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“I’m really, really sorry about this,” the hobbit says, once again.
Thorin arches an eyebrow. The apology sounds far too genuine in light of a number of things. He's been stripped naked, for one, and the thick cloth wadded in his mouth renders coherent speech impossible. The bed Thorin’s tied down on is one of those four-posters, with covers and a quilt that’s comfortable enough against his bare back, and smells faintly of soap. And — possibly the most peculiar of all, which is saying something — there’s a wide cushion beneath his hips, forcing them up and exposing his bare groin to the whole room.
In the ropes wrapped around them, his wrists and ankles are padded, and they’re secured with just enough slack in them for him to lie as comfortably as possible without any tension on his arms and legs, but otherwise keep him stretched out and prevent him from moving at all. For how he hasn’t had a wash in a week on the road he feels…unusually clean, even more so in his private regions, almost like he’s been wiped down. He doesn’t know if it’s hobbit custom to ensure that the people they kidnap are cleaned up once captured, but all the same the fact is more disconcerting than it is strange.
Here’s what he does know by now, though — piping hot tea isn’t necessarily free of sleeping draughts, even when offered by comely gentlehobbits who invite you into their home.
“I didn’t slip you too much, did I?” the hobbit says worriedly, peering into Thorin’s eyes and palming his forehead as if checking for a fever. He shakes his head, clearing brown curls out of his eyes. “Three drops is usually enough, but you’re so big, you know…”
Thorin tries to reply, except the cloth gag reduces all noises he makes to a feeble sort of grunt, and yes, it’s probably too late to regret his incognito visit to this region of Middle Earth. Getting lost was one thing, but getting separated from Balin was another, and now this, whatever is going on here. He supposes he’ll have one hell of a story to tell, presuming he manages to get over the humiliation first, someday.
“I know you must be very confused and very upset,” the halfling continues, now checking the knots that keep Thorin tied to the bed, “but I had no choice. Honestly, I didn’t.”
Confused, most definitely a little. Upset? Not the precise word Thorin had in mind. Furious sounds about right, perhaps seething, but they’re not quite there yet.
“You’re so close, and I’m so close too; if I let you out there then someone else would’ve gotten to you, and I’ve been waiting so long. Years and years, and then you come along on my front step when we’re both about to, ahem! It was too good to pass up, you understand.”
Hm, definitely a bit more confused now. Thorin muffles what was? around the gag and earns a sympathetic look.
“I need to be claimed,” declares the halfling. He puts his hand over Thorin’s crotch and gives him a gentle squeeze. “By a big, strong mate who’ll breed and take care of me. And you’re just perfect.”
That…doesn’t explain as much as the hobbit seems to believe it should. There’s something Thorin’s clearly missing here, but he can’t even begin to sort it out in his head, what with fingers closing around his flaccid length and stroking him slowly. He closes his eyes, trying his hardest to think of other things, anything at all to distance himself from the sensation of smooth skin reverently caressing the shaft of his cock.
“Shouldn’t be much longer,” he hears. This is the exact same moment Thorin feels the dry tip of a finger pushing against his arsehole and sliding in without warning, and his eyes fly open outside his own volition, because he’s rarely been touched there before, had experimented with it maybe once or twice in his life when he was fooling about with another dwarf, but it’s not at all like what he’d expect. The hobbit’s finger swivels, grazing some imperceptible place inside of him, and Thorin’s breath hitches in his throat.
“Oh, do you like it there?” The hobbit returns his finger vaguely to the general area and searches about with it, pressing down periodically, and. Ah. A teasing prod here and a tickle there at a…what feels like something up his arse, and Thorin bites down on the gag to stop a moan from getting loose. He struggles briefly, arching off the bed before the ropes force him back down again. For all his best efforts he’s already hard and throbbing in the hobbit’s palm and if this keeps up, he’s going to, he needs more but he’s going to come like this, naked and bound and vulnerable, at the mercy of this hobbit and his dextrous hands.
“I’m just going to milk you a little before we get on with the real thing, if that’s okay?” the hobbit says with a small smile. “Nothing wrong with testing the product.”
Thorin frowns and tries to protest again, but the finger buried in his arse is swiftly joined by another, and he can’t help it, he bears down instinctively, only there’s no hope in expelling the hobbit’s invading digits. They sink deeper, curling up and down and massaging at his insides with gentle, probing thrusts until Thorin’s scrabbling his nails against the sheets. Every now and again they brush against that sweet spot and he just startles, unable to do anything else.
