are you dating anyone else? Is she ?

"Thorin?" He blinked, glancing up from the clothes still held in his hands, to find Bilba watching him questioningly. She knocked her rinsed toothbrush on the side of the sink, shutting off the taps with a quick twist before turning to face him fully. "The shirt might be a bit snug, but it will certainly fit better than anything from my closet, and I imagine toast crumbs could get awfully itchy in all that chest hair."

"I— sure." Swallowing back a surge of inappropriate jealousy, the weight of it settling inside him like a stone, Thorin tossed the shirt onto the toilet lid and dragged the joggers up over his legs, trying not to let his irritation rule his movement. They were long enough, and slightly loose around the waist; the shirt, when he pulled it over his head, was significantly tighter, stretched across the breadth of his chest and his biceps, but still wearable.

At least the shirt smelled of washing powder, rather than some unfamiliar cologne. That was a small mercy, he supposed.

Combing his hand back through his damp hair, tidying what the shirt had mussed, Thorin forced himself back to cool composure and looked over to Bilba again. She was now leaning a hip against the sink, with the fingertips of one hand pressed lightly against her lips, and wide blue eyes focused intently on his torso.

"I adore Bofur," she said out of nowhere, making Thorin reel from her flippancy and boil with resentment at the name— Bofur— until she carried on, oblivious to his silent turmoil. "I do; he's my dearest friend and Nori is lucky to have him. But good lord, he's never filled out that shirt like that."

"You— what? Nori?" There was a dull pain starting behind Thorin's eyes, not yet a proper headache but definitely threatening to develop, and somehow, this woman had a great deal to do with it.

There was obviously more happening here than Thorin could parse properly, especially as Bilba closed the distance between them, rubbing one hand over his stomach and then higher, grinning cheekily and peering up at him through her lashes. The saucy expression didn't last, however, quickly lost under a wave of concern and a furrowed brow.

"Something's the matter," she said, and it was definitely not a question, though she did sound quite surprised. And just like that, Thorin remembered that damned name— she'd mentioned a Bofur before, on their first coffee date at Dori's cafe. Some bloke Thorin had never met, and all but married to the middle Rison brother, if Thorin correctly recalled the finer details of the conversation.

If he'd been alone, Thorin might have smacked himself; he was acting like an idiot, possessive in a way that made a sour taste crawl up into the back of his throat. Neither of them had mentioned exclusivity, not this early on, and now was not the time to bring it up. No matter how much the alternative rankled him.

Good god, he was terrible at dating.

"Coffee," he said instead, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and bending down to press a firm kiss against the crown of her hair. "Or tea. Sorry, need to clear my head a bit, I think."

Clear his head, indeed.

As it turned out, Bilba only had a few old packets of instant coffee in the back of her pantry; she was slightly mortified, but Thorin didn't mind the somewhat stale brew. He'd certainly had worse.

She also put on a pot of truly remarkable tea, richly smoky and surprisingly robust, which after being coaxed into a taste Thorin did switch in for the dredges of his coffee. It complimented the impressive breakfast she put together— thick toast, fried tomatoes, bacon, and eggs done perfectly runny— puttering around her neat kitchen with a level of skill and ease that set him back on his heels.

There had been a part of him that expected the fashion model cliché of scant meals and careful dieting, but Bilba had never seemed to shy from food as far as he'd noticed. She kept real butter in the house, meats and creamy cheeses, and semi-skimmed milk rather than some watery alternative. To be completely honest, it was something of a relief— he hadn't considered her dietary habits a serious concern, but having his sister forever harping on his health with her wheatgrass and seaweed was enough for one lifetime.

He wouldn't give Dis too much grief about it, though— she'd made it her mission to keep him alive and healthy as a horse, for a good many years to come if she had her way. Considering all they'd been through and all they'd lost, he'd willingly choke down a mountain of her zucchini lasagne to help put her mind at ease.

There were some quirks of his little sister, however, that he was not so quick to excuse.

