Chapter Text
In a hole in the ground, there lives a hobbit.
Not just any hobbit, and not just any hole. It’s more of a house, actually, a beautiful but very small home, stuffed beneath a fat green hill in the meadows of the Shire. The house is marked by a perfectly round door, painted just as green as the grass it sits in the middle of, with a yellow brass handle that’s polished to shine in the light. Beyond that door, the house is very comfortable: the walls are paneled, the floors are tiled and carpeted, maps are hung amply, and pegs for hats and coats are everywhere, as the hobbit is rather fond of visitors.
By hobbit standards, it’s a lovely home, tiny or no. Hobbits are, after all, small creatures, with big hair feet and a peaceful, ordinary countenance. The hobbit who owns this particular hole, otherwise known as Bag End, is well off enough to keep everything clean and organized. She’s a Baggins, which means she’s very reputable, known for doing exactly what one might expect, and she comes from a very long line of well-to-do hobbits, her father very much respected and her mother perhaps a little less so. Her father was the Baggins, her mother a Took. Belladonna Took was, like her infamous Old Took father, prone to mysterious and all together too-unexpected things, which for a hobbit is very strange. But she was a lovely woman nonetheless, who happened to have very odd friends at just the right times, perhaps most notably when her son told her that she was not a son at all, and any wizarding help would be very much appreciated.
But all that wizarding business was a very long time ago. All in all, Bilbo’s life has been wholly more predictable, which is the ideal hobbit way of things.
On a particularly unremarkable day, Bilbo finds herself outside, sitting on the little bench just short of her gardens’ fence. With a soft wood cushion under her rear and the lush greenery all around her, it’s a perfect day to sit and admire the sky. One of her favourite pastimes is to sit and try to send smoke rings up to join the clouds, although, of course, they never make it quite so far. She rests the end of her long, curved pipe against her lips and sucks in a deep breath. When she releases it, puffing out a tiny smoke ring, her breasts push too tightly against her vest, and she sighs, thinking she might have to change if she’s going to engage in a proper smoke. Instead, she bends to unclasp the buttons—the white blouse beneath is looser and should do the trick, though her trousers, now that she’s looking at them properly, will need a bit of work: the seam along her inner left leg is splitting. Though Bilbo’s never been a particularly thin hobbit—indeed, most are short and stout, with a fair amount of fat around the middle—she has been getting a bit pudgier as of late, having spent a good deal of time in the kitchen with her latest seed-cake recipe. The upshot is that she may have finally gotten it right yesterday evening, but the downside is that, evidently, she’ll need to break out her sewing kit again.
Once she finishes opening her vest, she straightens out, only to squeak and nearly jump off her bench. A very tall, gangly old man is standing on the other side of her fence. He’s dressed in faded grey robes and a pointed hat, with a long, white beard and his gnarled fingers wrapped around a wooden staff. For a moment, she simply stares at him, then remembers in time her manners and greets, “Good morning.”
“What do you mean?” the man asks. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”
This is, of course, a very strange thing to say, but Bilbo, having always enjoyed a bit of company and a good riddle of words, replies simply, “All of them at once.” It is, after all, a very beautiful morning: the sun is out, the birds are flittering across the sky, and all of her flowers are doing quite well. Having gained the room to breathe, Bilbo lifts her pipe back to her lips, draws in a deep breath, and blows out a proper smoke ring, much larger and impressive.
The man says, “Very pretty,” to which Bilbo smiles proudly.
She feels inclined to offer, “Will you join me?” That is the proper thing to do when guests arrive, however odd they may be. But the man only lifts his bushy eyebrows, even when she holds out her pipe in invitation.
“Unfortunately, I have no time for it. I’m arranging an adventure, you see, and I’m searching for someone to share it with.”
“In Hobbiton?” Bilbo can’t help but laugh. Clearly, the man must be joking, but he only looks at her with the same level expression, and after a moment, it becomes obvious that he isn’t joking at all. That changes everything around, and Bilbo’s mouth drops into a frown. Adventures are exactly the sort of thing that ruins reputations, and Bilbo, having no such inclination to ruin her perfectly good name, tells him, “I can’t imagine you’ll find anyone to share in such a thing. They’re a nasty, uncomfortable business. Make you late for dinner. I can’t imagine you’ll have any luck around here at all.”
Having explained a thing or two, Bilbo returns to puffing on her pipe. She expects the old man to move on with his search—obviously, she’s not a good candidate—but he only stands there, smiling almost fondly down at her.
So Bilbo lowers her pipe and climbs off her bench, strolling calmly over to her mailbox. Opening it, she sticks her pipe into the corner of her mouth and thumbs through her letters, clearly ignoring the man, and frankly, manners aside, hoping he’ll go away.
But he continues to stand there. So Bilbo repeats, a tad firmer, “Good morning.”
“What a lot of things you use good morning for!” Now the man looks on the verge of chuckling, which is quite the opposite effect of what Bilbo was aiming for.
“I’m sorry, my dear sir, but—” and then she has to pause, hesitating, because the laughter in his eyes is vaguely familiar, and on top of that, it seems rude to forcefully shoo someone away when she doesn’t even know their name. So she pauses to say, “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Gandalf!” the man spouts, now looking mildly exasperated. “You do know the name, although it seems you’ve forgotten I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means... me. And of course, I do know who you are, Ms. Bilbo Baggins. To think that I should live to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took’s daughter, as though I were selling buttons at the door!”
And then, all at once, it comes rushing back to her, because of course, how could she have forgotten? It’s been a while, yes, and she was very small when last she saw him, but there are very few wizards who come through the Shire. Immediately, Bilbo feels sorry for her flippant remark. Gandalf has done her a great service, on top of always entertaining her and her friends with the most splendid of fireworks, although it seems he’s quite a bit odder a fellow than she remembers from her youth.
And now that she does remember, all she can manage to say is, “Dear me.”
“Dear you indeed,” Gandalf chuckles. “I suppose you remember me now?”
Flushing lightly across the cheeks, it’s all Bilbo can do not to spew forth how much she misses those fireworks. They were grand things, and although Gandalf is responsible for a rather large sum of nonsense—sweeping folks off into the Blue, for instance—she nonetheless looks up at him kindly. “I certainly do.”
Which gives him room to suggest, “It’s settled then. For the sake of your old grandfather Took and poor Belladonna, I will give you what you asked for.”
This is a confusing statement, as Bilbo hasn’t asked for anything. “But I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did, twice now, if not in so many words. Yes, this should be quite amusing for me, and very good for you. The adventure is yours.”
“The adventure?” Of course, she asked for no such thing, but as she looks at him with big, round eyes, he only grins wider, clearly having made up his mind. “But I don’t—” flustered, she takes a step back, her mail clutched tightly in her fingers. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. Gandalf is evidently far madder than she remembers, and there doesn’t seem to be anything for it other than to squeak, “Do come for tea some time!” and abruptly turn on her heel. It’s terribly rude, of course, to leave in the middle of a conversation like that, especially with someone who’s known you since you were very tiny and was very good to you in a pinch, but it seems that staying will only get her into a larger mess. She simply doesn’t know what to do, and before long she’s walking back into her little hobbit hole, smiling hollowly and waving before shutting the door. Even though Gandalf’s all the way down the path, it feels like she’s slammed the door in his face.
Feeling very nervous and unduly cruel, Bilbo stalks back into the burrows of her home, needing some good, strong tea herself, and perhaps some time in bed to make up for such a terrible morning.
