Friends.
Bilbo could be friends with Thorin Oakenshield. Were they not friends already? Bilbo thought they could be, under the right circumstances; If Thorin had not been cold to him when they first met, if he had not embraced Bilbo on the Carrock and clasped their chests together, forcing the Hobbit to take in all of the Dwarven King's warmth and attractive sturdiness (further adding to Bilbo's ridiculous desire to kiss him). If Thorin had not slept with Bilbo and then left him. If Thorin had not made Bilbo fall in love with him.
If Thorin didn't make Bilbo's blood boil.
Bilbo wasn't angry, per se, he was supremely disappointed. He was disappointed that he'd put his faith (and love) in a dwarf who was so proud and self-reliant and socially awkward that he could not have a simple conversation about feelings with the hobbit he'd bedded. Instead, he withdrew into himself, pulling away from Bilbo and avoiding eye contact.
(Thorin's eyes revealed all, something Bilbo realized early in their association — as early as stepping into Bag End — and knew Thorin had some sort of secret he was trying to keep from the burglar. Most positively, Bilbo supposed, it was that the dwarf regretted sleeping with him; that he'd spoken hastily in admitting his love and was trying to break off their acquaintance while also outrightly avoiding speaking to the Hobbit about — as was Thorin's wont: avoiding an awkward situation until it went away.)
Yes, Bilbo supposed, he could be friends with Thorin Oakenshield, if it was the only way to protect his heart from an idiot dwarf who wouldn't know his own feelings if they'd hit him square in the face.
After all that had happened on this most unexpected journey, after all of his pining, Bilbo didn't think his heart could take another beating. He was on edge as it was, sleeping out in the open every night in this accursed forest, still under the deluge that persisted day in day out.
He tucked further into his (first and only) breakfast, hating every spoonful he shoveled in of the mealy stuff, but ate it nonetheless. He didn't know when next they would stop for food.
Thorin had still been asleep when the hobbit had woken, leaving Bilbo to eat his breakfast in peace. Small miracles, Bilbo thought, taking another bite of what barely passed as an oat porridge, small bloody miracles.
Thorin woke alone, the pillow beneath his head smelling distinctly of Bilbo. Almost sweet, like the honey soap Beorn had given him before they'd left his estate. Breathing in heavily, he remembered then that he had, in fact, slept on Bilbo's pillow.
After finding the Hobbit curled in on himself among the trees, heart beating rapidly and face pressed into the dirt, Thorin had carried him back to their tarp. The Hobbit hadn't yet unpacked his things (which quietly stung, somewhere within Thorin's heart), hadn't even moved them from where he'd dropped them by the fire ring before running into the brush like a dying squall, choking on acrid air and stumbling over himself.
Thorin chased after Bilbo, a worried line set deep between his brows when he'd lost the burglar to the thicket of dark branches. When he'd finally found him, Thorin feared that the burglar's heart had stopped, audibly panicking as he brought Bilbo back to camp and set him down on his own opened sleeping mat. Thorin went back to the campfire to collect the halflings belongings, only to return and find him asleep.
The little burglar had looked so comfortable lying beneath Thorin's blankets, he didn't dare disturb him; he rolled out Bilbo's mat instead, hating the way he pressed his face into the Hobbit's pillow and breathed in heavily as he fell asleep.
By the time Thorin laced his heavy boots and found his way to the fire ring the next morning (blessedly without a drop of rain), Bombur had finished preparing breakfast. It was a short affair, consisting of a terrible muddy thing which the cook had presented as porridge. It tasted awful, but Thorin could not hold it against him — dying fires in the Mirkwood hardly held up against the illustrious kitchens of Erebor.
The Company ate in relative silence, his sister-sons resting at the opposite side of the fire ring. Kili was sat at his brother's feet, dark hair twisted in Fili's hands as he redid the plaits which had come undone.
"Good morrow burglar," Thorin said, settling in beside Bilbo on a large rock (surface crawling with questionable moss), the Hobbit slowly nursing at a bowl of Nori's wild tea. Bilbo offered no greeting in return, only a half-formed sound as he brought the steaming tea to his lips, not meeting Thorin's eye.