He'd just caught Bilba around the waist as she'd finished refilling their teacups, reeling her in to sit on his lap rather than back in her chair, when the trill of his phone sounded dimly from her bedroom. There was the slightest chance it was important, possibly work ringing him on his day off, and that would only happen in the case of a dire emergency that their on-call staff couldn't handle. That slight chance was, unfortunately, enough to coax him up.

"It's probably nothing," he said, pressing his face into the welcoming crook of her neck for a quick kiss, before rising to his feet and shifting her down onto his chair. "Just have to check it's not work."

Bilba waved him off, dragging her teacup over towards his place setting. "If you're too long, I'm finishing your eggs."

That was fair enough, and Thorin said as much back to her as he padded down the hallway to the bedroom. His mobile was still in his trouser pocket, and his trousers were in a crumpled pile at the foot of Bilba's bed. Extracting the phone, Thorin killed two birds with one stone, shaking out the worst of the wrinkles and laying his trousers over Bilba's deep green bedspread.

The call display said Dis, and Thorin only stared at it for a moment before pressing the button to ignore the call. He took the phone back out with him, however; she might not ring him again, but it was simpler to have it near enough to check.

There was a third door in the hallway, almost directly across from the one leading to the toilet, which Thorin had never really taken note of; before this moment, it had always been closed. Now, it hung partially ajar, enough to see a portion of one wall inside, covered entirely by ordered wooden shelves and racks of clothes, hanging in ordered rows.

It was unbearably nosy, but Thorin couldn't help but pause, angling himself to peer farther inside, easing the door open a few centimetres more with a push of his toe.

The room was nearly the same size as her bedroom, and jam-packed with more clothing than he had ever owned. He had seen shops on the High Street with less stock on offer than Bilba had neatly tucked into this... calling it acloset seemed almost like a disservice.

This was more in line with the sort of thing he had expected, dating a model (which was still an entirely surreal concept just on the face of it). It also reminded him, with a bittersweet twinge somewhere deep in his chest, of his mother's expansive wardrobe in the Erebor estate. Thrain had never passed up the opportunity to drape his wife in the finest garments, as befitting the wife of a textile heir— even a textile heir whose family business had abandoned the tangibility of manufacturing years before in favour of investments and obscure market trading. Money was never in short supply, their legacy fixed by that combination of shrewd investments and well-established power, and Thorin's mother had always dressed like a queen.

Back in the present, Thorin shook himself sharply, and immediately abandoned his snooping; that had been more than enough woolgathering for one morning. His misplaced jealousy hadn't managed to ruin the mood beyond salvaging, and he certainly wasn't about to allow old ghosts to best him either.

Bilba was still in his chair when he arrived back in the kitchen, and she glanced up at him without a speck of guilt anywhere on her face, munching away on a piece of his toast.

"You have to go," she said, after swallowing her pilfered prize. It was pitched as a question rather than a command, and Thorin shook his head, scooping her up out of the chair just far enough to slide back into a comfortable seat before settling her back in his lap. She huffed at him, but any trace of annoyance was belied by the warmth in her eyes, and the sweet kiss she pecked against his lips.

"I don't have to go." There had been a hint of butter glistening on Bilba's mouth, now on Thorin's as well, and he made a point to lick it off them both.

They were in the midst of sharing the remainder of their breakfast (and a few more savoury, flavoured kisses) when Thorin's phone sounded off again, this time with the chime of his text alert.

"Ignore it," he said, nosing under Bilba's chin, then kissing down to the hollow of her throat. He hadn't shaved that morning, and every scrape of his stubble against her soft skin made her shiver pleasantly.

A series of further chimes, one after the other in increasingly rapid succession, finally made him heave a deep, annoyed sigh, resting his forehead in the crook of her neck.

"Could be important," Bilba said quietly, stroking the hair at his temple and behind his ear, where he knew a few streaks of silver were sprinkled in amongst the dark sable brown.

