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Bilbo finds himself constantly in the company of these thirteen dwarves, and one wizard, and he finds he doesn’t mind all that much. Hobbits are curious, especially so in their youth and Bilbo had never really grown out of that mind-set. He felt his study of dwarf kind was so far going quite well.
There are interesting variations between them all, from their beards and braids to their builds and attitudes. Bilbo jumps out of the way when huge Dwalin thunders through, all hunched shoulders and clenched fists like he’s always on the lookout for a scrap, but the hobbit can stand his ground when someone like Dori trudges past, because he will step neatly around him with a respectful tug on a braid as recognition.
The one thing, however, that the dwarves share is something that Bilbo rather struggles to describe. They touch each other all the time. Not that hobbits didn’t of course, but it was something that they rather grew out of in adulthood, aside from with their beloved and children or if they attended a particularly excellent dance. Not even the rough and ready farmers in the South and Eastfarthing behave with each other like the dwarves do. They will smack each other on the back, tweak braids and beards, prod each other in the ribs and hip check each other out of the way. Bilbo doesn’t quite know how to behave around this bizarrely tactile behaviour, so he stays well clear and the dwarves mostly leave him alone, unless they have to haul him onto a pony or otherwise lift him about like a sack of grain.
At the start, there is an obvious divide between the hobbit and the dwarves, and for the first couple days the atmosphere is even more awkward than when Bilbo had first opened his door and found Dwalin of all people standing outside. But things change swiftly enough, and Bilbo no longer exclusively rides next to Gandalf, but finds himself beside somebody else.
When he flags Bofur or one of Fili and Kili draw him back up with jokes and teasing and songs, and Balin is often happy to distract him with tales of dwarf kind that the hobbit had never had the chance to hear before. At mealtimes, Bombur likes to have someone to chat to about cooking and baking, and Bilbo is a hobbit so he loves a bit of both. Bifur is difficult to chat to, because of the language barrier, but Bilbo finds sitting and looking interested is more than enough to get him into the good books in that regard. Oin and Gloin are cool at first, but once Bilbo expresses an interest in Gloin’s family back home he sometimes finds he can’t get either of them to stop talking. Ori’s knitting turns out to be the key to the last little family group – all Bilbo has to do is spend an afternoon discussing knitting patterns with the young dwarf, and then he and his two elder brothers appear to dote on him for the rest of time. Dwalin is merely amused by the little hobbit’s very existence, and will occasionally urge his pony up for a brief question about hobbit culture or geography or weaponry, often trotting off again before Bilbo can thoroughly explain his answer.
Thorin does very little but glower attractively, and shoot Bilbo calculating stares when he clearly thinks the hobbit isn’t paying attention. The unfortunate truth for Bilbo is that he does pay slightly too much attention to what Thorin is doing at all times, which he suspects marks the start of some ridiculous infatuation that is only going to land him in hotter water than he is already up to his neck in. Dwarf kings, with or without mountains to rule over, almost certainly do not go for gentlehobbits from the Shire. A pity, because Bilbo thinks Thorin is extremely handsome and would rather like some time to get up close and personal with his beard and braids.
As it is, he distracts himself with getting to know the others better. And poor Bilbo doesn’t suspect at all what exactly that will entail.
This is the start of the change.
Balin ruffles Bilbo’s hair after explaining a particularly complex piece of dwarven culture that makes Kili yawn to even hear snippets of. The elder dwarf’s hand perhaps lingers a second too long amid the curls before he moves off with a thoughtful grunt. Bilbo stays firmly seated, trying to figure out what had just happened – no one has patted him on the head since he was a toddler, and he isn’t sure if he appreciates the return or not. He decides to shrug it off and carry on as if nothing had just happened at all.
Sometime later, after the hobbit had told a particularly funny joke, Bofur pats him on the cheeks, both hands still encased in big leathery mitts. He too lingers a second too long, frowning slightly as his gloved fingers trail over smooth skin and no beard. Not even stubble. Bilbo is very aware his beardlessness rather concerns the dwarves, so he says nothing and lets Bofur move away of his own choosing.