"Are you feeling any better?" he asked. This caught Bilbo's attention and his neck whipped up to meet Thorin's gaze, eyes bright.
"A little," he said, barely more than a whisper and as quickly as it had shown itself, the flicker left the halfling's eye. He dropped his gaze again, eyes pointing towards the bowl resting on his knee, shoulders sagging. Thorin said nothing more.
The halfling withdrew, as if Thorin's very presence sent him into a state of distress, physically leaning away as Thorin sat beside him (whether this was conscious or not, he did not know. But the tugging in his chest suggested to him that it was the former).
Bilbo was civil, tepid at best: their conversation stilted and awkward. All day he seemed to be politely avoiding Thorin, if not outrightly ignoring him any time Thorin tried to speak with him, and the Dwarven King felt as if he were losing half of himself. He and Bilbo were at an impasse, and Thorin had never felt so without encouragement (for a moment, however long ago it was, there was a flicker in the halfling's eye of faith — of inspiration — that kept Thorin hopeful in this now fierce vein).
Thorin was a proud dwarf, he knew this to be true. But he had much to be proud of: he was heir to the line of Durin, the most powerful clan of dwarrows born from the Seven Fathers.
This however (Thorin's station, that is), was a hindrance as well. At the moment, he had nothing to be proud of — he was an uncrowned heir with no claim to his homeland. And he supposed, upon reflection, this was what kept him from pursuing Bilbo. It was not the fact that his beloved was a Hobbit, or that he preferred books to daggers. It was nothing to do with Bilbo at all.
It was that Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, knew he was not worthy of that Hobbit, no matter how proud a dwarf he was.
Perhaps if they met under different circumstances, perhaps in another life where Thorin hadn't lost his motherland. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
There was a terrible, sudden roll in Thorin's gut, like his stomach was tying itself in knots. It would not do to dwell on what could or could not have been. He could only live with what was.
His body was still strong, his drive to reclaim the mountain the only thing keeping him going as they trekked through the Mirkwood, but he could not tell how much longer he would last on adrenaline and stubbornness alone. The dark circles beneath his eyes became heavier everyday, and Thorin could feel them weighing him down. The rain had started pouring again, no doubt making him appear even more ragged than he felt.
Dwalin had told him so, falling into step with the king and outrightly telling him he looked like the underside of a goat's jacksie, whatever the hell that meant. "Alright?" he harrumphed, when Thorin didn't laugh.
"All right." he affirmed, though it did not sound convincing.
"Whatever you have to tell yourself to fall asleep at night." And that must have made him wince, for Dwalin looked at him then, all mirth gone from his expression.
"Something like that," his scan of the Company quickly finding the Hobbit amongst them, as if that explained enough. "I'm having dreams. Mahal has forsaken me in this place." Dwalin bowed his head in understanding (read: pity), a water droplet running down his large nose.
"That burglar will be the end of you, cousin." he said.
"Aye?"
"Aye, if you do nothing about it. I am tired of watching the two of you skirt around each other like a pair of faunts. It's annoying frankly, we've other things to attend to."
"And you think I have not noticed that?"
"I think," Dwalin said, lowering his voice, "that you need to wake up and do something about it. You love him or not?"
"Yes," he sighed, "I do."
And he did. He loved Bilbo: his manner and outspokenness being so unlike how Thorin had pictured when he'd first walked into the well-kept smial of Bag End. Bravery seemed to radiate from the halfling, so much power in such a small body that Thorin didn't know how it all fit. He was honest and he was kind, and Thorin could not look at him without wanting to turn away in shame for himself. He was so unworthy of this Hobbit, who deserved nothing less than the world and all its jewels. And if he could, Thorin would have given them, if only for a smile in return.
What he wouldn't do for that smile.
Dwalin's face softened, "He loves you too y'know." he said after a beat, chuckling, "Though I do not know why— looks at you just about as if you've hung the moon, Mahal help him."