By tomorrow’s evening, Bilbo’s all but forgotten the oddness of yesterday’s morning. Although it was a very out-of-the-ordinary thing, it was an isolated incident. As Gandalf made no further appointments, she had nothing to write down, and therefore it’s something to be forgotten. It’s just reaching dusk when anything new at all happens: a loud knock on her door. Bilbo startles in her largest chair by the fire, looking around in surprise.
Since she’s only in her smallest nightgown—no sense dressing up for a nice cup of tea around the house—she has to grab a robe off the nearest peg on her way to the door. She’s still tying the sash around her waist when she tugs the door open, only to have to crane her neck back to peer up at a very large man that may as well be twice her size.
Thick and tall and outlined with the sort of muscles rarely seen on hobbits, the man is silhouetted nicely in the setting light. He has an ample grey beard swept across his chest and over his shoulders, but the top of his head is shaved bald and bearing an array of markings that Bilbo can’t see much of, no matter how much she tries to stand on her tip toes. Of course, she stops as soon as she realizes what she’s doing. As attractive as tattoos might be, it’s not the sort of thing a respectable hobbit stares at, so she schools herself into burrowing the attraction.
Before she can greet him, the man dips his head too fast to be of much use. His expression is serious, gruff, like the sort of rugged woodsman a hobbit lass might have naughty daydreams about and never tell a soul. Then he goes and makes it worse by grunting, “Dwalin, at your service.”
It isn’t often that thick, handsome men show up at her door and offer to serve her, so Bilbo’s caught mildly tongue tied as she squeaks back, “Bilbo Baggins, at yours!”
The man—Dwalin, it seems—nods bluntly and glances over her shoulder. He’s a dwarf, she thinks, if her knowledge of other creatures from other lands is at all worth anything, and she can’t imagine having anything in her little hobbit hole at all worthy of a dwarf’s interest.
Yet politeness—and perhaps her own piqued interest—pushes her to say, “I was just about to make tea; would you like some?” It feels like a line out of some terrible schoolgirl fantasy, and she can feel her cheeks turning a little pink at the thought of what ‘tea’ could mean. To be fair to her, ‘service’ is just as vague. Unfortunately, she can’t tell much from the way his eyes scan her; she has little experience with men and none at all with dwarves, and her robe’s done a fine job of hiding her figure. The Took in her almost wishes she’d answered the door in her nightgown, but then, of course, any other hobbits that might’ve been walking by would think her most inappropriate, and then the dwarf might’ve not been so charmingly polite and instead skipped right to the ravishing currently going on in Bilbo’s head.
Finally, Dwalin takes a step forward, and Bilbo hurriedly shuffles out of the way to let him inside. He has to duck under her doorway, which gives her a strange sort of thrill—other than Gandalf just the other day, she’s never seen a man so big as to have to duck in a hobbit hole before.
The dwarf still peers around while he’s inside. Bilbo’s ruined head does briefly entertain the thought that he’s looking for other scantily clad hobbits, but Bag End is no harem. She has to summon quite a bit of courage and discipline to step in front of him and lead the way only to the dining room, where she offers him a seat at the table and sets to check her boiling water. He looks like he could fit a fair bit inside him, so she imagines she’ll have to boil another round if this is going to last until nightfall.
She’s just serving Dwalin a seed-cake on one of her mother’s best plates—leaning over the table perhaps a little too suggestively as she does so, so he gets an eyeful of cleavage down her now-slightly-parted robe and skimpy nightgown—when she hears another knock on the door. Puzzled all over again, Bilbo straightens back out, and Dwalin too-easily averts his eyes.
She bids him a short, “Excuse me,” and heads towards the door. Somehow, she isn’t expecting what she finds on the other side.
Another dwarf, shorter and fatter and with a plush white beard billowing all down his front, bows to her with a kindly smile. He looks much older than the other dwarf, without any tattoos, but she imagines they must know each other, because otherwise it’d be simply too much of a coincidence. And then, of course, she has to wonder why anyone would send dwarves to her door—until, anyway, she thinks of Gandalf.
Gandalf and his mad adventure, which makes Bilbo seize up on the spot. The dwarf carries on as though everything is perfectly normal. He spots Dwalin’s cloak, now hung on a hanger by the door, and says, “I see they’ve begun to arrive already.” Which makes Bilbo wonder they? “Balin, at your service.”
Bilbo mumbles numbly, “Bilbo Baggins, at yours.” Suddenly, the service they offer doesn’t sound nearly so enticing, and Bilbo considers, for one quick flash of a moment, shutting the door on Balin, for a proper hobbit lass certainly doesn’t let two strange men possibly offering adventures into her home.
This would, of course, still leave her with Dwalin, who perhaps she could salvage an evening out of. But that, naturally, makes her feel guilty for not offering Balin the same, so she only sighs, “Will you have some tea?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he chirps brightly, before shuffling right in. This time she takes his cloak at the door. As soon as it’s off of him, he’s heading right off to the dining room, where Dwalin stands up with a smile twisting his normally solemn face.
The way the two greet each other, it’s obvious that they’re close. But Bilbo isn’t prone to such rudeness as eavesdropping, so she mostly leaves them to their talk and only catches a few of the louder snippets that carry. While she’s off fetching a larger plate of seed-cakes from the pantry, she overhears that the two of them are brothers, something that shouldn’t excite her nearly so much as it does, and that they’ve traveled a long way to be here, presumably on Gandalf’s word. When she brings them out her plate of seed-cakes, Balin smiles appreciatively at her and Dwalin snatches one up. Balin is obviously the more gentle of the two, Dwalin the one possessing brute strength. As deserving as both qualities are, Balin is the closer fit to hobbit nature, so Bilbo perches on a seat beside him, ready to ask all the proper questions, like how his day has been, what the weather’s been like, and what two big strong brothers like them are doing in such an innocent little hobbit’s home.
But the door sounds again, and Bilbo has to slip out of her seat, hurrying over and fully expecting Gandalf. She’s going to have mixed feelings to express to him. On the one hand, she doesn’t at all appreciate being recruited for an adventure that clearly isn’t a good fit for her. On the other hand, she does appreciate the gesture of giving her two handsome men to feed, but of course, she can’t possibly accept them, and if he’s looking for some sort of pleasure-slave or concubine to travel with a pack of brutish Dwarven men, he’ll most certainly have to look somewhere else. (Not that she would be so rude as to shout that right away, of course; naturally, she’d have to politely listen to his offer first, and hear about what her duties would be and what sort of things would be provided for her to wear, and how much she could expect them to service her back in return.)
It still isn’t Gandalf at the door. When she swings the handle open, she finds two more dwarves on her doorstep, both smaller than the last two—more about her size, in fact, if a bit taller.
Except that they’re both exceedingly handsome, so much so that Bilbo’s cheeks instantly set on fire. The first one tells her, “Kíli, at your service.” With an array of long, dark brown hair and just a bit of scruff around his chin and upper lip, this dwarf looks not only younger than his predecessors, but more vivid and beautiful. The one next to him can’t be much older, and is blond with only slightly thicker scruff and intricate braids around his face.
The second one says, “And Fíli,” but doesn’t repeat the rest, although, naturally, Bilbo can’t help but hope he’s very much at her service too. In her whole life, Bilbo’s not sure she’s ever seen anyone so incredibly attractive, although, as she’s frequently been told, she doesn’t exactly have ‘the normal’ hobbit tastes.
With her thighs nearly trembling and threatening to rub together beneath the cover of her robes, Bilbo opens the door wider and murmurs, “Come in, please.” They both give her wide, charming smiles, and step right in. She doesn’t even have to direct them—they spot the others and head right off to their friends, while Bilbo follows dazedly and tries not to picture being contracted to pleasure them on the road of an adventure. If the other two are brothers, these must be as well—despite their colouring, there’s a degree of similarities, particularly in the way they move and talk. Being squished between them is possibly the most erotic thing Bilbo can think of and easily the most inappropriate, and she tries to put the thought right out of her head as she shuffles away to prepare them tea.