“I need to find out more about what you like,” he’s told, a statement that’s punctuated with a wiggling of fingers, making him clench again. “To make this go along a bit quicker. Not long, now. Just enjoy yourself, alright?”
The hobbit draws out, then thrusts in again until Thorin can feel knuckles resting against his hole. There’s no stretch beyond the solid fullness of both fingers occupying him, but that and the hand on his cock, a thumb circling and rubbing into his slit, is enough to spark more waves of indomitable pleasure. They wash over him with every nudge and stroke, bringing him closer to orgasm, and while he pulls himself back the best he can as his position allows, he can only do so much. When the hobbit reaches lower to fondle his balls, his breaths turn ragged, almost helpless, while the heat continues to build like storm water caught behind a dam.
“Look how hard you are,” the hobbit notes, giving Thorin’s cock a firm, upward stroke and smiling at him. “This will do very nicely.”
Burning with humiliation, Thorin turns his face into the pillow. He doesn’t want this, can’t want this, even though it’s nothing but pleasure in its purest form and he hasn’t been this aroused in decades. He pulls on the rope with his right hand, hard, estimating how much strength he would need to shear it at its weakest point. If he could just get one hand free, just one, that would be all it took —
A hot wetness seals itself on his cock, arresting Thorin’s attention once more, and it takes a second for him to realise that the hobbit has ducked down to swallow the head of his cock. All he can see is brown, curly hair, but above and beyond that the sensation of it sweeps him up in its relentlessness. The finger still buried in his arse continues prodding, uninterrupted by the addition of damp suction around his glans, and Thorin doesn’t know if his captor has done it before or is just really gifted at this, but the tongue running along his length is slow and careful and seems to know exactly where to go; he’s already rushing towards climax and straining with his bonds, desperate to just touch himself and get it over with.
The hobbit makes a humming sound, gives his fingers a deliberate twist, and Thorin can no longer hold back the groans. They spill past the gag in gurgles, muffled by the thick fabric of the cloth. Between the finger scrubbing away inside him and the mouth moving on his cock the pleasure has reached the point where it’s overwhelming, too bright and too visceral, itching up his spine in pinpricks and tightening his abdomen and stealing control of his own body away from him. Despite his initial intention he already wants to come more than he doesn’t, whatever it takes to achieve relief from the sheer threat of over-stimulation.
When he reaches the edge, finally, it’s from one last suckle at the crown of his cock that leads into a ravenous swallow down his entire length. The hobbit gives his sack a gentle roll, and Thorin comes down his throat. He jerks his hips upwards in frenzied thrusts, seeking contact and the warm comfort of a diligent mouth, and by the time he has a hold of himself again he’s shaking and sweating and a complete mess by any conceivable standard. He can’t even eke out a response even as he’s licked clean, then lowered back down.
“You taste marvellous,” the hobbit says delightedly, smacking his lips. “I’m so lucky to have found you. Oh, our children will be absolutely beautiful.”
Thorin blows out a long breath through his nose and closes his eyes. He wonders, if he yells loud enough, whether Balin will be able to locate and free him. As much as he’s loathe to admit it, things could probably be much worse. He could be travelling with Oin, after all, and then that’d truly be it for him.
“It’s just, I don’t know. I think you could be more…open, do you reckon?”
Thorin has a few seconds to think about what this means before the hobbit shrugs and says, “No harm playing safe, I guess. We can stretch you out a teeny bit more, and then we should both be in full heat when that’s done.”
“Mmgnn,” Thorin says as the hobbit leaves the room. For the next few minutes, Thorin discovers that the ropes tying him down are of very good quality indeed; no amount of bucking, tugging or struggling gets him remotely closer to freedom, and he is trying to reach the knots with his fingers when the hobbit walks back in, bringing a small basin along with him and putting it on the bed between Thorin’s spread legs.
“Sorry I took so long,” he says. “Forgot to put this on the boil is all. I get so scatterbrained sometimes, honestly. I’ll get started, just try to relax…”
With a pair of tongs, he lifts an object out of the basin and holds it in the air, allowing Thorin to take a good look. It’s a long, slender metal rod, perhaps copper or brass, with a curve in its length about two-thirds of its length down. Thick, clear liquid coats its surface, with the excess dripping off it and back into the basin. The hobbit holds the object at its top end and wraps his other hand around Thorin’s still partially-erect cock, pulling back the skin and lifting it until it’s perfectly straight.
