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Bilbo jerked awake with panic prickling in his fingertips and a cold sweat turning the dust on his skin to damp mush. For a moment he lie still under the covers— yes, he was in his bedroll, in the makeshift sleeping chambers under the mountain— waiting for whatever hungry thing that had woken him to pull its lips over incisors in the yellow glow of the grand smoldering hearth. He imagined red scales gleaming in the— wait— did he say smoldering? He turned his head fully toward the hearth, so dim now it didn’t even crackle. Even in the face of death Bilbo frowned; someone had obviously slept through their watch.
When the shadows that stretched and curled underside the sloping ceiling remained stone-still he let out a shaking breath and found himself feeling quite silly. He was not in any immediate danger, not if the rumbling snores of the company were any indication. He closed his eyes and nearly chuckled with relief. What had roused him so suddenly was a mystery he wasn’t sure he was up to solving when he could just turn over and—
His mithril shirt tinkled as he bolted upright and groped the darkness next to him where Thorin had placed his bedroll the evening before. The very same Thorin who was meant to wake him up to take second watch. Bilbo reached with silent prayer to find the warm, sleeping body of his companion (as if even Mahal could wrangle that infuriating dwarf!) but instead found only worn material, cold and empty.
He threw off his blankets. “Thorin!” he whispered, the sound so loud it threatened to wake the mountain itself. When no dwarf stirred he squinted into the shadows, counting 12 formless shapes safe and asleep around him. That was fine— good, even— but the particular king-shaped shadow he searched for was conspicuously missing. Heart rabbit-quick and fumbling in the dark, he reached under his pillow. Next to the arkenstone was his ring, both safe and undisturbed, and he was ashamed by the deep relief he felt at finding his treasures still secret and safe.
Of late, King Thorin Oakenshield could be found at either one of two places: at Bilbo’s side, as if they had been welded together by Aulë Himself; or his throne, where the song of madness lured him.
Considering the inarguable absence of Thorin beside him now, Bilbo jumped to his feet, hesitating a moment. In the fading glow he looked around at his companions, but he alone had come to wakefulness. Probably for the best, then, he thought. They’d only been able to anger Thorin lately, and Bilbo had no idea the state he’d find Thorin in tonight. So, carefully maneuvering around the slumbering dwarven obstacle course, he slipped through the tall scalloped doorway unnoticed.
Once out of the chamber, Bilbo made his way in silent hobbit fashion down the long tunnel that fed out to the throne room in the belly of the mountain. He strained his pointed ears, listening to see if he were being followed from behind or if there were sounds of life ahead, but the baritone hum of the mountain muffled even the roar of the forge. He felt the vibrations through the soles of his feet which seemed to match the pounding of his own heart which beat so fiercely his shoulders shook with it.
The tunnel was a perfect black this time of night, where normally sunlight shimmied down into the deep along a series of mirrors on pulleys. Even in such darkness it felt familiar as Bag End. Bilbo knew its winds and sharp corners and the number of steps between pillars with an accuracy to rival the strongest stone sense. It would be impossible to count how many times Bilbo had wandered this way. He was always pulled towards Thorin, like true North.
Eventually he came to an opulent door of solid gold that lead into the throne room and gave an ardent push. A rush of air whispered over the hair on his feet, markedly colder than the rest of the mountain. It was as if the gold itself, greedy for warmth and goodness, leeched it from the carvings in the walls once created so devotedly. Perhaps it missed the fire-hot touch it was used to which now laid slain in Dale.
Braced for the chill, Bilbo entered. Beyond him were riches beyond imagining, waves of it that licked up the walls that dared contain it. In all directions spilled rolling hills and valleys of Thror’s splendor where diamonds alone were more numerous than all the grass of the Shire. They shone as if illuminated from within, painting the space in warm dappled light up to the sharp stone ceiling. He looked around the room, as disinterested in the opulence laid at his feet as one may be on a beach of pebbles. If the riches called to him as they did to Thorin, they must have done so in Khuzdul, for all Bilbo could understand was the occasional sigh as he trampled over them towards the only thing in the mountain worth coveting.
He let out a long, relieved breath to see the king sitting on his throne, a sea of gold away but safe and unharmed. He was leaning with his elbows on his knees, clad only in his trousers and furs slung across his shoulders. His neck was bowed, head held low under the crown, the ends of his long curls skimming the treasure at his feet. In the shimmering golden light he looked so beautiful that Bilbo stopped to stare, breathless as if that gluttonous treasure had even stolen the air from his lungs.