Partially because it’s growing very hot in her home with the big, sweaty bodies of four dwarves and the constant steam of boiling water, and partially because she might just be hoping they find her even one tenth as alluring as she finds them, Bilbo sheds her robe. She shamefully hangs it up on a peg by the kitchen and brings Kíli and Fíli tea in just her tiny nightgown, which barely makes it halfway down her thighs and shows off the bulk of her breasts. It clings to her middle when she moves, draping over each smooth patch of skin, and she’s bizarrely grateful she wore her best one today. As she bends over to place their tray in the middle of the table, Fíli’s eyes dart sideways at her and Kíli’s go straight down her cleavage. Dwalin joins in with the ogling, though Balin only blows on his tea. Which, perhaps, is for the best—she only has three holes, anyway.
As soon as she’s thought it, she’s burning red and scolding herself—this is simply scandalous. Her Baggins ancestors would be rolling in their graves.
The Tooks might be laughing, though, and Bilbo tries to remind herself that she’s perfectly entitled to what she likes in the sanctity of her own mind; it’s her words and actions she must keep proper. ...Which she’s hardly doing in her current nightgown, but then, she can’t help it if she happened to be dressed so wantonly just when four dwarves popped up on her doorstep.
She’s standing before the dining room with her empty tray, wondering whether to try and slip onto the bench beside Kíli or Fíli, when the bell rings again. She puts down the tray immediately and heads off, ready to whine to Gandalf that this really isn’t playing fair.
Just her luck. This time, when she opens the door, it isn’t one wizard at all, but five dwarves. Bilbo has to leap back from the door, yelping, because the front three were leaning against the wood when they knocked, and the back two seem to have knocked the rest in. They all go tumbling down to her floor, the one in the middle nearly landing on her feet. When he looks up, she’s sure he can see up her skirt, and she hastily shoves her hands down over it to hold the shimmering fabric tightly against the v of her legs. The dwarf grins warmly all the same, announcing, “Dori, at your service!”
“Nori, at yours,” the dwarf on Dori’s right says, grinning rather more lecherously than Dori is. Where Dori’s hair is white and drawn back in an elaborate set of braids, Nori’s is brown and quaffed into three triangles.
On Dori’s left, a smaller dwarf with flat brown hair and a cute smile adds, “And Ori.”
“Glóin!” one of the dwarves on top announces, this one bigger and with a giant red beard.
He has to elbow the grey haired one beside him before that dwarf asks, “What?”
“Introduce yourself!”
“What?”
“Introduce yourself!”
Shaking his head, the grey-haired dwarf spots Bilbo and says, “Ah, hello, there! Óin, at your service.”
Bilbo, feeling horribly unequipped for this many improper visitors at once, mumbles weakly, “Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your families.”
“This is the family,” Dori says, as he tries to push himself up, before looking over his shoulder to bark, “Except these two! Off you get!”
Óin starts digging in his pocket for something, but Glóin does scramble off, which leaves Nori to clamber to his feet. He then sidles up to Bilbo, his eyes hungrily eyeing her exposed body, and he takes her hand, shaking it tersely as he coos, “Like I said, Nori’s the name, and I’m quite pleased to make your lovely acquaintance, my dear—”
“Oh, leave the poor girl alone!” Dori insists, already shoving Nori out of the way and down the hall. Óin and Glóin follow, Ori lingering behind just long enough to bow his head to her. It leaves Bilbo standing, dumbfounded, at the door, wondering how in the world Gandalf expects her to please nine dwarves.
He can’t possibly, of course. There must be some other reason he’s dumping them all on her, although she can’t for the life of her understand what. Even if it’s only for other domestic things, Bilbo’s hardly equipped to feed so many or clean after them or even handle something so small and specific as tummy rubs times nine. And she has absolutely no interest in ‘dwarvish’ things, judging by their general talk—mining sounds a messy business, she couldn’t imagine being a warrior like Dwalin or even a scribe in the sort of stuffy, underground places Balin describes, and the way Fíli and Kíli talk about archery and swords makes her chest beat nervously. She can only hope they won’t start fighting in her home.
With the addition of so many others, Bilbo has her work cut out for her. She runs through a vast supply of tea leaves, but some of them want ale, which she’s not entirely certain she should break out with them; she’s having enough trouble keeping her head straight as it is. But in the end, serving them what they want is easier than having a whole exasperating discussion with nine different men, so she gives them what they like. Dori, at least, helps her with the tea, but Glóin wants coffee, which is an entirely different thing. Ori and Óin set right into the food, and Bilbo’s whole evening is quickly swallowed into running back and forth, trying to be a good host to entirely too many strangers.
When the door bell rings again, she’s nearly in tears—all the seed-cakes are gone and she simply doesn’t have the beer Balin wants, and Nori throws all of her sausages around his shoulder like a rope, getting them thoroughly dirty on his stained clothes, though he continually stuffs them into his mouth anyway. She knows she has to answer the door, but to get there she has to squeeze out of the pantry, right between Fíli and Kíli, which indulges far too many of her fantasies, and feeling their firm bodies against her curves, if only for that short, unassuming moment, makes her feel hot. A louder knock bangs again, and she all but runs for it, her skirt riding up her thighs and her heart hammering in her chest.
She wrenches it open, panting lightly with her thighs clamped together, only to find four more dwarves and one wizard.
Gandalf actually has the nerve to scold her, “It’s not like you, Bilbo, to keep friends waiting on the mat. Now, this is Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur.” And he points in turn to one dwarf with a big scruffy beard and a horrifying shard of metal imbedded in the skull, a somewhat trimmer dwarf with brown braids and a two-pronged hat, and a very fat dwarf with an impressive wreath of an orange braid draped across his stomach. “And this is Thorin Oakenshield.” With a fond grin, Gandalf adds, “As a matter of fact, I met him in much the same way I met you.” Which, of course, is a very strange thing to say right out in the open, but then, Gandalf is a very strange man.
Bilbo can only assume that Thorin has also had the benefit of Gandalf’s spells. Given Gandalf’s choice of pronouns, it’s in reverse order of Bilbo’s. But there’s more than that unusual common ground to Thorin’s presence. For starters, he seems to be the only dwarf with any kind of surname. He’s also the only one to stand on his own without a pair. And then, of course, is the fact that he’s devastatingly handsome, much in the same way that Fíli and Kíli are, except that they were a beautiful sort of attractive and Thorin is more composed and mature, and all together the perfect blend of what makes all of the other dwarves so interesting.
Already more excited than she should be, Bilbo finds herself flushing hotly under Thorin’s haughty gaze. She should’ve worn trousers, she realizes, because as musky and unwashed as all of these rugged men seem to be, she’s sure the faint scent of her arousal must give her away. She can’t help squirming, and she can feel her panties lightly sticking to her lips. While the other three dwarves chime into the usual chorus, Thorin is the only one who doesn’t offer to be at her service, which is very disappointing, because thinking of inviting a man like him into her home is enough to make her dizzy.
He’s clearly the leader, and again she wonders, if she’s meant to be some sort of whore for them, would Thorin be the central one she bowed to? Not Gandalf, of course; he’s much too old for her and something of an estranged friend, but Thorin is clearly the sort of master that could handle servants—he has a regal air about him. She only belatedly realizes she’s staring, and then she starts to splutter hurriedly, “I am so sorry to keep you all waiting! So sorry!” Even though, of course, she hadn’t had any notice at all, and as soon as she’s stepping aside to let them in, she shoots a glare at Gandalf’s back for twisting it as though she’s the one acting silly.