Thorin disagreed, but didn't want to argue. Bilbo didn't love him. In time, perhaps he could. After Thorin had regained his throne and rightfully became the dwarf king he was born to be. But no, not the dwarf caked in grime and dirt, trudging blindly through the Mirkwood.
He looked down at his hands, calloused and hardened with time and labor, dirt beneath his nails. He imagined them wrapped around the burglar's petite pair. They were decorated with rings, mementoes from his past life as the Crown Prince: The Durin insignia, identical rings on the hands of his sister-sons, bearing their Right. One from his father, a simple band of silver, and another of gold, shaped in the forges of Ered Luin, proclaiming his revenge on the worm Smaug. The final was from his mother: a sapphire caged in sterling silver, intended for his beloved.
Slipping his mother's ring from his finger, Thorin traced the jewel with his thumb, turning the circlet over in his hands before slipping it into the breast pocket of his great coat.
Thorin knew Dwalin was watching him, but he said nothing about it. Dwalin said nothing in return.
In time, he hoped, in time he could be loved.
As the Company trudged on, Bilbo thought he could hear birds singing in the distance. Other than the morning two days ago when the rain had stopped and the harrowing staple of the Wood had lessened, he hadn't been able to hear anything in the trees besides the constant dribble of water droplets against leaves, and the far away cracks of thunder. Perhaps this meant that they were reaching the border of the forest — perhaps could escape this place. The call of the Wood and its terrible melody had fatigued the Company, Bilbo's own steps becoming sluggish through the mud.
Though Bilbo had recovered physically from his ordeal the previous night (now able to breathe without fear of wheezing), his thoughts were still rigidly trapped in that terrible nightmare. The taste of copper on his tongue still stung, and for a moment he'd thought that he had bitten through his own lip — but it was just the memory. Still so palpable was the pain in Thorin's cry; it hurt Bilbo physically just to think of it, even worse to have borne witness.
It felt as if an age ago, the large weight of Thorin above him as he shook Bilbo from his dreams. Just one day since falling asleep beside him, their hands clasped together, in friendship, he reminded himself. What a stupid Hobbit he had been, letting himself believe he could be anything more than flesh to Thorin Oakenshield. What he must think of me, deflowering him out in the open like a wanton, wild thing.
It certainly would not happen again, Bilbo was sure of that. Even sleeping near the king would be too much of a tease, too humiliating. Friends, what a humiliating word!
That night it rained still, and he made the conscious decision to be away from Thorin, having asked Bofur if he could break with his family. The dwarf hadn't asked for a reason, only waggled his eyebrows up and down in that comical way he had and told Bilbo he'd have to help set up the tarp if he expected to sleep beneath it.
Bilbo agreed heartily, and set about preparing their cover.
For a third night in a row, there was no reveling: the rain and the Wood forbade it. Thorin would not have partaken anyhow, spirits low after watching his Hobbit bed down with the toymaker and his kin. Mechanically, he set up his tarp alone and arranged his belongings beneath it, this time with far more room than he was used to, the extra space usually taken up by his resident burglar. Without the steady babel of rain against the back of his neck, Thorin fell asleep faster, but in no way more peacefully.
That night a blight-rose haunted his dreams, a flower which grew on the outskirts of Erebor's proper: wildlings which still remained all these years after the Dragon's decimation. There were wildflowers all around him. The white blossoms fell. They fell fathomless and forever.
There had been a terrible, haunting beauty in them; Thorin was afraid to reach out and touch, worried that he could scorch the falling blossoms as they dropped.
A figure appeared in the petals then: a slight, curved body coming from the dark. Bilbo's hair glowed in the fire light of their chambers, a single mithril bead strung through his hair, secured by the marriage braid passing behind his ear. His pale body was laid out on their bed, waiting for Thorin to return to him. His eyes, their earnest need imploring him forward, calling to him. Beautiful, wanting Bilbo, hoping for Thorin to touch him. Only him.
His Consort, his treasure of all treasures.
Bilbo opened his lips, tongue forming the one word that had so far only haunted him in sleep. It echoed in his ears, pounding in time with the steady drum of his heart.