"I very much doubt that." Hugging her tightly for a moment, revelling just a bit longer in the softness without interruption, Thorin then reached out to where his mobile lay on the tabletop. All the waiting texts were, of course, from Dis.

Hello?

Still alive?

How are you feeling?

Hello? Ignoring me?

?

Mildly worried.

Thorin.

Thorin?

At least let me know you're not dead on your sofa.

And there came his headache again, pulsing back to life.

"Just... one minute," he said to Bilba, one arm still wrapped snugly around her back. "It's my sister checking up, since I've been ill."

"Shall I..." Bilba said, trailing off and motioning towards the living room. "Give you some privacy?"

"Not unless you'd like to," he replied, and then hooked his chin over Bilba's shoulder when she made no move to get up. He had every intention of sending a brief, curt text assuring Dis of his wellbeing, but his phone chirped once more before he could type a single word.

You're not answering your door. 30 seconds and I'm turning on your GPS.

"Oh for god's sake." Mashing his thumb firmly against the call icon instead, Thorin pressed the phone to his ear; it had the chance to ring just once before Dis picked up.

"Well, good morning." She sounded so chipper, so entirely guiltless, that he very nearly threw the phone. "Feeling groggy? The medication will do that, though you should be out of doses by now."

"Dis."

"Hm, irritability isn't supposed to be a side effect." He squeezed his eyes shut, resisting the urge to growl like some kind of feral animal. Dis hardly needed the ammunition.

"It's a side effect of something I could name," he did grit out, then cracked his eyes open again, startled, when Bilba kissed his cheek. Taking a deep breath, he tilted the phone briefly away from his mouth and returned the fond gesture, forcing himself calmer.

"I'm fine, Dis," he said, going back to the call. "No worse for wear. Now, stop pestering me; I'm hanging up."

"Wait! Wait, wait, just one second!" It was so tempting to end the call, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she'd simply ring him back. "I rang to invite you to supper, you tetchy old codger."

"Yes, all right." Refusing the invitation outright would simply raise more questions, and it was terribly presumptuous to assume Bilba would want him lingering around into the evening. "I'll probably be round."

"Not even asking what we're having? You are eager to get off the phone, aren't you?" Dis laughed, sounding shrewd but not unkind. "Would it be out of line to use your GPS to send a bouquet? Because you'd only be this impatient if you were equally as happy before I rang, and you seem especially impatient. Oh god, no, you didn't actually answer your phone in the middle of sex did you? Please, please tell me you know better than that."

"You are horrid," he said flatly, refusing to rise to the bait. Maddening as she could be, Thorin trusted his sister to respect certain boundaries; she did indeed have the password to enable GPS tracking on his phone, but that was only for emergency situations. "Goodbye, Dis."

"Give B a kiss good morning for me," his sister was calling out as Thorin disconnected the call, loudly enough that Bilba giggled, leaning heavier on his chest.

"Your sister reminds me of a few of my cousins," she said, rubbing a palm soothingly over his thin, stretched t-shirt. "Good-natured, caring, but with a bit of mischief. A Tookish spirit, they called it back home."

"Tookish," he repeated, curious, and Bilba sat back just enough to smile at him, warm and bright as summer sunlight.

"A wild, adventurous family, the Tooks," she explained, both hands rising to card slowly through his hair. "But good people. Kind and loyal friends. My mum... my mother was a Took." The hushed gravity that had settled over this conversation was not lost on Thorin, and he waited, listening carefully even as Bilba quieted, playing silently with his hair for a few long moments, and not quite meeting his eyes.

"I think she would have liked you," she said eventually, sounding almost distracted. Thorin felt his gut twist warmly, surprised, but infinitely pleased. Bilba's smile didn't fade, even as she hummed thoughtfully, looking as though she was miles away. Perhaps years away, as well.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, she was shaking that stillness and faint air of melancholy away, stroking her thumbs against the grain of his stubble. "Yes, she definitely would have liked you. Mum was always keen on a good adventure."