Bilbo, still unnoticed by the king, shut the door behind him. There was a great echoing boom but Bilbo knew from the state Thorin was in that he did not hear it. Little could rouse his attention now— just talk of the arkenstone or of battle or, well, Bilbo found he himself was a key of sorts to Thorin’s sanity. For all else, he kept a faraway look in his eyes and spoke but sparingly. Still— Bilbo steadied his voice, pulled at his shirt, fixed his hair. Once Thorin knew he was there, he’d turn those blue eyes on him. And once Thorin looked at him, he never looked away. It was mesmerizing and overwhelming to have that intense stare focused on him at all times. Bilbo craved it like the feel of his armchair, like the smell of his books. “Thorin?” he called, his throat tight and his voice surely not loud enough to be heard from such a distance.
With some difficulty Thorin looked up from his hills of treasure just as Bilbo fixed his mouth to call out a second time. When Thorin found him, small and strange and out of place among dwarven architecture, he smiled and Bilbo shuttered to see the madness that played on his features.
“Bilbo.”
Bilbo nodded and took the opportunity to begin the hike towards Thorin, his large feet sinking into the gold like dry sand.
One must be so careful when addressing a dragon-sick dwarf king. He was not afraid of Thorin, but he’d seen the kingly wrath unfurl like dragon fire on his own kin. He’d like to avoid that, if possible. Bilbo wrung his hands, his fingers stiff with cold. “I- what are you doing up? What time is it?”
“I could ask you the same,” Thorin replied with a playful smile on his face that nearly wiped the madness from his eyes. “It is still very early. Did you miss me?”
“I came to find you,” he replied dumbly.
Perhaps the lure of goldlust had gotten to Bilbo, too. Why else, he obfuscated, would a gentlehobbit find himself pulled forward until he stood between the king’s spread thighs, their eyes level and inches apart? Why else would he sway towards him with every pounding heartbeat, lips tingling?
Thorin had to straighten his back to accommodate the sudden hobbit between his legs, scanning the length of Bilbo’s body as he did, lingering on the mithril he wore over his bare chest before finding Bilbo’s eyes and holding his stare. His lips quirked, a smile on his face that darkened from appreciative to something akin to cockiness. He flexed his legs, squeezing Bilbo’s hips between his thighs, and he let out a pleased hum when Bilbo gasped.
With an unwavering gaze and the deliberate majesty of a king, Thorin rose to his full height, standing so close that Bilbo could have slung Thorin’s furs around himself. “You’re the greatest of these treasures. More valuable even than the Arkenstone. Once that is found, I will have everything.” Thorin raised one large hand to hold Bilbo’s cheek, thick fingers surrendering to temptation and just barely grazing along a tawny curl in a gesture so intimate Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. Thorin didn’t notice, and raised his other hand to glide his fingers along the collar of the mithril shirt. “You’re beautiful in this, did you know that?”
Blasted dwarf! Among all this, was even his tongue silver? Bilbo closed his eyes and leaned into the palm that seared the goosebumps off his cheeks. He wanted Thorin to touch his hair again, and for it to mean what dwarves meant when they touched one another that way. He shook his head gently, his hair bouncing invitingly.
Thorin lifted Bilbo’s chin up until his eyes opened. “You are.”
They stood in that moment for a long while, the warmth radiating off of Thorin’s bare skin and Bilbo absorbing it like a cat in a sunbeam. If there were gold or jewels around them, Bilbo could not see them. There was only Thorin and his clear blue eyes and his gentle countenance and the calloused thumb that passed like kisses over his cheekbone.
As the moment stretched long and brittle around them, a voice in Bilbo’s mind told him that if a king wanted more from this, he would have taken it already. Perhaps Bilbo desired something that was not his to keep. Perhaps that desire was terribly obvious. Perhaps the freezing room was driving him to madness. Bilbo huffed at his own stupidity and, for the first time since he left the Shire, took the coward’s way out.“What are you dwarves made of?” he asked, his voice too breathy even to his own ears to pass for nonchalant. “Are you not cold?”
Thorin let his hand drop from Bilbo’s cheek and Bilbo shivered against the sudden cold. Thorin leaned down deep into Bilbo’s space, and the hair on his furry hobbit feet stood sharp and straight as Thorin’s skin seemed to prickle like lightning all over, zapping Bilbo everywhere they touched. “Hot blood,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over Bilbo’s ears and over his neck.