“Mmmph,” Thorin says, wide-eyed with the terror of sudden realisation. He tries to flinch away, but the ropes hold him fast.
Seeming to read his distressed expression, the hobbit chuckles. “Don’t worry. I promise you it won’t be as bad as it looks.” The tip of the object touches Thorin slit and bobs there, teasing against his opening. It’s oddly warm, as is the liquid it’s covered in. “I want you to take a deep breath and let it out when this goes inside,” the hobbit instructs, his voice steady and reassuring. “On three: one, two, three…”
Thorin grips handfuls of bedsheet and yells. The feeling of it is much too strange, of being stretched and parted where nothing has ever touched him before, at least nothing as stiff and unyielding as this. The growing pressure nudges and rubs at the inside of his cock at the same time, not painful at all but also far beyond the realm of pleasure. He doesn’t even realise he’s thrashing until the hobbit hops on top of him and sits on his belly, anchoring him to the bed.
“Stop moving about so much,” the hobbit tells him over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowing. “You might get hurt if you don’t calm down.”
Groaning, Thorin takes a deep breath and shifts fractionally higher up the bed. Then, the rod resumes inching in again, another expanding swell of pressure, and whatever air Thorin has summoned deserts him, like he’s been punched in the gut. This time, however, he manages to keep reasonably still, only letting out a whimper when the metal rod in his cock slides deeper, contacting yet another point he never thought could feel with such intensity. This is it, it has to be fully inside him by now, Thorin thinks, because if it has any further to go then he may very well lose his mind.
“This is the tricky bit, I’ll just need to turn it a little like this so it’ll go in, and you might feel uncomfortable, but that’s normal; hold still —”
The rod turns and goes deeper still, worming up inside him, and Thorin’s thoughts turn to white noise. Hands fisted, he can barely hear the creaking of the bedposts over his own muffled howling as he fights his restraints. By the time the rod stops moving and reaches someplace within him that burns and tingles sharply from the intrusion, there’s sweat cooling on his forehead and a ringing in his ears. Even though his wrists are generously padded, he’s certain they must be bruised by now.
He only has a few seconds’ respite before the rod moves again, not withdrawing or going deeper, but a maddeningly careful twisting from side to side that makes his toes curl. Then, the rod drives in a quarter-inch, sinking slowly and then rising back out, still turning, along sensitive flesh stretched tight, before pressing into his cock and retreating over and over again. Thorin yells himself hoarse, because this is almost worse than when it was being put inside him and it’s all too much, he can’t take it anymore but can’t even beg to make it stop either.
“There, there,” the hobbit says. His hand moves in soothing circles over Thorin’s sweat-soaked chest. “You’re doing very, very well. I’m going to remove it now, but you need to relax.”
Thorin tries, he really does make an attempt to breathe himself calm, but his thighs are numb and he’s trembling too hard for the tension in his body to drain out. Unable to even bring himself to look, all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and throw his head back against the pillow as his cock is lifted, steadied, and the rod slowly pulled from it.
Another yell finds its way out his throat, stoppering up between his front teeth. It feels like he’s coming again, only it’s so much more than that and there is no relief of afterglow, just solid metal in his cock working already-raw nerve endings again. Even though it has to be too soon, he’s already becoming hard and he doesn’t want that, not if it means he’s just going to get sucked off and have the rod jammed back into his cock again.
The rod is dropped into the basin with a clang and the hobbit beams down at Thorin. “You should be really loose by now; I should be as well, let me just check —”
He fiddles with the drawstrings of his dressing robe for a moment before shedding the garment. Thorin can’t help but stare, because even though he’s still shaking all over there’s now a naked hobbit on his belly, who swivels around to face him and reaches down to take hold of his own stiffened cock, no, not his cock, of something sticking out of his arsehole.
It’s a plug that he takes out of himself, long and wooden and so thick that it squelches as it slides from the hobbit’s body, trailing some slick, viscous secretion that drizzles over Thorin’s chest, and…oh. Oh. Thorin inhales, and he isn’t sure if it’s the liquid or the hobbit or if he’s hallucinating, but the smell. So heady all of a sudden, so mind-bendingly sweet. The fragrance rushes him, fills his thoughts and pushes everything else out. A flush rides from Thorin’s groin to his brain so quickly he gets lightheaded, and he feels his cock jump.
“I know,” the hobbit murmurs, leaning back on his palms and letting out a wistful sigh. “You smell great, too.”