She forces the door closed behind them, feels the distinct urge to trail after Thorin, but instead forces herself to grab at Gandalf’s robes and whine, “Gandalf, what is going on?”
He chuckles, “Don’t worry, my dear Bilbo, this is the last of them.” But of course, that still puts them at thirteen dwarves and one wizard, which is much too much for any one hobbit to entertain. Yet Gandalf only sweeps away, leaving her to it.
Under a slew of new food orders, Bilbo finds herself scrambling around her kitchen, trying to feed them all. By now, her stores are amply depleted, and it doesn’t help that several dwarves help themselves—Bofur starts eating the sausages off Nori’s shoulder, and Bombur takes all of her cheese wheels at once without even taking a cheese knife. Bifur picks at her store of berry tarts and doesn’t listen when she whines, “Must he eat them with his hands?”
Sitting beside Bifur, Bombur stops eating the cheese wheel long enough to say, “Xe,” which Bilbo makes a mental note of, though it doesn’t at all help her current predicament of having to see her food mishandled by a swarm of barbarians. Thorin, Balin, Dori, and to some small extent, Dwalin, are the only ones that seem to have any sense of table manners, and it almost seems as though Fíli and Kíli go out of their way to be uncouth. When Nori burps loudly after a mouthful of ale, Bilbo’s sure she’s going to faint. What might’ve started off as a lewd fantasy has now morphed into entirely the wrong kind of naughtiness. She wants to turn to Thorin, because appeals of this nature should be made to the leader, but he quickly slinks off to speak with Gandalf.
To make matters worse, try as she might to stay on top of things, a large pile of dirty dishes piles up at the end of the table. After bringing Glóin and Óin a new plate of scones, only to find three of her mother’s best plates stacked in a triangle, Bilbo can’t help but whimper, “My dishes!” Only Balin, sitting at the end of the table, looks at her, but she moans anyway, “And who’s going to clean all these?” Of course, she knows it’s going to be her.
A few paces behind, Thorin’s booming voice calls over, “Well, you heard her, clean up after yourselves!” Whirling around, Bilbo looks at him with wide eyes, unsure if she should say thank you or not, but he only settles back down in a misplaced chair to speak with Gandalf.
Of course, the second Fíli plucks the plate out of Ori’s unsuspecting hands, Bilbo realizes she’s made a horrible mistake. Fíli chucks the plate right at Balin, who bounces it up over his shoulder via his own plate, only to have Kíli catch it midair and toss it at the sink. Horrified, Bilbo squeaks, “No, thank you! I can do it myself! Don’t trouble yourselves!”
But then a pair of hands is on her waist, and she’s pulled backwards into Bofur’s lap. She stumbles over him, gasping in surprise, as both her legs fall around one of his. His knee lifts up to secure her in place, his arms locking around her stomach while her back rests against his chest, and he tells her cheerfully, “Not to worry, you don’t have to lift a finger! We’ve got it!”
Indeed, all the dwarves are joining in now, tossing her silverware between each other. She nearly cries, “But those are my mother’s best dishes!”
No sooner has she spoken than Bofur’s shouted, “Chip the glasses and crack the plates,” right over her shoulder. She’s seized instantly with panic, only to realize a moment later that he’s singing, of all things. The other dwarves burst into a chorus of truly awful lyrics, none of which they actually do, but all of which center around traumatizing her poor kitchenware. All Bilbo can do is whimper and bury her face in her hands so as to not watch their horrible dish-collecting methods.
To make matters worse, two stanzas in, Bofur starts to stomp his feet along with the rhythm of the music. It bounces her up and down on his thick thigh, and with how wet the mere sight of some of the dwarves has made her, it’s not at all an innocent thing. Bofur must mean it that way, but Bilbo’s jostled against his chest with her ass rubbing against his crotch, and no amount of squirming makes it any better. His warm flesh is continually slammed against her wet panties, her nightgown stretched across her thighs and bunching up around her waist, while her breasts bounce freely on her chest. She hadn’t thought to grab a bra, but now, obviously, she wishes she had. On each bounce of Bofur’s leg, her chest threatens to spill out. The only saving grace is that all the dwarves seem too preoccupied with their song to notice, until the very end, when Nori looks around at her and stares unabashedly at her jiggling chest. Bilbo latches one arm across her breasts to try and hold them down, the other hand still clamped over her face to hide her embarrassment. She can feel her nipples rubbing into hard little numbs against her arm, and the nightgown isn’t nearly thick enough to hide it. If it weren’t for the sweaty musk of all the larger dwarves, her arousal would probably be shamefully obvious in the air.
Bilbo only notices when the song stops because Bofur stops stomping along, and she’s left to settle in his lap, breathing hard and officially soaked through her panties. When she first opened the door for Dwalin, she’d hoped to ride a dwarf, but this isn’t at all how she thought it would happen. And Bofur doesn’t even seem to be hard—she can feel, when she shamelessly rubs against him, the outline of his cock through his too-thick tunic and trousers, but it isn’t prominent enough for her to expect to be thrown over the table and taken right there.
After the song, Bofur lets her off his lap, and she stumbles on her feet, her knees feeling weak. She takes a step around the wall to see the kitchen, where a big stack of gleaming dishes lies, all clean.
On the one hand, she appreciates it—she’s never had a man do her dishes before, and of course she would love to have a nice set of domestic husbands. On the other hand, she feels very nearly like she’s going to faint, or else run off to her bedroom to abandon all decent hobbit pretense and furiously touch herself.
Before she can do either, Gandalf comes up behind her and gently suggests, “There, now. I think it’s time we take a seat by the fire and get to plans, don’t you?” Bilbo dazedly nods—sitting down sounds like a good idea.
With that, the wizard sweeps them all off into her living room, where, to her astonishment, the fire’s already blazing. That’s probably for the best; she’s not sure she has the wherewithal to tend to it. Unfortunately, she also doesn’t have enough seats. The dwarves all crowd into the small space, some dragging chairs from the kitchen, and Thorin takes the big, comfy armchair that Bilbo normally sits in. She’s tempted to drift to his lap, but he looks too brooding and like he wouldn’t much enjoy it. So she only comes toward it, then sinks slowly to her feet. She sits against the base of the chair, too frightened to touch Thorin’s legs, and then she feels vaguely like a king’s pet, because everyone else is sitting up and so thoroughly dressed, and here she is in only her thin nightgown, kneeling before their leader.
Nonetheless, there’s simply no room for another chair. So Bilbo stays where she is, surprised when, a moment later, Dori bustles over and hands her a biscuit. She realizes belatedly that she’s been so preoccupied with them that she hasn’t eaten. To her embarrassment, her stupid sex-addled brain has her leaning forward and plucking the biscuit out of his hands with her mouth. That only makes her feel more like a cat, and she starts to wonder if maybe that isn’t it—maybe she’s to be marched along as some sort of mascot, a little creature they can pet and play with when times get too stressful. But of course, being brought along as a platonic plaything is just as ridiculous as being brought along as a sexual plaything, so she schools herself back into having no expectations. Surely, Gandalf will explain himself now, and Bilbo will have to say no, she can’t accept any adventures, even with all these handsome dwarves on the table.