"Ghivashel."
Above Bilbo on the bed, suddenly, hundreds of eyes materialized from the dark. Accursed eyes, beady and terrible, surrounding him. "Bones to snap," they hissed, "meat to gobble, blood to suck." Thorin could feel their stare, itching his skin and making it clammy, where he stood in the forest, the lights around him dimming to black.
"The blood of dwarves is best of all, and so we take our pick."
Thorin shook his head, trying to rid the voices from his mind, but they would not go. They tormented him and clawed at his skin with their pinchers. He could feel their eyes on him.
He spoke earnestly Bilbo's lithe shape, "We're being watched."
He did not wake suddenly from this sleep, as he so often had these nights in the Wood. He woke slowly, the touch of Bilbo's silky skin eroding little by little, taken away from him by the contemptible howl of the demons in the forest: first the mouth pressed against Thorin's lips, then the fingers that ghosted against his skin. And soon, he was alone again, awake in the night without the halfling at his side.
Thorin stared into the distance, eyes hazy and unfocused as he looked into the dark. Bilbo's absence beside him was so obvious Thorin knew not how he would sleep again this night. It was a hollow, gaping pain that ate at him; the shape of his Hobbit's emptiness beside him so unbearable he could cry.
His mother's ring burned a hole in his breast pocket, knowing it could not live ungiven to the halfling for much longer. Thorin got up quickly, pulling on his boots before he thought better of it or lost his nerve. No, he could not fail in this vein, he would have the burglar. Dwalin's words wracked through his bones. He would have the burglar, he would he would he would.
Stalking his way through the dark, Thorin pressed on, finding his way with hands outstretched. He was caught in the momentum of it — a forward thrust carrying him to Bilbo. He powered through the underbrush of the forest, trying to avoid the sleeping places of his dwarrows, not wanting to wake them.
The Hobbit had chosen a place to rest at the opposite side of camp, curled up with Bofur and his kin. Unknown heat boiled in his veins, not a possessive heat, but pangs of unbridled need. A want so terrible he'd never felt before, that he'd muffled so violently in the past for this very reason.
Finding Bilbo asleep at the edge of the Ur's tarp, Thorin dropped to his knees in the mud, unbothered by the wet dirt stains forming on the fabric of his trousers. The dwarrows beside him were undisturbed by Thorin's presence, but the halfling shuffled in his sleep, muttering nothings under his breath, too quiet for Thorin to make them out, muffled by rain on the tarp.
He edged closer to the burglar, reaching out to touch his fingers where they rested beside his hairless chin — catching them before they disappeared into a puff of smoke — no. That was the Wood, entering his mind again, clouding him, clouding Bilbo.
The Hobbit's skin was so soft, as he had hoped it would be: untarred by callouses on this journey, and somehow familiar to Thorin in a way he could not know.
Bilbo shuffled in his sleep again as Thorin took the delicate hand between both of his own, its warmth spreading through his body, down his back with scraping nails, into his hair where it hung on for dear life.
It was the echo of a touch, the echo of a dream perhaps. But even so, it rolled through Thorin's gut. Releasing one hand from the halfling, Thorin lifted it to caress the rosy cheek. Ghivashel—
Bilbo sighed and opened his eyes, still glassy from sleep but no less aware of the dwarf leaning over him. "Thorin? Thorin, what are you doing?"
But the dwarven king was speechless, his throat catching and no words would come to him. Instead he soundlessly moved his hand from the burglar's tired cheek to the pocket in the breast of his coat.
Bilbo's eyes followed his hand closely, making a confused noise when Thorin revealed the sapphire to him.
"A gift, Master Burglar, a promise," Cicadas hissed in the distance, filling the silence around them. Creatures of the forest shuffled and croaked among the trees as they stared at each other.
"A promise of what?"
The cicadas hummed. Rain fell and Bilbo watched Thorin's lip twitch.
"Forever."
