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Gandalf had been right: Bilbo might very well not come back from this quest.
Because Thorin Oakenshield was going to kill him.
“Quiet, burglar,” the dwarf whispered. There was a hint of a smile to his voice, the bastard.
“Why don’t I shove three of my fingers in you and see how quiet you can be?” Bilbo hissed.
A laugh ghosted by his ear.
The fire crackled and popped beside them in the warm, quiet night. They had settled in a little clearing not too far from the carrock, and the company snored around them under the stars in various states of undress. They’d be making for Erebor again in the coming days now that Thorin had healed enough.
The time since their stand against the orcs had been… dizzyingly confusing.
To have someone like Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, king under the mountain, go from looking at him with arrogant disdain in Bilbo Baggins’ own well-to-do kitchen to looking at him with—well.
Bilbo didn’t know what to call it. It couldn’t be love. Not this soon. Gratitude, maybe. But gratitude wouldn’t have you thumbing a hobbit’s t-dick with your fingers knuckle-deep in their hole surrounded by the rest of the company, would it?
Granted, the company was sleeping. Pretty soundly, to be sure. Snorts and snores galore. Honk-shoo mimimi.
But the fact remained that Thorin’s mouth was on Bilbo’s ear and his knuckles were pummeling into a spot inside him that felt very good, thank you very much, and if anyone woke up and saw them, it would be very clear that either Thorin Oakenshield was fucking their burglar or he’d finally had enough of the hobbit and was pressing him to death under his heavy dwarvish bulk.
Both might be happening if Bilbo was being honest.
Thorin’s thick, calloused fingers press in deeper, pushing upward in quick, rough rocking motions that felt like Thorin was bumping his cock from the inside, his knuckles threatening to make a permanent indent above his cervix.
Bilbo’s breath hiccupped in quick, little gasps—quiet enough so as not to draw attention but not so loud as to muffle the horrid squelching sounds of their… love-making? Fucking? Hobbit-blasting?
Thorin's hair hung over them in a curtain, blocking out the rest of the world and leaving nothing but sweet darkness, Bibo's building orgasm, and the ticklish feeling of Thorin's beard against his ear.
"Your cunt's soaked," Thorin said in his velvety voice, that stupid smug smirk on his face—the same one he’d worn at Bag End only months ago.
Bilbo made a sound that was much too high for his liking. He almost expected Thorin to pull his fingers out and position himself between his legs (he was certainly wet enough), but he didn’t.
Instead, Thorin twisted his wrist and shifted his fingers so there was more pressure tilted upward, right at that spot by Bilbo’s cervix that made his chin dimple. He could feel the smooth metal of Thorin’s rings up against his walls, shoving up against his g-spot on the downstroke and oh, his thighs were shaking.
Thorin’s thumb teased his cock in quick flicks—nerve endings singing—and a growing pressure in his groin had his breath coming in fast.
“Don’t stop,” Bilbo choked.
“Didn’t plan on it,” Thorin said. He jerked his arm, fingers firm and steady and rough, and Bilbo’s chin wobbled with the sensation, deep and good, and oh, oh—
“That’s it,” Thorin praised, breath hot on his ear, his nose pressing against the tip. “Cream your tight little hobbit cunt on my fingers, burglar.”
"Haa-h!" Bilbo spasmed and—squirted onto Thorin’s hand with a gasping cry that was immediately cut off by another thick, ringed hand and a choked-off startled laugh.
Bilbo was too overcome to think much of it, seizing around Thorin’s working hand as the dwarf not only didn’t stop but pummeled that spot inside him until he squirmed and seized again with a wet, muffled sob and a spray of slick that had Thorin biting his ear.
At last, the dwarf stopped moving his fingers, pulling them out to pet Bilbo’s cock, making him tremble for the thrill of it.
“We might’ve woken up some of the company,” Thorin said cheekily. He brought his hand to his mouth, rings crowned with milky white gloss, and licked away the webs of slick between his fingers.
“Been awake,” came Dwalin’s gruff voice beside them, making them jump. His arm was moving. “Wish you’d let him wail—I’m almost there.”
“Dwalin.”
Bilbo covered his face.
Bofur’s voice called from the other side of the fire. “Can ye make him gush again?”
Good heavens.
“I’m going into the woods to die,” Bilbo said. The Eagles could have him.
Thorin squeezed his side and shifted so his clothes covered what they could of Bilbo’s front, even if Dwalin did still have a nice side view of his naked thigh and bare ass. He placed a kiss on the back of the hand covering Bilbo’s face, then kissed his neck, then—slid his big hand back between his legs. Oh.
“Can I put my mouth on you?” Thorin asked—whispered. Just for Bilbo.
He swallowed. “The others are watching.”
“I know.”
Bilbo toyed with the question. He glanced sideways and caught Dwalin’s eye in the dark. His heart raced. “Yes," he said. "Please.”
Thorin kissed him, beard bristly on his cheeks, and slowly moved down Bilbo’s body. He pressed his lips to his soft belly and bit playfully at his hip.
With his face between Bilbo's legs at last, his tongue did an experimental flick down to his cunt before flattening out and licking firmly up—and wrapping his lips around his cock.
Bilbo gasped. His thighs squeezed Thorin’s face, smooshing the dwarf’s apple cheeks toward his smug eyes.
This time, out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo could see Dwalin shift onto his back—no longer hiding himself jerking off.
Bilbo’s skin flushed hot at the attention.
Thorin pushed inside him again, one gloriously thick finger at a time. They rocked back and forth, back and forth, before pushing slowly and rhythmically back up against that spot at the roof of his cunt that made Bilbo go quiet. He sucked at his cock at the same time, teasing the side with his tongue.
Bilbo’s belly squirmed. He covered his mouth.
“None of that, burglar,” Dwalin said, voice low so as not to wake any of the others. “Tell us how good he’s doing.”
“Stop talking,” Bilbo whined. Embarrassment dragged its sweet fingers over him. He could feel another orgasm building fast, and his hairy toes curled while his heels pressed into Thorin’s shoulders.
Thorin’s tongue rubbed against the too-sensitive underside of Bilbo’s cock, his fingers rocking up into him so good, so good, stoking him like a fire, taunting him, and he—
Oh, he was going to—he was—
“Atta lad,” Dwalin jeered. “Milk the wee bastard’s sopping cunt. Show him what dwarves can do.”
Thorin's eyes glinted in the firelight. His fingers, which had been steadily pressing against that spot inside him, pressed in hard and shook, bullying and mean.
"Thorin," Bilbo mewled, hand pressing against Thorin's head but thighs squeezing to keep him in place. "Thorin."
Thorin didn't waver—arm steady, mouth insistent, eyes steel—every pummel lighting him up higher and higher until Bilbo's mouth opened on a sob and—
He wailed.
Slick gushed across Thorin’s beard and mouth.
Groans came from both Bilbo’s left and right.
Thorin pulled off Bilbo's cock with a smirk, tongue flicking the underside to make his thighs jump and jump and jump, only stopping when Bilbo fumbled a hand against his face, pushing him away.
"I'd like to see one of your hobbit lovers make you cum like that," Thorin said when he'd climbed back up. His beard was a mess.
"I bet you would," Bilbo said, and his ears burned as he tasted himself on Thorin's lips as they came together. "You'll have to make do with Dwalin watching you while I suck you off."
Thorin laughed softly. "An average Tuesday."
Valar.
"Save me from the voyeurism of dwarves," Bilbo groaned.