It takes a minute for everyone to get settled. During this, Bilbo nibbles timidly on her biscuit, trying to let as few crumbs dribble down onto her breasts as possible, even though a few of the dwarves, having seen her heaving chest and protruding nipples, look like they wouldn’t mind licking them off. Behind her, Gandalf offers Thorin a pipe. When she tilts her head to look up, she finds Thorin blowing the most magnificent rings she’s ever seen, save, of course, for Gandalf, who makes them in all sort of colours and shapes as only a wizard could do. Bilbo’s instantly struck with the urge to send her own tiny smoke rings through Thorin’s, but she doesn’t have it in her to go searching for her pipe. Besides, she’s much too curious.
After awhile, Bilbo looks expectantly at Gandalf. But Thorin’s the one to sigh, “Let’s have a song.” His voice is deep, almost troubled, and Bilbo can’t seem to place his tone with the jubilance of their earlier music.
But that was all just acoustics and the banging of Bilbo’s poor plates. This time, the dwarves produce instruments. Some have to shuffle back near the door to retrieve theirs, and others pull them out of their clothes, while Bifur produces a clarinet out of hir hair. When Dwalin and Balin return with theirs, they hand Thorin a large harp, which of course draws Bilbo’s interest. As soon as he plucks the strings, a beautiful melody wafts out, and the music starts.
All of them jump in at once. Their voices are all grave, but they make a gorgeous harmony, fitting so smoothly together. Their worlds fill the air and begin to weave a great tale, first of treasures in a far away mountain, and then of a dragon stealing in to claim it all. Bilbo finds herself in awe: the music carries her away. It transports her, in a most magical way that she hasn’t felt in some time, far out of the Shire, over mountains and into deep caverns and through hills of gold. It’s powerful and ensnares her.
It’s easy to get lost in the music. The song is slow, booming but gentle, and her own little hobbit hole ebbs away while she listens. She finds herself relaxing, after all the tension of the day, slumping against the warmth of Thorin’s legs. None of the dwarves are looking at her anymore; they’re just as lost in their own tale. The Tookish blood in Bilbo stirs. If she’d never let in such strange guests, she’d never have heard such art.
When it ends, she doesn’t want it to. Yet their voices and their instruments slowly die out, leaving her alone in the midst of reality.
She’s almost startled when Gandalf finally speaks, shattering the quiet. “And that,” he sighs, “is a very good prelude to business.”
Bilbo’s woken up by this, because she wasn’t aware of any business going on her home. She forces herself to sit straighter, looking at Gandalf, but it’s Thorin that caries on.
He leans forward in the chair, sparing only one glance down at Bilbo. “My friends. You all know why you’re gathered here, in the home of our fellow conspirator.” Bilbo doesn’t at all know, but worse than that, being called a fellow conspirator runs a shock of ice down her spine; she never agreed to such a thing and has no idea what their business even entails. “You know that we are preparing for a very long, very difficult journey, from which some of us may never return.” This makes Bilbo turn rigid, looking at Thorin with wide, horrified eyes, an internal shriek starting blaze in her ears. “The perils will be very great, and I am proud to have each and every one of you braving it with us, through the hoards of orcs we may very well encounter, the goblins that pervade the mountains, the wolves and worgs and other dangers of the wild, the elves, who, of course, cannot be trusted and might not mind having all our heads, and naturally, the dragon, who very well might burn as all alive before we get a foot on the mountain, if he doesn’t spare us long enough to skin us alive and pick his teeth with our bones.”
And Bilbo doesn’t hear anymore, because for a poor little hobbit who’s never known anything but peace in their life, all of those perils are too much to bear, and Bilbo, without ever understanding why she’s going to have to be dragged through such dread, faints dead in a wave of sheer panic.
When the world comes back into focus, it’s very blurry. There’s a sharp ringing in her ears, and though she can hear voices, they sound very far away and muffled. For a few moments, she lies there, blinking up at the tile of her ceiling, and the different faces of strangers.
Then she realizes that she’s lying with her face burrowed into Fíli’s lap and her legs curled up in Kíli’s lap. She instantly checks her skirt, but it’s safely over her rear. Fíli and Kíli smile down at her, and all she can do is blush and splutter, “Sorry.”
Then she realizes that, as kind as it was to cushion her against the hard floor, this is hardly an appropriate place to be. She tries to sit up, rolling off of them in her haste, and lands at the end of their knees.
Across the room, someone snorts, “She looks more like a grocer than a burglar!”
Bilbo’s head whips around. Glóin’s the one that said it, and as far as she knows, she’s the only woman in the room, so he must be speaking of her. Stunned, she opens her mouth to say that she isn’t a burglar at all, but Gandalf jumps in before she can. “If I say she’s a burglar, then she’s a very good burglar! I promise you all, not only is Bilbo Baggins quite brave, but she has more to offer than any of you—or even her herself!—know.”
This makes Bilbo blink at him. She’s never stolen a thing in her life, she isn’t particularly brave, and she thinks the last thing was a compliment, but still, none of it makes any sense. Pausing to take a long puff of his pipe, Gandalf adds, “Besides, Smaug will know the scent of dwarf. Not only is a hobbit much smaller and therefore easier to fit inside the mountain, but she has a mite better chance than any of you do making it through unnoticed by the dragon!”
Though there was mention of a dragon both in the song and Thorin’s speech, Bilbo squeaks, “Dragon?” Squeezing into a dragon-invested mountain certainly isn’t something she’d agreed to.
Yet the other dwarves seem not to notice her reservations, and Thorin says above her, “She looks terrified.”
“She can’t do it,” Glóin huffs. “You might’ve picked the wrong hobbit, Gandalf.” This does actually hurt, if only because she can’t imagine another hobbit would be able to handle a dragon any better than her—and, of all the hobbits she knows, she’s the one that’s taken the greatest risk in her life and blazed a more difficult but very rewarding path, even if it was something very private and not at all as unacceptable as other general adventures—but before she knows it, several of the dwarves are clamouring with her inadequacies, and Gandalf can’t even keep up with them all.
Finally, Bilbo has to say over the noise, “I didn’t say I couldn’t do such a thing!” There is a big difference. No one seems to notice her until Thorin waves his hand, and then they all settle down, while Bilbo announces rather crossly, “I’m no weaker than any other hobbit, thank you very much!”
And over her, Gandalf booms, “There now! Haven’t I already said? Bilbo is the right woman for the job, and if you want my help at all, that is simply that.” At this, the other dwarves say nothing. With all the perils they’ll apparently be facing, a wizard would be, indeed, very helpful.
And that gives Bilbo room to wonder aloud, “Now... what is it exactly I could do?”
Nori snorts. Gandalf shoots him such a glare that he looks away, and then the wizard bends to fiddle around in his robes, only to pull out a rolled up parchment a moment later. This he puts on the floor and tosses in Bilbo’s direction. It rolls neatly towards her, and she unfolds it across her floor, looking down at an elaborate map, much more expansive than any of the ones in her home. Having always had a strange love of maps, Bilbo’s momentarily in awe—the map goes all the way past the Shire, east over a line of mountains and across a tall forest, up a little lake and into a large, solitary mountain with the outline of a dragon depicted over it.
“The Lonely Mountain,” Gandalf tells her quietly, while the dwarves lean in to listen. “Currently, it’s occupied only by Smaug the dragon, and, of course, the massive hoards of gold in his keep.” At this, Bilbo looks up, startled, while some of the other dwarves look on with mild longing. Of course, Bilbo realizes, there had to be something worth risking all this danger for. “It is the hope of this quest to divide that treasure between all here in the end, but the treasure itself is not what we must go for. It is time to reclaim Erebor.” And here he stops to look at Thorin, who’s bent over his chair to stare intently down at the map.
Given the solemn nods around the room, Bilbo imagines that she’s the only one who doesn’t know what that means. Still, she murmurs, “Erebor?”