After an impromptu shower courtesy of some growling rainclouds, the company must shelter in a cave for warmth. Bilbo ends up wedged up against a wall when they all pack in and sit down, tucked together for warmth like frightened sheep, and there is no room or dry wood for a fire, so he must sit there in the dark and wish he had night sight like dwarves do. Thick fingers reach out and comb through the curls on the top of his feet, and Bilbo has to resist the urge to kick whoever is doing it out of shock. It is far too gloomy and crowded to find the culprit, and the feeling becomes rather soothing after the surprise has died away so Bilbo doesn’t mind hugely.
He ends up falling down a rabbit warren the next day, the soil loosened by heavy rain, and so supplies the company with a dinner of fresh rabbit stew. After the meal is devoured and as Bilbo goes round to collect dishes for cleaning, he finds himself lifted off the ground in a hug that he’s sure cracks a few ribs. He only realises it’s Bifur when the axe head digs into his shoulder blade and his assailant growls something in Khuzdul before dropping the hobbit just as suddenly and loping away. Bilbo repeats the phrase to Gandalf, who translates it, more or less, to “I was really sick of dried mutton.”
Bilbo is fairly sure the Khuzdul equivalent of ‘really’ is a swearword, but he accepts the translation anyway.
Oh, and Gandalf! To Bilbo’s resigned displeasure, the wizard just sits by and grows more and more amused as the dwarves steadily encroach on Bilbo’s personal space. Not that Bilbo can say he minds, as such. Some of the dwarves, and not just Thorin, he finds highly attractive – the warriors with their broad shoulders and powerful chests and thighs so thick Bilbo would struggle to straddle them had he gotten the chance to try.
Calloused fingers tweak the tips of his ears – and he shudders, because that always sends a series of sparks down his spine – and when he looks about for the culprit they’ve long vanished. Perhaps one of them would poke his ribs, or nip his nose – although he is fairly certain it was Fili who was guilty of that – and it was certainly Dwalin who pinches his arse. The warrior dwarf doesn’t even have the shame to look embarrassed when Bilbo starts and slaps him out of reflex, grinning wickedly at the hobbit’s horrified expression.
Oh well, thinks Bilbo, skulking away and rubbing his sore bottom, at the very least it is nice to be included.
Whoever had laid their bedroll down by his was certainly pushing the boundary of staying close for warmth and simply just sleeping on the same damn bed. Bilbo purses his lips as the dwarf settles down beside him and pointedly doesn’t open his eyes to see who it is. It would be too dark anyway to make out a face. He’s comfy as he can be, tucked up on his side and covered in only his blanket tonight, for it is warm enough where they have stopped.
For the first time in ages, they have found a camping ground near something that resembles civilisation. The building had clearly been a farmhouse at some point, but the roof was missing and some parts of the upper floor had caved in. The stone walls were still sturdy though, and there was enough of the upper storey to keep the weather out and the heat in. Bilbo had set his bedroll out in a private corner of one of the rooms where he thought he would be sheltered from the worst of the snoring. Tired from the day’s ride he had shared dinner with the company and excused himself early, so that he was almost asleep by the time the others settled down.
But this dwarf, whichever one they were, is certainly invading Bilbo’s personal space now. They lie very still for a while, too still to be dropping off to sleep, and then with a touch so light Bilbo can barely believe it comes from the big paws and thick fingers of a dwarf, they touch the hobbit’s hair. They twist his curly mop about their fingers, pulling too hard only once and then immediately soothing Bilbo’s grunt of irritation with a soft stroke through. Calloused fingertips run through the strands, scratching just nicely at the hobbit’s scalp until they reach the short curls at the nape of his neck. Bilbo can’t help the shiver that crawls up his back when they run their fingers through the other way, nor the whine of disappointment when they stop.