Hot, hot— had the room always been so furnace-hot? Bilbo sputtered, his mouth tripping over pieces of words. Did Smaug leave behind his fire when he departed this world? How on earth could one think with the room so hot? How could one even breathe? Was he breathing? He let out a laugh, thin and hysterical. His feet moved to the door and his mouth moved to speak and Bilbo was but a spectator to the decisions of his own body. “We should really head back-“
Thorin grabbed his arm and Bilbo nearly tripped over his own feet as he sputtered to a stop. He turned to see the furs slide off the king’s shoulders and onto the floor like another piece of the bounty, leaving his torso naked to the chill.
“Thorin?” Bilbo’s eyes were drawn to that furry, broad chest. Too brazen. They darted to those water-blue eyes. Too intimate. They landed on the curve where his neck met his shoulder. This is fine. An image came to the hobbit then, sudden and unbidden, of running his tongue over the pulsepoint. He blinked it away. You shouldn’t think of Thorin that way, in his condition. He caught hold of himself, but not before he could wonder if that warm skin would taste of salt and earth.
“Don’t go,” Thorin growled in his low voice, his chest rumbling and his face desperate. He yanked Bilbo towards him and the hobbit felt his feet obey the command of the king. His king, he realized. Even now, and to his death, he’d kneel before him and swear his allegiance to the king under the mountain.
“I’m not,” he whispered as he was brought again to Thorin’s chest, catching the warm, musky scent of his skin. Thorin’s free hand ran over his shoulders and down his back, the large palm splayed out and keeping him close.
Bilbo felt his breath quicken as Thorin bent down gently, their eyes locked on one another, the force of Thorin’s gravity so ensnaring that Bilbo couldn’t help but crash into him. In truth, he didn’t realize they were going to kiss until their lips met. When they did, he closed his eyes and tried to savor the moment he’d dreamt of since Thorin hugged him on that peak or maybe since he’d lowered his handsome head to walk through the door at Bag End. He tried to pretend it was unspoiled by madness and that his Thorin was there with him fully, wanting and accepting.
The kiss was slow and sweet and when they parted Bilbo sucked in a deep breath, eyes still closed. “Thorin, is this you?” He opened them to see Thorin not all there, one foot in this world and one in another. “Do you really want m- is this what you want?”
The answer came in the form of another kiss, harder this time and more desperate, open mouths and licking tongues and the tasting of each other. A deep groan was pulled from Thorin’s chest and Bilbo answered it with a soft sigh of his own, his hands carding through dark curls and knocking the crown onto the ground where it blended in with the bounty below their feet. He thought about pulling away and pressing the matter but when Thorin pulled them down onto the bed of treasure, Bilbo went easily. When Thorin pushed him onto his back, Bilbo did as he was bid. He registered dimly that he was a long way from the cattail beds of the Shire where amorous young lovers might find cover, but the gold was soft and accommodating as moss, although cold under his elbows.
In the soft light, there on his knees between Bilbo’s legs, Thorin seemed almost to be cast of gold himself. Yes, he must have been; still molten and yet to cool. He loomed there, broad and hairy and liquid, with thick hands that stroked himself deftly through his clothes as he stared down at the hobbit beneath him. A few more tugs on his cock that struggled against the fabric of his trousers and Thorin leaned forward. Bilbo felt his resolve break with a whimper as Thorin thrust his hand under the mithril shirt to roam over the skin beneath, his other hand wrist deep in coins beside Bilbo’s head. His palm crept up over Bilbo’s chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps to map its path.
Thorin’s fingers pinched at Bilbo’s nipples and he arched his back, his mouth open over a long moan. He felt himself kick in his pants and Thorin’s hand withdrew to palm over the erection there.
“Everything in this room belongs to me,” Thorin leaned in and whispered between nibbles at Bilbo’s ear. “All of this treasure is mine. And you are treasure. Are you not mine?”
Thorin’s words trickled into his ears like honey, sweet and incomprehensible and making the pain all the more bearable. He moaned in response, turning his head to give Thorin greater access to his ear and neck. “Yes,” he breathed as Thorin ran his tongue up Bilbo’s throat.
Thorin kissed him again and got his fingers into the laces of his pants. Bilbo shimmied out of them and was left bare save for the mithril that hung loosely over him. He shivered as the material draped coolly over his warm hardness, looking over his shoulder just once to ensure that no audience had gathered for them.
“Lift this,” Thorin said, pulling at the hem of the mithril. “Let me see you.”