Tilting himself further back gives Thorin a good view of his loosened hole, the puckered skin glistening and leaking copious amounts of fluid. He’s stretched so wide that he can dip three fingers into himself without effort, and hell, Thorin’s would be lying if he said the sight of the hobbit fucking himself open with his fingers wasn’t one of the most arousing things he has ever seen.
It doesn’t help that the smell, which Thorin’s now positive is coming from the hobbit, is beginning to make him dizzy. He can’t put his finger on whatever it is, except that he just wants more, and that nothing in his memory has ever come this close to smelling like pure sex. What has been done to him all this while is suddenly not the most crucial thing on his mind — it battles with mental images of grabbing the creature in front of him and nosing at his neck like an animal, as if doing so will reveal the secrets of that magnificent scent.
The halfling sighs and rocks forward. The scent grows stronger, and Thorin realises his mouth is watering. His eyes too, now that he thinks about it. He almost doesn’t even care about the gag in his mouth anymore. It’s the only thing stopping him from panting, or drooling, or both.
“Take me,” the hobbit murmurs, easing himself further down Thorin’s body. Some tiny part of Thorin’s mind is still desperately trying to refocus on escaping, but the rest of it is all for the suggestion, because — fucking hell — his nostrils are flaring uncontrollably and his cock is harder than it has ever been, and he’s never needed it this bad with anyone else before, to penetrate, to fuck, to mark with his release. Urgent desire seizes him, blood running hot, and he’s yanking at the ropes again, not at all in a bid to get away, but to get at.
The hobbit grasps Thorin’s cock in both hands, stroking him firmly back to full length and slicking him up. Wide-eyed, Thorin watches on as he’s manoeuvred into position, and he stops breathing completely when the hobbit cants his arse at an angle and shoves down onto him with a sharp gasp.
Oh.
Oh.
Thorin’s brain only starts working again a short time after. He thinks he might have been screaming at some point, but his throat was already sore anyway, not that it matters. It’s wet and hot and snug around his cock, not tight at all, just right. The instinct to thrust is too great, making him arch his back repeatedly. Frustration meets anger and maddening disappointment as the ropes fail to yield, and the most he can manage is a weak sort of bucking that nets him no purchase whatsoever.
On top of him, the hobbit rides Thorin, grinding this way and that until they’re both moaning loudly with it. The noises they’re making together, gods. So unimaginably obscene, so blatantly pornographic. The hobbit’s eyes flutter, the look in them misted over with bliss. He clenches onto Thorin and it’s like being smacked with shock waves of carnal pleasure over and over again.
The hobbit lifts off, perhaps an inch, and plunges back down with another breathy moan. His entrance parts readily around Thorin yet again, the instance of breaching simply too much to behold. The hobbit’s body is welcoming and open, thanks to the plug, and just about sucks Thorin’s cock in to cling wetly to him.
“Ngnn,” the hobbit grits, swaying. Thorin would hold him in place if he could use his hands, fuck faster and deeper if he could. He can’t do anything but squirm and flex and pull at the ropes, all the while panting into the gag. The hobbit tosses his head and slips lower, shifting his hips to continue rocking about on Thorin’s cock, clenching gently. He closes a hand around his own cock, finally, and gives himself three swift tugs, letting out a high, keening noise.
This is not at all like anything Thorin has ever experienced. It’s sex in and of itself, but also far beyond that and infinitely more intimate. He’s never felt so owned in this manner, so completely at the behest of another person. His cock is up the hobbit’s arsehole but Thorin’s the helpless one for that fact, tied down flat on his back, helpless and unable to stop any of this. The thought sends a strange thrill through him, prickling his skin and coursing into his cock.
Still, what he’s getting is nowhere near enough. It's a torment to be floated this far from the edge, and Thorin needs more, so much more than this slow, deliberate fucking that's overloading his whole body with desperate want as it chases the advent of climax. He wants to grab the hobbit by the hips and sink full flush into him, as far as both of them can take. He wants to fuck him open until both their legs give out from under them and then some. And when Thorin is finally finished with him, he wants to take the hobbit and tie him down from head to toe and tongue his tender, filthy hole until he’s sobbing and pleading with Thorin to let him come.
Just as he fathoms all of this, he feels his cock shudder, and something starts to happen — it’s like he swelling even more, but just at the base, a bulge of flesh that grows into what feels like a knot of some sort. He doesn’t even have time to panic, then, as the hobbit grinds down around it, arse cheeks clamping mercilessly, and Thorin roars as his vision turns white-hot with blinding climax.