Oh! But they have moved onto his ear, a rough finger tracing the shell, lingering at the pointed tip and then trailing down the back to meet the angle of Bilbo’s jaw, which has gone slack with the feeling. The finger trails round the circuit again and a third time, and Bilbo is convinced he’s going insane by the time the hand moves on to grip his jaw, tilt his head back and teeth close softly over the tip of his ear. He squeaks and the hand on his jaw releases immediately, as if burned, and a kiss is pressed to his ear instead. A thick braid cascades down against Bilbo’s cheek and his own hand catches it by instinct, nimble fingers tracing the beadwork at the end before it is gently pulled from his grasp.
The dwarf is tight up behind him now, Bilbo’s blanket still separating them; the fabric is thin though, they are very close together, and there is a very clear heavy hardness pushing against Bilbo’s arse. He wriggles back against it as the big hand returns to his jaw, fingers against his hairless cheeks and the heel of their palm keeping his head locked back so they can nuzzle into his curls and growl hungrily. Oh, they sound enthralled, and Bilbo swallows shakily as the sound vibrates through him and makes his toes curl. They want to explore him, to have him pinned down and ready for consideration and Bilbo is so willing, because no darkness or secrecy could ever disguise Thorin Oakenshield’s presence for long. Furs tickle his neck, velvet rustles softly against his blanket as it’s eased up and Thorin’s furnace- like heat presses against Bilbo’s back. No, Bilbo can’t mistake the smell of this dwarf, nor the rasping purr of his breath, nor the pattern of his beard and the carving of his beads pressed to bared skin.
Bilbo arches his throat back, whining in the back of his throat when Thorin’s hand strokes down his cheek again, brushes over his lips and then takes a hold of Bilbo’s throat again. He doesn’t squeeze but there’s a soft pressure there to keep Bilbo’s neck arched and vulnerable as the dwarf leans over and presses a kisses of searing kisses to the lines of tendons, biting down on soft skin. His other arm worms under Bilbo’s side and the hobbit sets to encouraging this big paw to where he wants it. Not even bothering to undo any of his buttons, he leads that hand under and up beneath his shirt and waistcoat, where the clothes force the whole palm and huge spread of fingers against the hobbit’s skin. Bilbo chokes on a groan at the sensation of Thorin chuckling in some sort of deep lustful delight against his throat, and from then on in has to keep his teeth clenched tight against any squeaks and whimpers that threaten to burst forth. Thorin’s cock is still grinding against his arse, and his own prick has started to throb too; the only comparable heat to his arousal being the dwarf’s touch on his skin.
Rough fingertips brush over a nipple and Bilbo shudders so hard he lets out an involuntary squeak of shock. Now though, Thorin’s attentions drift to the hobbit’s flanks, where years of soft living have yet to wear away through hard travel and the skin is soft and pliable above his ribs, and then further around to his stomach where his fingertips roll against the slight layer of pudge that all hobbits over a certain age tend to have. Bilbo has never been particularly for or against his body – it was his and it had done quite well so far – but now, as Thorin hums deeply in pleasure and pops open the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, Bilbo feels rather delicious indeed.
“Oh!” Bilbo can’t control his next squeak of shock as Thorin rolls them both and there’s a moment of brief confusion. The hobbit is now lying on his belly, the dwarf lying atop of him and the warm fug of Thorin’s furs covering them both from any prying eyes.
“Can you keep quiet?” Thorin whispers, and there’s a wicked mischief in his voice that makes Bilbo suspect he’s being teased, but he can’t quite summon the breath to say so. Dwarves are heavy with muscle and bone, and Thorin’s weight on Bilbo’s back is really an impossibly task to breathe against, even if it was pleasant contact. “Come on, up on your knees.”