“Erebor,” Thorin answers, softly and without looking at her, only at the map, “Is the kingdom of my father and his father. The greatest kingdom of dwarves on Middle Earth. Once, it was ruled by my family. It was my home—all our rightful home. ...But then the dragon came. It killed my people. It decimated our home. It devoured Dale, the city of men below our gates, and very few of us survived.” Thorin pauses to take a deep breath. The pain is evident in his words. “It claimed my grandfather and drove my father to the orcs that took him, too. Those that lived were not enough to offer any challenge, the men of Dale were just as destroyed, and the elves would not help us. There is gold at the end of this quest, yes, and it is rightfully ours. But we journey not for gold but our homes.”
Finally, Thorin pulls back into his chair, and Bilbo is left alone with the map. His words change everything around, though, and suddenly Bilbo sees this ‘adventure’ in a whole new light. When she looks at Thorin and sees the hurt in him, in all of them, she can’t help but feel deeply sorry for them. She has a nice home, as much as she’s always enjoyed maps of elsewhere. But these dwarves don’t. For all their impoliteness, they’re not a bad lot. And everyone deserves a place to belong.
But she still can’t help but notice: “I don’t see how I can be much help with that.”
“You can steal past the dragon,” Gandalf says simply. “There is a door; a small, hidden one that Thorin’s grandfather and father used to escape. And there is a key. And I have that key, along with this map and the ruins in the corner that were given to me by Thror.”
Bilbo has no idea who Thror is, but Thorin’s head whips to Gandalf, who hands him a large, worn key. Thorin takes it in his palm and looks at it with a sort of reverence, while Bilbo examines the runes in the corner of the map. She can’t read them, but she still finds them, and the whole map itself, incredibly intriguing.
And then there is the story, of course, and the romantic notion of helping save a king and his people, and, naturally, the perk of traveling with so many enticing men.
It still wouldn’t be at all a proper thing to do, but a part of Bilbo yearns to help them.
The rest of her is conflicted. But she doesn’t have to say so, because no one else asks her if she’s coming. Which, she supposes, is an improvement on telling her she isn’t particularly impressive.
Then Ori yawns, and Bilbo looks up at him, only to have Balin suggest, “Perhaps we should have a good night’s rest before we start out. It seems to me that you two might have a bit to discuss, but the rest of us don’t need to know the details; I’m sure we’re all quite happy to follow our king to the ends of the world, but until then, we’re tired.” A few rounds of agreement circle through the crowd, but before Bilbo can throw in her two cents, they’re all getting up to leave.
They stay in her house, of course. No one even asks about it; the simply filter off into different rooms, pulling sleeping bags out of nowhere and setting up camp. Bag End has plenty of room for overnight visitors, but that was never meant to be thirteen dwarves and one wizard, so they wind up all over the floor.
Thorin is the one that gets the guest bedroom. Fíli and Kíli, who are apparently his nephews, try to tag along, but Bilbo leaves them to their arguing before they find a resolution. Bilbo, thankfully, is left to her own room, and as soon as she can, she pulls the door tightly shut behind her and slumps down against her wall. All in all, it’s been a very trying day.
The sad story killed her mood. When she lies in bed, she isn’t ready to unleash all the naughty daydreams she collected over the evening.
That is, until she hears a faint humming next door, and she realizes it’s Thorin’s erotic tones whispering their alluring song. The music calls to her just as much as it did by the fire, though now it’s far more intimate. She’s never had a man like Thorin sleep in her guest room, and the more she thinks of him, and all the other dwarves, the more her earlier feelings filter back to her. She remembers bouncing in Bofur’s lap and being squished between Fíli and Kíli, and the dirty way Nori looked at her, and first greeting Dwalin at the door. She wonders what it would be like to thread her fingers through Balin’s beard, to have private tea with Dori, to feed Bombur biscuits with her fingers to his mouth. She tries to stop herself before she’s run through the whole list of them, but soon her own thoughts and Thorin’s deep voice have her biting her lip, and she starts squirming under her blankets.
She’s just about to cover her mouth and run her hand between her legs when a muffled knock sounds on her door. It’s much quieter than all the other ones she’s heard this evening, but it’s still undeniable, and Bilbo, fantasizing wildly, slips out of her bed.
She comes to the bedroom door and creaks it open, to find Nori grinning down at her through the darkness with a very hungry grin. She mumbles, “What is it?”
“I want to thank you for your hospitality,” he tells her, which is very kind but probably not actually what he’s going for. There’s a suggestiveness in his tone, and he looks over her shoulder at her bed, the invitation clear.
Bilbo absently chews her bottom lip. Blushing already, she murmurs, “Thank you.” Flattered, she feels vaguely relieved that she’s attractive to dwarves, or at least, one dwarf. Most of them have longer hair than her short curls, and of course she’s very small compared to them, though they don’t seem to have the large, hairy feet she does. Evidently, Nori doesn’t mind these differences, and in a rush of pent-up hormones, Bilbo steps aside and asks, “Won’t you come in?” After all, if she does wind up shooing away all these dwarves in the morning, she might never get another chance to have a dwarf in her lifetime.
He squeezes past her immediately, and she’s careful to shut the door behind him. Hopefully, the others won’t notice he’s missing, and if they do, hopefully they’ll knock as well. Terrible though it might be, Bilbo knows she wouldn’t mind more of them joining in, but she’s not so improper as to hope to be witnessed in the midst of her scandals.
Nori marches right over to the bed but doesn’t sit down. Instead, he extends a hand, bidding her closer. He winks and offers, “Let me show you some gratitude.” Bilbo walks right over to him, even though she isn’t quite sure she’s ready to go that far.
Suddenly, his big hands are on her waist, and Bilbo squeaks, expecting to be thrown down to the middle of the mattress. He picks her right up like she weighs nothing, but instead, he only places her at the side of the bed. There he pushes her legs apart and sinks down between them, which makes Bilbo flush completely red. She wasn’t expecting that. She’d assumed that, if they did go further than kissing and perhaps a few touches, she’d be made to get on her knees and pleasure him, but evidently, Nori means his gratitude. His intentions are unmistakable. He gives her face a big grin, as though checking she’s alright, and then he’s looking down at her crotch and running his thick fingers up her thighs. His skin is rough, slightly calloused, but warm, and she can tell right away that he’s not new to this—there’s no hesitance in his touch. He pushes her knees wider apart, and that makes her tiny skirt scrunch up her waist.
He bunches it up higher, then dips below the hem to hook his fingers into the laced sides of her panties, and he asks in burly voice, “May I?”
Bilbo, lifting one hand over her mouth to stifle her embarrassing gasps, nods.
So Nori draws her panties right down her thighs. There’s no pretense, no foreplay: he simply reveals her body to him, tugging her panties all the way to her knees, then down her legs, and they’re stretched so tautly that she worries they might rip. He lifts one of her feet off the ground to pull it through, then the other. Once they’re removed, he holds the panties up between his thumbs, takes a raunchy sniff, and tosses them onto the bed beside her. Bilbo looks down at the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his chest through his many clothes, the strange points in his hair and the detailed braids that adorn his beard. But most of all, she looks at the wickedness in his expression, the sharpness of his eyes, and the grin beneath his hefty mustache. His gaze fixes on the lustrous patch of honey curls below her stomach and the bright pink lips that lie beneath. To Bilbo’s shame, she can already see the faint shimmer of moisture in the moonlight; she never had a chance to clean up since growing wet from Thorin and Bofur. Whatever arousal she lost is quickly coming back in the new situation. For a moment, Nori just looks at her, taking her all in, and Bilbo starts to quiver under the scrutiny, caught up in nerves and anticipation and want.