Bilbo stared, his eyes moving quickly between the dwarf's face and the ring in his large hand. A heavy snore from Bombur broke the tension— Bilbo jolting from where he'd been frozen on his mat. Bombur exhaled again and tossed over where he slept, making signs of waking.
Then Bilbo surged up, past Thorin as he pulled the dwarf into the underbrush, away from the rest of their sleeping Company.
Far into the brush Bilbo stopped and turned on Thorin, never letting go, unspeakable askance in his eyes. Thorin simply wanted to grab him, kiss him, ensure that he would not disappear—
"You bed me and then attempt to court me?" Bilbo deadpanned, releasing his grip on Thorin's arm, "Thorin Oakenshield you've got things the wrong way round. I must wonder what goes on in your head."
Thorin paused, "What—"
The halfling sighed, rubbing at his eye. He looked tired. "Please do not feign ignorance, or drunkenness for we both know you were susceptible to neither. For some reason you refuse to speak of it."
Dread ran through the Dwarven King, dread and unending shame as he began to walk among the trees, "Did Dwalin tell you?"
Bilbo huffed, turning his body to follow Thorin as he paced, "Dwalin? Dwalin need not tell me of anything I partook in myself—"
"He broke my confidence, the bastard," Thorin raged, "running around, probably told the whole Company by now!"
The hobbit looked mortified, livid, "You refuse to speak with me and yet you speak with Dwalin— And what did he tell them? How you bedded the Company's resident burglar on a forest floor and left him the morning after without so much as a kind word?"
"And he creates a fiction as well! Shirumund!"
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"I am calling Dwalin many things. The craven bastard!"
"Has this forest made you delusional? Do you no longer know yourself?"
Thorin frowned. He didn't meet the halfling's eyes, and so Bilbo took a step forward, "Thorin, you— We— Shire bless, don't make me say it, it's too embarrassing."
Thorin stopped pacing, turned away from Bilbo and facing the dark trees. His eyelids felt heavy.
It had felt so real.
No, no he had not— there was no explanation— "No this is another trick, a dream... the Wood making a fool of me..."
He sighed, "You're an idiot is what you are." Bilbo moved quickly, staring into Thorin's face, crowding him, holding his cheeks, touching him, "You are Thorin Oakenshield! You are the beloved king who brings his people home. And a bloody great idiot!" Bilbo was shaking him now, rocking the dwarf with each word.
"Thorin Oakenshield is no king," he keened, "He is an ostracized prole, a blacksmith made to lead those he loves most to slaughter by way of gold lust and dragon fire!"
"Have you no idea how much the Company loves you, your own people! Me? I love you Thorin, why can't you see that? Why don't you believe me?"
"Because you can not possibly love me! What am I but an exiled prince? What are you but a vision?" he tried to loosen himself from Bilbo's grip, but the Hobbit would not let him go. He wouldn't have made it far anyway, his legs weak.
"I am no apparition, Thorin! You cannot simply wish me away!" the halfling yelled, so as not to be ignored.
"What other explanation is there?" Thorin yelled back, growing disoriented in the dark. "You are a dream, ghivashel, a vision to blind me from my true path! This forest has turned me to ruin!"
Rain always started the same way in the Mirkwood, with light drizzle and a cloud of humidity thick enough to make your lungs tight and your skin stick. The air always smelled of decay, some kind of deathly petrichor not found anywhere else in Arda. And then the sound of hard droplets began to pour down, hitting the leaves and branches until you were standing under a shower of hot rain.
The first drop of water hit Bilbo's face, running down the bridge of his nose and sliding towards his mouth. It was hot, and tasted of rust, like a splash of blood on his tongue. He watched Thorin's eyes track the droplet as it came to rest on his lip.
Thorin made a low noise in his throat, like he was trying to ask for something, so pleading and perfect that Bilbo couldn't help but try to push endlessly closer — to climb into Thorin's skin. His hands were still gripped at the sides of Thorin's face, craving understanding, edging closer to the cropped facial hair. Bless, his eyes were so blue.