There’s a series of snapping noises, snapsnapsnapsnap, and Thorin’s arms and legs fly free, frayed rope whipping through the air. He does it before he can even think — he bolts upward and tackles the hobbit, knocking him off the bed. They tumble to the floor with a bodily thud, where Thorin pins the hobbit’s wrists to the wood above his head, spreads his legs wide around his own torso, and, still not stopping to think about any of this, fucks into him, hard and swift and rough.
“Oh, oh, oh!” the hobbit bleats, his cock slapping up against his stomach, and Thorin just knows that this is what they both need, somehow; he thrusts harder, all attention to rhythm forgotten, and he’s still buried inside the hobbit, throbbing painfully around his base. He wrenches the gag out of his mouth, throws it without looking, then silences the hobbit’s cries with a greedy kiss.
As the hobbit comes in thick belts across Thorin’s chest, Thorin feels himself pulsing into him again, marking him a second time.
“You’re mine,” Thorin snarls, meaning it with every fibre of his being, and fuck, fuck, he wants to, his skin is ablaze with lust and it feels like everything — everything is on fire, and he snaps his hips backward, sharply, without thinking; he can’t pull out, not even the barest of an inch, because he’s being held inside by…by the knot, or whatever it is that’s been done to his cock, keeping it hard to plug the hobbit up, and it hurts, briefly, but just a little bit. He can’t focus on the pain at all, too busy with licking his way into the halfling’s eager mouth, breathing his decadent scent, taking him in, and — his half-shut eyes, gods, the look in them; the sight makes Thorin piston in with more force than strictly necessary, just to revel in the push and give of the hobbit’s slick, loose flesh sealed around his cock, until his small body is shaking with every thrust, simply gorgeous like that, the way he looks when Thorin fucks him, wrecked and magnificent and utterly helpless, but, not enough, not enough, he still has to get more, so Thorin sucks angry marks onto his throat, where his scent flares the strongest — fuck, he smells amazing, Thorin could wank himself to the memory of that alone for weeks, no problem — tongue traversing soft skin and going lower to, to kiss his heaving chest, the fuzz velvety against Thorin’s cheek, a scrape of beard over peaked nipples, and yes, if he could, he wants to — he reaches down to jerk the halfling off, he does, closing his free hand around him and pulling, nursing him to orgasm and fogging the air with another thick cloud of sex-musk.
“Come inside me,” the hobbit whispers, still not softening in the slightest either. “Come inside…come —”
Thorin pushes his hips in, fucks, fucks and fucks him like he’s going to split him down the centre, until the slapping of skin is only barely drowned out by the hobbit’s shrilling. He doesn’t even anticipate the third climax, only feels it tightening his balls and building in his loins, and it rips a bellow from him as it erupts all over, more intense and drawn-out than any orgasm in his life. It's over before he even knows it, edging him into hypersensitivity, but his arousal just flares even brighter and it only feels like his cock gets harder for that fact.
The hobbit’s arse constricts around him like a plea, and Thorin obliges all too willingly — closer and closer, sliding his body against the hobbit’s, there, just there, and Thorin puts his mouth on him where he wants it, over his collarbone, and bites him there, tasting his skin to a fresh litany of please, yes, please, like this is all the halfling will ever need — feet flailing, legs jack-knifed and scissored around Thorin's body for dear life, Thorin’s cock pounding into his arse, their naked, sweaty bodies locked together like this, hot breath in his armpit as Thorin licks his nipple, and he’s frantically rutting back onto Thorin’s cock again, begging for it — the naughty, naughty thing, needs to be spanked; Thorin holds him down, both of them gasping with the exertion, and he grips the halfling’s wrists harder, his other hand still worrying the halfling’s cock — oh, how Thorin wants to take him into his mouth, wants to suck him and have his release sliding down his throat — circles and circles the swollen crown with his thumb — not rushing at all, just the minimum to keep him under, keep him writhing; he isn’t allowed to come yet, not after all he’s done, and Thorin keeps thrusting into the clenching heat of his body, balls aching fit to burst that it's almost an agony — he kisses the halfling to shut him up again, then kisses his nose, his jaw, his neck, perfect.
“When you had me,” Thorin croaks. “On your bed. You could have done anything you wanted to me. Anything at all. And you did, did you not?”
Eyes bleary, the hobbit responds with a whimper and a weak nod. Gods, how Thorin must have looked then. Tied up and gagged and all spread out like a suckling pig at a feast, primed for the taking of whomsoever wished it. He thinks he understands a little better, now. Just thinking about it gives him a rush from brain to cock, driving Thorin to spend himself unreservedly again, shooting more of his seed into the halfling that he now owns.