Then he dives into her, all at once, shoves his nose against her stomach and his mouth against her pussy, and Bilbo screams into her hand. His bristly mustache tickles, his beard prickling along her sensitive skin, but more than that, he’s nuzzling against her, dragging his face back and forth, and the heat and friction of it makes her tremble, whimpering pathetically. Nori’s fingers tighten around her thighs, digging in to leave glowing red marks along her pale skin, and he rubs his face against her over and over, until her voice breaks so loud that it squeezes right out between her fingers.
Her other hand she fists in the sheets, needing that to steady herself. He switches abruptly to staying still, except that his mouth opens wide and she can feel his hot breath all over her. His tongue pokes out, long and broad, and it swipes all the way from the bottom of her slit to the top, soaking her in saliva. Bilbo shivers in delight, and Nori sets into licking her pussy with a wild sort of fervor, petting her and coaxing her slit open. A few times he pauses at the top to swirl his tongue around the tip of her clit, swelling hungrily under the attention, and then he’s poking his tongue inside her. He pushes it in, his thumbs climbing to pry her pussy open. He dives his tongue in over and over, fucking her with it, and it’s all Bilbo can do not to cry. She loses control too quickly. Her hips start bucking into his face of their own accord, and Nori only holds her steadily back, faithfully eating her out. Soon Bilbo finds herself bending over him, her hands scrambling into his hair. It’s coarse and rough beneath her fingers, but she can’t stop herself from holding him, and he doesn’t at all seem to mind.
He pulls out a wild array of tricks, swirling his tongue one minute only to suck at her lips the next, rubbing her walls and suckling her clit, and Bilbo drowns in the pleasure of it, her cries now bouncing freely off the walls. She completely forgets about the other visitors, because what do they matter when she’s got an eager tongue in her pussy? Halfway through, Nori shoots a hand up to grab onto one of her breasts, and she doesn’t even mind. She lets him squeeze her tit hard, lets him crush it back against her and knead it and swirl it around. In this moment, all Bilbo wants is to be thoroughly fucked, and she doesn’t even care how he goes about it, so long as he keeps making her feel this way.
Bilbo’s halfway through a languid moan when the door suddenly bursts open. If there was a knock, she doesn’t know—she was engulfing everything with her own noises. But she freezes up when she sees Fíli and Kíli standing in her doorway, and Nori halts immediately.
He pulls his mouth away from her, which leaves her whimpering shamefully. Before either of them can say a word, the two brothers are storming in, and Kíli hisses angrily at Nori, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Get out, right now!” Fíli growls. “If Thorin knew you were in here—”
But that seems to be all Nori needs, because to Bilbo’s disappointment, he stands up, rubbing his mouth on his sleeves, and marches right past them, saying hastily, “No need to tell him—it was a simple misunderstanding—won’t happen on the quest of course!” And then he’s out the door, shutting it firmly behind him, while Bilbo sits, stunned, empty, and panting hard, exactly where he left her.
The brother looks at her with sympathy. Fíli tells her, soothingly, “Thorin heard noises and sent us to check—”
“’Let us sleep with him after all,” Kíli interrupts, as though boasting.
“If Nori hurt you at all...”
Bilbo’s already shaking her head. She means to talk to them civilly, but she’s still so aroused, and of course it had to be just her luck to have it be two incredibly handsome dwarves to burst in on her, which doesn’t help at all. She whines, “He didn’t force me.”
Kíli says, “Good.” Fíli nods, but on the downward movement of his head, he doesn’t move back up.
His eyes, instead, stay fixed on her pussy. With her legs spread, it’s still very much exposed, now dripping in her own juices and Nori’s saliva. Fíli’s cheeks instantly turn pink, and Kíli’s follows as soon as he realizes what’s caught Fíli’s eyes. The correct thing for Bilbo to do, of course, would be to shove her nightgown down. But something in her can’t seem to manage, and slowly, Fíli says, “We’re sorry for interrupting.”
Bilbo, to her surprise, sniffles, “It was quite mean of you.”
That makes them share a startled look between themselves, while Bilbo drops her face into her hands again. She can’t seem to make her legs stop shaking. She can still feel both of their burning gazes on her, and after a moment, Kíli says slowly, “If we could make it up to you...” And Bilbo just moans, bites her bottom lip and nods, because she wants them so badly.
She shares without meaning to, “I... I admit one of my reservations about coming on this trip would be... ah... controlling my... my urges.” She whispers this last part timidly, but of course, it’s very true; how is she going to travel with so many men when she can’t stop thinking about undressing them? Of course, she hasn’t had the privilege of undressing any yet, but she doesn’t care if they keep fully clothed tonight, so long as they finish her off. “If I... if I knew there were dwarves that didn’t mind my... my strange predilections...”
A hand loops under her chin. The fingers aren’t quite as large as Nori’s were, but they’re still quite a bit bigger than her own. Fíli tilts her face up to look at him, and he bends down to tell her quite seriously, “Dwarves don’t have such prejudices.” Which, of course, makes her burn for the quest even more—to be with a group of such attractive people and not be judged for her shameful thoughts... well... it’s a difficult thought to resist. Particularly when she’s wet and desperate to be filled.
She shivers in Fíli’s grip and quietly begs, “Could you... finish me off?” Her eyes fall shut as a wave of shame and desire overwhelms her, and when she opens them again, it’s only half way. Her vision feels almost hazy, and the two of them look at her once more before nodding.
“You’ll have to be quiet for Thorin not to hear,” Kíli says, but his hands are already on his belt, and that’s all Bilbo can see. She nods, wondering how’s she’s going to do this—is she really going to get both of them at once? Fíli withdraws his hand from her face and starts on his own belt, just as Kíli’s finished.
Kíli’s on her a second later, and she yelps in surprise at having his body draped over hers, but he only grabs her face and tilts her up for a hard and fast kiss. Bilbo, caught off guard, takes up the first few seconds being surprised, while he presses his slightly chapped lips against hers. Then she’s moaning, because the scratch of his stubble and the raw, meaty scent of him is too much to take. His kiss is insistent, pushing in for more, and when she opens her mouth, his tongue runs along her bottom lip and then dives in. It claims her instantly, pushing hers back, tracing her teeth, and then there’s a hand in her curls tugging her away from him. She turns her head, only to have Fíli flatten into her, his tongue slipping right into her open mouth and claiming her mouth just as fervently as his brother. Another hungry mouth latches onto her chin, then her neck, warm and wet and trailing down her throat. While Fíli’s still kissing her mouth, Kíli presses a kiss over the top of her breast, and Bilbo’s tempted to rip the whole nightgown away and let them have at her.
But they’re pulling away too soon, and instead she’s left making little keening noises and trying to follow them. Fíli, who’s taken a seat next to her on the bed, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and makes a hushing noise, kissing her cheek sweetly.
Kíli sits down between her legs, but he doesn’t dive in like Nori did. Instead, he pulls her forward, right off the bed, and she goes toppling into his lap, gasping and latching onto his shoulders. He only pushes her off and turns her to face the bed. When she looks over her shoulder at him, he’s lying down on the floor.
Fíli takes her chin again, tilts it up to him, and asks her through a wide grin, “Will this make it up to you, Bilbo? If we let you sit on Kíli’s face?” The words, and the image it creates in her mind, send a jolt of electricity up Bilbo’s spine—she’s never thought of sitting on someone’s face before—a proper hobbit would never do such a thing. But Fíli says it so simply, and Kíli’s already moving to do it, and the thought of it is thrilling for more than just the forbidden factor. While Fíli says it, he’s parting his long coat, and then he’s lifting up the tunic underneath. She can see a large bulge pressing insistently at the front of his trousers, and she knows instantly where this is headed.