In that moment, Bilbo would have sworn that Thorin had leaned in too, staring so intently at Bilbo's lips. Begging him. Surging forward to catch them with his own, Bilbo clung to him, wrapping his small hands unto the layers of dwarf above him. Into the layers of clothing and up to the cascades of hair, thick and wet with rainwater. One of his hands stayed there, tangling itself in the black strands. The other traveled to Thorin's beard, tugging through the short hairs in a caress, rivulets of rain water passing over Bilbo's fingers and dripping into his clothes.
Bilbo's fingers reached the nape of Thorin's neck and and he mewled, a throaty little sound that Bilbo had only heard because he was so close, pressing himself so firmly into the great body before him. He dared to open his lips, tongue slick and pressing against Thorin's.
Thorin — gentle unto the point of reverent — wrapped an arm around Bilbo's lower back (one hand still wrapped tightly around his mother's ring), pushing and pulling at each other until they walked into a tree. Bilbo's shoulders scraped against the rough bark but he couldn't care less because he was breathing into Thorin's mouth with his hands strung around tufts of thick raven hair and Thorin's touch so was addictive; so much better than that first time under the tarp, and Bilbo could tell now that he had Thorin's full attention.
Thorin's lips moved above his again and again, repeating the same movements and Bilbo realized he was whispering, asking, praying, "Be real, please. Be real."
Bilbo pulled his lips away, "I'm here, I'm real," and kissed him again. Thorin pulled him in tight, like he never wanted to let go. Bilbo prayed he didn't. "Gods, I love you."
Whenever they broke apart for air, Bilbo's gaze met with the dwarf's and he could see Thorin's smile in the small lines beside his eyes, and when their mouths met again he could taste it on his lips. The kisses were dry and awkward at first but it was Thorin and Bilbo was kissing Thorin and he didn't think he could be happier.
When Bilbo moved his lips to Thorin's neck, the dwarf's knees buckled. He had been supporting the both of them, pressed up against the tree, and Bilbo fell unceremoniously atop him, their knees knocking and Bilbo's face still in the cradle of Thorin's neck.
Bilbo giggled. Like bells jingling, Thorin thought, and he had never heard such a wonderfully endearing sound. When they kissed again it was through Bilbo's soft smile, their teeth hitting gently, and they couldn't care less.
Soon they were just hands — fluid, familiar. It was like a dream.
Thorin rocked forward, tightening his hold on Bilbo's hip, and the hobbit reciprocated in kind. He traced his fingers down Thorin's arms, the rough armor and silky furs sliding forgotten beneath his touch as Bilbo pulled them away to reach the skin beneath.
For the second time, Bilbo saw Thorin's naked skin under the shade of the Mirkwood. Tan and muscular and raindrops were hitting his chest, soaking his hair. There was so much of him, Bilbo didn't know where to start.
So he began with the head, peppering kisses over Thorin's face and shoulders as the dwarf sat in the dirt with his hobbit above him. His legs were outstretched, inviting Bilbo to straddle the large thighs and press in, ever so gently.
They moaned into the next kiss when Bilbo reunited their mouths again, gathering up the burglar into his arms, surrounding him with heat. And suddenly the kisses were no longer sweet. They were full of want, an unbridled need, a heady desire. Thorin wanted.
Mahal, he wanted this Hobbit. Not just in a dream, not a hollow memory, but before his eyes. He needed to see him. Bare him. Love him.
Bilbo pressed in again, and Thorin could feel his want growing. His cock was hardening, had been since the halfling had pressed himself against him.
Oh, how they fit together, Mahal bless it was a gift. It was perfect. They rutted, and Bilbo was perfect. Thorin slid his mother's ring back on for safe keeping, and reached up to the halflings throat, undoing each of Bilbo's shirt buttons with a reverent need, peeling the cloth out of the trousers they'd been tucked into.
The alabaster skin beneath his dirty collar was creamy white, Thorin wanted to taste and so he did. Somehow, beneath the stench of sweat and grime, lingered a subtle taste of home. The hobbits own skin was honey and sugar, the way his smial smelled when Thorin had first met him. Like summer days beneath the sun and baking, loving those who love you. He tasted like home. He felt like home.