Bilbo’s shaking fingers grasped at his shirt and lifted it over his belly. Thorin ran his free hand over Bilbo’s thigh before pushing himself back, the muscles in his shoulders and arms straining as he dipped down. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to Bilbo’s thighs, nipping and sucking at Bilbo’s hip until a dark purple bruise formed. He nosed coyly at Bilbo’s erection, breathing in deep and greedy the smell of him. Breath puffed at Bilbo’s sack, hot and filling Bilbo with hotter need. A wet tongue ran over the soft flesh of his balls, followed by lips that closed around them and sucked gently. Then the king moved to take the rest of Bilbo into his mouth.
Thorin’s hair splayed over Bilbo’s body, tickling and caressing him as his tongue worked its way around his cock. Bilbo sat up on his elbows, mouth slack, breath coming quickly as he watched Thorin take him to hilt. He reached out and grabbed hold of Thorin’s long, dark curls and held them back to get a clear view of the way his lips closed around him, the way Thorin’s blue eyes never left his.
Bilbo tried to speak, wanted to find assurance that this was Thorin and not the gold-sickness, but all that came out of him were moans and garbled sounds until Thorin pulled off him and rolled him onto his belly in one swift motion.
A short silence followed, during which Bilbo caught his breath. Then he heard sounds of movement behind him, the pull of clothes.
Bilbo looked back over his shoulder to see that Thorin had undone his own trousers and pulled them down so the waistband dug into his strong thighs. He was on his knees surrounded by jewels refracting dancing colors over his muscled torso. Bilbo’s eyes roamed over the broad body behind him, following the rainbow of light that trembled across the fur on his torso.
Thorin paused, a smug look on his face. He held Bilbo’s gaze, blue irises swallowed by pupil. “Do you trust me, Master Burglar?”
Bilbo felt a trickle of drool slide down his chin. “Thorin, I-“
Suddenly Thorin tugged at Bilbo’s hips and angled them up, his chest low so his mithril shirt pooled around his head and shoulders. Before he could speak he heard the sound of spit and he startled at a sudden burst of cold and wet between his spread cheeks.
There was a mocking lilt to Thorin’s voice when he asked again, “Do you trust me, Master Burglar?”
Bilbo panted at the sudden change of pace. His throat worked to create words which would put a stop to this, knowing that Thorin was not himself. But then the king spat again and he felt it roll down and tickle his taint. “Yes,” Bilbo whined instead, pressing himself back in a way he hoped was enticing.
Bilbo was barely able to utter the one word before Thorin had his mouth on him again, the heavy dwarven tongue lapping at his hole. Thorin’s fingers dug possessively into the meat of Bilbo’s hips and backside, and if Bilbo could speak he would have admonished him for leaving bruises. But Bilbo could not speak, could barely breathe for the pleasure of it all. He didn’t even realize he was moaning until his own voice echoed back to him so desperate and reverent it was if the mountain himself were being fucked by his king.
Thorin pulled back and Bilbo whined at the loss of that hot mouth. Then he leaned forward, draping himself hot and heavy over Bilbo, and shoved two huge fingers into his mouth. Bilbo found himself sucking on them and groaning softly at the feeling of his king rutting against his bare skin, fire coursing through his veins with such fervor he felt as if he were Smaug reborn.
When those fingers withdrew, Bilbo felt himself angle his hips. He knew what was coming next and had an idea of how he should be positioned, even if he had not done it before. He’d dreamed about it, of course— secretly, night after night, when Thorin would place his bedroll next to Bilbo’s and nowhere else.
“Please,” he said. “I- Thorin, I’ve never-“
Thorin rubbed a warm hand over Bilbo’s arched back in a move that silenced his nerves. When the first finger entered his body, he was no longer anxious. Thorin moved slowly with the hobbit’s much smaller body, adding more spit on each knuckle that sank into him.
Bilbo breathed shallowly through the stretch as a second finger and eventually a third finger was added, passing in and out of his body in movements that occasionally sparked a light pleasure in him. Behind him, Thorin let out a low, pleased groan and Bilbo felt his whole body tingle like the ale foam against the lips.
The fingers withdrew and a low, quiet voice spoke in Bilbo’s ear. “Shall I show you, Master Burglar, just how deep Dwarves can go?”
Bilbo’s fingers curled into the treasure below him in a desperate bid for stability as the world seemed to move beneath him. Then, slowly, so beautifully slowly, Thorin took him for the first time.
He felt the first drag within him, uncomfortable and new and strange. For the first few thrusts, Bilbo couldn’t feel anything except the intrusion of it, and the contentment to have his love like this; to be coveted like this. Then Thorin pulled at his hips again and moved Bilbo to a sharper angle, and on the next thrust hit something that pulled the first scream of pleasure from him.