“You’re mine,” he repeats, and something in him just knows this to be true, that they belong to each other, that they were made for this and more. He pulls out as much as the obstruction allows and slams back in, so fucking good he has to pull together what he wanted to say. “Look how your body trembles when I’m inside you. You fit so nicely around my cock, my little sweetling. Do you want me to fill you up with my come? Do you want that?”
“Y-yes,” the hobbit stammers out, and for a moment looks beyond speech. “P-p-please, I want…I want —”
The rest of it is lost in renewed wailing, the frenzy of orgasm claiming their words and making it impossible to think straight. Thorin doesn't even remember coming a fourth, or fifth, or a sixth time, can barely handle any of this himself, but he gives all he can at this point, in ragged breaths and rough snaps of his hips, his body tightening up in cycles until the points of release where he’s coming again and again, so hard that his teeth hurt, and he keeps on going.
Sticky heat glazes his palm, then shoots up to streak the underside of Thorin’s chin. He milks every last drop of the hobbit’s orgasm out of his weeping cock and leans down to revel in the musky smell of it rising off their entwined bodies. The fire is now burning low enough for Thorin to breathe normally again, and he releases his hold on the hobbit, shifting so they’re both lying on their sides and facing each other. He feels his cock spurt a couple more times before he starts to soften, finally, but it remains stuck inside the hobbit, who has one leg over Thorin’s thigh and his arse still pressed to his groin.
There is a long while where they do not do anything but remain like this, gasping noisily and locked together in post-coital haze. Thorin's too stunned to move; he can't tell if his own legs have any sensation in them whatsoever, and there are still bright spots dancing in his field of vision. For the most part, the hobbit speared onto his cock is also insensate. His gaze is glassy and a bit of drool has escaped the corner of his mouth, only he takes no notice of it. Thorin can relate. The hobbit's smell lingers in the air, dimming slightly but just as delectable, and even though Thorin's cock is steadily going soft he feels it throb with hopeful anticipation.
“Was that what you wanted, all along?” Thorin asks, his voice muzzy with exhaustion. His whole body is already sore from strain and he isn’t sure if he’ll be able to stand up without keeling over.
Lying limp beside him, eyes fluttering, the beatific look on the hobbit’s face cannot be mistaken for anything else . He cuddles closer to Thorin, resting his forehead against his chest and humming appreciatively. “I knew I chose right, when I saw you,” he says.
Thorin creases his brow, puzzled for the first time since waking up. “Might I expect an explanation for all this?”
“M’heats,” the hobbit mumbles, and winces a little when Thorin eases out of him.
"I'm sorry?"
The hobbit flops onto his back and sighs his contentment to the ceiling. "It is…ah. Complicated."
"If your intention was to lay with me, you needed have only asked," Thorin says.
"Oh no, there's, um. More to that." The hobbit looks conflicted for a moment, then sits up and shakes his head. "And…I did not think that you would, you know."
"I would not have been adverse."
This makes the hobbit blush. "You're not only just saying that, are you?"
Thorin looks him over and allows a grin. "You are…very comely, I must confess. More so than many others I have seen."
There's a pause. "Erm, thank you, I guess." the hobbit says happily. He winces as he moves his legs towards himself and braces his hands against the floor. "Well, as I mentioned, it's complicated, but I will try my hardest to explain it to you if you wish it so."
“I do,” Thorin says. “Very much indeed, but I would like a wash, and for us to be clothed first, at least.”
The hobbit picks himself up, makes for his discarded dressing gown and cloaks it around his body without tying the drawstrings. The shakiness in his gait is obvious; he’ll be feeling Thorin for days to come. “In the bathroom, first door on the right. I thought to give your clothes an airing out.”
“Would you like to wash yourself, as well?”
“No, thank you. Not for the next hour, at least. That way I’ll be sure about the baby.”
That’s…alright, Thorin thinks, whatever that means. He supposes it'll make sense in about an hour or so. His legs do hold as he rises, and manage a slow, careful shuffle to the bedroom door, still trailing the ends of rope from his ankles and wrists. As he opens it, he realises something, and turns to look over his shoulder to say, “What’s your name, hobbit?”
Now seated gingerly on the corner of his bed, the hobbit blinks, smiles shyly. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”
The corner of Thorin’s mouth curls upward. “Thorin Oakenshield, at yours. Truly, there is much that we have to discuss.”