Kissing and nipping at a soft patch below Bilbo's ear, Thorin's hand traveled down the halfling's flank. Each time his fingers inched lower, Bilbo released a little breathy noise into the skin of Thorin's naked shoulder, a mewl that was barely audible, like he was trying to muffle himself. When Thorin reached the bulge of Bilbo's cock in his trousers, the breath caught in his throat.
Thorin touched experimentally, the slickness of Bilbo's head a gorgeous surprise. Bilbo was small as expected, as he had dreamed, and fit well in hand. Thorin moved his fingers again, through the wetness of him and Bilbo sighed, keening into Thorin's skin. Wanting more.
Beautiful. He was gorgeous, a precious jewel. Ghivashel.
Thorin moaned at his own thoughts, and rutted harshly against the unforgiving fabric of his trousers. He felt a wet patch on the front as he rushed to undo them, their laces giving him far less trouble than Bilbo's buttons.
Taking himself in hand, Thorin lifted his head again to catch Bilbo's lips, the Hobbit balanced in his lap, and his groin now moving against the knuckles of his fist - leaving lovely little streaks of white against their skin.
Bilbo licked into his mouth, and Thorin could slowly feel himself giving up power to the little creature in his arms - the wonton soul he would do anything for. Give anything to.
Thorin released his own cock for a moment, taking up Bilbo's instead and the hobbit gasped, breathing into the dwarf's mouth. His breath was hot, and their hair was beginning to stick to their skin. Bilbo rocked up into Thorin's fist and moaned, "I would have you," humming still.
An unbridled rush of heat fan down Thorin's spine, and he squeezed harder around Bilbo, tugging at the head and pressing their chests together, finding himself some friction, "And I would let you," he sighed, imagining Bilbo inside him.
He made an ungodly sound, deep from his throat and suddenly it wasn't enough. Using his large hand, he took up his cock as well, pressing he and Bilbo together, mingling in their wet heat. Precome pooled over his fingers as he pumped them, daring a glance down to watch Bilbo's skin turn a blushing red.
The Hobbit panted, his breathy sighs replaced with needy gasps as he clung to Thorin's shoulders, wrapping his hands around his neck with nails digging into the skin. They moved together, both rocking in tandem, reaching the peak.
And then Bilbo moaned, his whole body wracked with pleasure as his cock shot ropes of come, painting his alabaster skin with the pearly stuff. Thorin turned his head and could hear Bilbo mumbling something, "... love you, I love you, I love you," he chanted.
That mantra pushed Thorin over the edge as he grasped himself harder and pumped, gone, higher, coming onto his skin. Onto Bilbo's skin, "Bilbo," he whimpered. And he did not look away, but stared into his burglar's eyes, in awe.
Bilbo only hugged him tighter and he felt loved.
When he'd caught his breath, Bilbo could start to feel the mud that was seeping into the knees of his trousers. The dirt was starting to cake his toes, and beneath him, Thorin probably had it stuck in his hair. They were a terrible mess: sweaty and sticky and they needed to clean themselves, but neither made to get up any time soon. They just breathed each other in, their legs tangled together.
"Bilbo?" Thorin's voice was a whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear.
"Yes?" Their eyes met and Thorin did not turn away, but kept Bilbo's gaze as he held up his mother's ring, sliding it into the Hobbit's small palm.
"If you would have me. It is a gift, given to me by my mother many years ago, for my intended."
Bilbo's eyes went wide, disbelieving, incredibly happy, "Your intended?"
"If you would have me," he repeated, gently cupping the halflings cheek with his free hand, pressing their foreheads together and thumbing over the soft skin with a calloused finger.
In the distance, a crack of thunder wracked the forest, a storm coming in from the west. A cold breeze reached them, and Bilbo curled further into Thorin for warmth, the king draping an arm over his Hobbit's waist.
Even in this dark and terrible forrest, Bilbo thought, with his dwarf at his side, through war or weather or dragon-fire, all would be well. All would be fine.
End.