She can’t help but moan, “Oh, is that fair?” Because she’s clearly going to pleasure Fíli, while Kíli pleasure her.
Below her, Kíli groans with clear hunger, “I think I get the best end.” His hands reappear on her hips, although he’s reaching from behind. Then he lifts her up so easily, and Bilbo rises in her knees, looking down in wonderment while Kíli pushes his head right below her. His long hair fans out around him, catching on the slightly sweat-slicked, bare skin of her thighs, and he grows cross-eyed staring at her pussy. Bilbo has no control over it. She simply lets him do the work of lifting her in his strong arms, then slowly lowering her back down, until the scruff of his beard is tickling the bottom of her ass and his nose is digging into the tip of her pussy. She tries to support her own weight, but she’s quickly weak from the feeling of his warm mouth against her, made all the worse when he laps his tongue over her slit. Bilbo moans instantly, only for Fíli to clap a hand around her mouth.
She looks up at him, he shakes his head with a nod towards Thorin’s room, and Bilbo screams as Kíli’s tongue worms into her. His incredible strength holds her up, and all she can do is tremble around him, so wet that she’s sure he’ll have to swallow over and over again just to clear the mess. Her hips keeps bucking into him hard enough to break his nose, and she can only hope that she doesn’t do any damage with her eagerness. She’s never felt any pleasure so great in her whole life—her hands never come anywhere near the sensation of being dropped right onto a man’s mouth. Kíli launches right into eating her wildly out, his enthusiasm enough to make her eyes water. It’s so good, and she whimpers into Fíli’s palm with every swipe of Kíli’s tongue.
With Fíli’s other hand, he opens his trousers, and she watches in awe as his impressive cock springs loose. Compared to what she’s always assumed other hobbits would be like, Fíli’s cock is huge. It’s long, thick, darker than the rest of him and pink on the end with the tip already crowning through the foreskin, and all Bilbo wants to do is bury her face in it and worship such a magnificent thing.
But she knows she needs to be quiet, so she prepares to have it all stuffed inside her. Fíli asks quietly, “Do you think you can take this, Bilbo?” While he asks, he grips his hand around the base and points it towards her, rubbing the tip between her eyes, down the slope of her nose. Bilbo moans filthily and nods in his hand, then cries out at another well-places stab of Kíli’s tongue. Fíli draws the head further down her face, until it’s just at the top of his palm. She opens her mouth in preparation.
Then his hand darts away and his cock shoves into her mouth, just a little bit but enough to make her gag. She’s never had a real cock in her mouth, though she’s tried to practice once or twice with various fruits and vegetables, which she’d never admit aloud. Of course, she never thought her first chance would be on a dwarf, and the learning curve is made all the harder by being pleasured at the same time. She can’t concentrate on the cock in her mouth anymore than on her pussy convulsing around Kíli’s tongue. At first, all she can do is try to suckle at it, drawing in little beads of salty precum and reveling at the taste. Fíli moans above her, and the first buck of his hips pushes more inside than she can take, and she gags again while he mutters a hasty, “Sorry.”
At least it muffles her screams. Kíli has her whole body wracked with spasms, but Bilbo tries to return the favour. Even though her jaw’s stretched almost painfully wide, she tries to adjust to it. She’s careful with her teeth, just in case, and she tries to move her tongue along the underside. She wraps her fingers around the base, her hands brushing against his tight balls, and then she tries to move her head. She can only bob a little up and down at first, but Fíli moans and seems to like it. So Bilbo does more and more, slowly getting the hang of it and having to stop every so often to regain herself. He keeps a steady stream of precum trickling into her mouth, one little drop at a time, and she has to wonder if that’s a mark of dwarves, or if Thorin’s family is just particularly fertile. Either way, she’s starting to think she won’t need breakfast. But then, Kíli might be the same; Bilbo’s never been so wet in her life, and she’s no longer sure how much of that fluid is because of Nori, how much because of Kíli, and how much because of Fíli. The combination has her longing to hump Kíli’s face. It takes everything she has to keep her hips in check. The more she sucks on Fíli, the more she feels addicted to the taste, as strange as it is, and that only makes her hotter; she’s burning up, covered in sweat and trembling all over, and her breasts are heaving against the bed, longing to be touched. Her nightgown is clinging to her body. She impales her mouth over and over again Fíli’s cock, wishing she could be good enough at this to take him down her throat, until she’s so dizzy from it that she can’t even see straight.
She thinks she’s about to burst, but Fíli beats her to it. His cock twitches in her hands, and suddenly a wave of hot, sticky seed explodes in her mouth, splattering all her walls and rushing down her throat. Bilbo chokes on it, but Fíli’s hands are suddenly in her hair, holding her down, and she understands why; she’d be screaming if he wasn’t. Instead, she can’t do anything but try to swallow enough to keep up. She swallows load after load while his hips buck against her, rubbing his leaking cock across her tongue. His cum wells up faster than she can take it, and it starts to dribble out the corner of her mouth.
He’s barely done when her orgasm hits her. It slams through her harder than it ever has, taking over her body to leave her non-corporeal, lost in the pleasure. For that glorious moment, her entire existence is nothing but ecstasy, quivering in the wake of Kíli’s tongue against her clit.
And then, too soon, it’s over, and she’s left shaking, slumping in Fíli’s grip. If he hadn’t kept her impaled, she probably would’ve wakened the whole house. As soon as his grip loosens, she slips off his cock, letting a thin trail of seed drape between her lips and his head.
She’s lifted up again by her hips a moment later, and Kíli weasels out from under her. It takes a few seconds of panting furiously, her heart hammering against her chest, before she can turn to him and mumble, “Sorry.”
He only wipes a gloved hand crudely over his mouth, grinning, and says, “Don’t apologize; I came before you two.” Bilbo, blushing furiously, looks down at his trousers. There’s a small wet patch in it, and judging by how much Fíli came, she can only imagine that Kíli’s underwear caught the brunt of it. Bilbo’s mouth is still overwhelmed with Fíli’s seed, and it takes several minutes before her tongue’s managed to wipe it all away. It’s slick and a little sticky, too thick for a proper drink, but it isn’t bad tasting at all, although, Bilbo’s well aware that that’s probably due to another of her personal oddities. While Kíli watches her, he adds with a slight smirk, “Of course, I am hoping for more on the journey.” And he winks, while Fíli laughs, and Bilbo flushes horribly, not saying that she does very much hope this happens again. She never thought her first real experience would be with three men in one night, and while she does feel a little sorry for Nori, she’s rather pleased with how it all turned out.
It would be better, of course, if Thorin would come tuck her in, but she isn’t crazed enough to say that.
Instead, the two brothers pick her up together. Their thick arms encircle her waist and loop around her legs, and before she knows what’s happening, they’re laying her down on her mattress, placing her head gently in the pillows. Then they pull the blankets up on either side of her and lean in to peck her forehead, their short beards nuzzling against her temples.
Somehow, Bilbo manages to mumble, “Good night.” She means to ask them to stay and let her drift off between their warm bodies, but she’s too spent to manage it, and they’re already waving, grinning, and heading for the door. Fíli’s now tucked back in and Kíli’s rearranging his coat to hide the mess. Bilbo’s left to stare at the emptiness of her bedroom and wonder just how many other dwarves she could coax between her legs.
As she lies there, thoroughly satiated and exhausted and traitorously excited, Bilbo knows, without a doubt, that she will be going on that adventure.