Thorin picked up his pace, driving into the small hobbit at a punishing speed and pushing him further into the mounds of treasure, encouraged on by the way Bilbo sang each time he hit the bundle of nerves deep within his body. Bilbo clawed at the gold, squeezing hard jewels in his hands as if he had to cut the pleasure with pain, the all-encompassing sweetness with spice.
“Your body pulls me in so deep,” Thorin moaned. “You feel so good, my Bilbo.”
Bilbo whined in response, pushing his body back to meet Thorin’s thrusts, needing him deeper and harder. Needing to take him so perfectly that Thorin would only ever dare to chase his pleasure in Bilbo’s body. He turned to watch Thorin over his shoulder, watching the way his long hair bounced against his heaving chest as he moved. He was beautiful in his pleasure and Bilbo knew, in the wordless, abstract way you know a detail in a dream, that he was ruined for anyone else, madness or not.
“I want-“ his voice cut off in a moan. “To see you.”
Thorin growled again and paused, flipping Bilbo over without pulling out and resting his hairless legs over Thorin’s shoulders.
Bilbo was helpless in Thorin’s iron grip, but he was happy to be on his back at last, looking up at those blue eyes and strong jaw. Thorin leaned in, his tongue lapping at Bilbo’s collarbone above the neck of the mithril shirt. When he pulled back, he had a gold coin between his teeth. He looked down with clear eyes and spit the coin off to the side before sliding back into his old pace.
Bilbo arched off the gold as Thorin hit him in the right spot again and again, sending him into spirals of prelapsarian bliss that had him screaming his throat raw. He watched Thorin drive into him, his hairy chest bouncing with each sharp thrust, the firm muscles of his torso and arms flexed with the strain and coated with a glistening layer of sweat. Bilbo was sucked into the shifting piles of treasure like quicksand, the coins swallowing his shoulders and hips as he was drilled into it. Thorin grunted and pulled him up, weightless, repositioning him on top of the hoard without breaking his stride.
Thorin must have been getting close; his movements picked up in a desperate way and his moans warbled and echoed back at them. He leaned forward, pressing the backs of Bilbo’s thighs against his own shoulders and driving in somehow deeper than before. Thorin wrapped a huge hand over Bilbo’s neglected member and pumped him, groaning as he ran his thumb over the liquid that leaked out.
Bilbo took the opportunity to lean up and lap his tongue over Thorin’s neck and shoulder. The sharp taste of sweat and metal melted on his tongue, just as he thought. He tasted like the mountain, rich and earthy. Thorin leaned forward into the touch, shifting the angle again and Bilbo wailed, sucking on Thorin’s shoulder before throwing his head back against the gold.
As if he were on the summit of the mountain looking down before a fall, his orgasm built up slowly and pushed him over the edge so suddenly he forgot to breathe, his hands tangled in sweaty curls and his body clenching around Thorin as he finished. His seed shot out over his shoulder in the deep press he was in, coating treasure in himself. A hand pressed to his mouth to stifle the screams as his body worked him through the sweetly painful aftershocks.
Thorin didn’t slow down, muttering strings of Khuzdul over the slapping of skin and Bilbo’s pathetic, muffled moans when Thorin did not remove his hand from his mouth. Hot tears trailed down Bilbo’s temples, the hobbit spasming over this endless, torturous form of pleasure, bouncing to meet every thrust.
Thorin’s eyes drifted down to where their bodies connected, his mouth falling open in a low moan as he spilled into him. He rocked gently as if he were trying to become one with his overstimulated hobbit. When he finally stopped pulsing he leaned down and removed his hand to see Bilbo’s wet lips, kissing him while still buried deep.
They laid there panting for a while, Thorin collapsed over Bilbo’s trembling body and kissing the sweat off his neck until he finally slipped out. He pulled back and looked down at his lover beneath him, his eyes momentarily clear and free of the dragon-sickness that gripped him so hard at the start of their tryst.
Bilbo ran his hands over Thorin’s face, over the thick eyebrows, the closed eyes, the dark eyelashes, the curved nose, the lips upturned in a content smile, the beard that trailed over the start of his throat and scratched the pads of his fingers. He tried to use the heat from his palms to press his love into Thorin, to make him understand, to heal him somehow, as if he were a wizard and not a hobbit. Thorin pressed into his touches, kissing his palms. His blue eyes fluttered open and he watched Bilbo watch him for a long time before dipping down to capture his lips again.
“You said you were mine,” he began when they pulled apart. “Did you mean it?”
Bilbo looked up at him. His eyes swept over the handsome face and he tried not to show his devastation at finding a whisper of the madness had returned to Thorin’s features. He swallowed hard and nodded.