Thorin hauls him up, arse still held tight to the dwarf’s crotch, and arranges him as he is wanted. Bilbo finds his arse high in the air, one of his shoulders resting against the bedroll, his head crooked sideways at a slightly awkward angle and Thorin’s weight draped over his thighs and back. Fingers are already fumbling at the ties on his trousers, and he barely has time to try and assist before his trousers and smallclothes are about his knees and Thorin’s big hands are on his arse.
Bilbo expects… Well, he expects to be opened with a few thick fingers, dampened only with saliva and then the ploughing pain of Thorin fucking into him, holding him down and muffling his cries against the thin fabric of the bed roll until he receives the hot pulse of seed deep inside. He doesn’t expect what Thorin actually does – which is to simply grope him, big hands squeezing and roaming and pawing hungrily at his flesh, as the still clothed erection grinds against one of his thighs. Thorin is pressing open mouthed, hungry kisses to Bilbo’s back, mouthing the areas where the arch of his spine has brought ribs close to the surface with no small amount of fervour.
The touch is addictive, and before long Bilbo is rolling his hips back against Thorin’s prick, tilting his spine to feel the touch of chapped lips and scrub of beard against more of his back. The dwarf’s hands – big, powerful hands, that could hold him and snap him like a twig – brush down the fronts of Bilbo’s thighs and trail back up to his arse, landing a soft smack on one cheek, the sound muffled by the heavy layer of furs atop them. Bilbo yelps, but doesn’t find time to complain before Thorin’s hands are both very busy indeed. One fumbles with his own trouser fronts, the laces tapping sharply against Bilbo’s trembling arse as the dwarf undoes them in a hurry, and the other is rubbing circles just below the hobbit’s navel, never quite getting close enough that Bilbo might grind his own arousal into the friction.
The distractions grow, as the last lace is worked open and a heavy, warm length settles against Bilbo’s backside. Oh, he wishes he could see now, because Thorin’s cock feels delicious – thick and long and smooth and just perfect, even as the dwarf loses another bit of his control and thrusts hard against his arse – but the blankets are still cast over them and it is too dark. Instead he forces himself to focus on the feel: that weight, the slickness as the head slides over the curve of his buttocks, the soft scratch of the wiry hair at the base. Bilbo focuses hard and nearly forgets all about the hand still petting his belly until it moves onto the place the hobbit wants it most.
To stop himself from crying out, Bilbo has to bite down hard on his own hand – Thorin’s fingers trace the head of his cock with the same delicacy he had first used to pet Bilbo’s ear, and it’s lovely, delightful and tender, but Bilbo needs friction and heavy touches and release now. He tries to thrust forward, but Thorin returns a hand to hold his hips steady and there’s no hope. The hobbit just has to kneel there and let Thorin do what he wants, which is to hold Bilbo in place and thrust his thick, hot cock against Bilbo’s arse and play his fingers delicately over the hobbit’s own arousal. The dual sensation is intoxicating, especially combined with the heavy purr of lustful breathing against the nape of Bilbo’s neck, and so the hobbit whimpers in loss when the hand toying with his prick moves away. Thorin parts the hobbit’s thighs, fingers lingering and petting at the softness of his inner legs, and then slips his cock in between Bilbo’s legs, spitting on his palm and slicking himself up briefly, before nudging his legs closed and issuing a careful smooth thrust. The sensation is odd – Thorin is achingly hard and hot, but the slick and the silky smoothness of the skin are an attractive counterpoint – but Bilbo finds he rather likes it, as squeezing his thighs close together causes Thorin to issue low growls that hum down into Bilbo’s chest.
Like this, the dwarf prince draped over him and his cock thrusting against him, Bilbo can’t think of how it could be any more pleasurable, but then the dwarf’s big hand slides down his belly and grasps his bobbing erection. He strokes a few times, never quite firmly enough, and reaches down further to fondle the hobbit’s bollocks, the heel of his hand still pressed to the underside of Bilbo’s prick. It’s cruel, Bilbo thinks, as rough fingertips trail over his sensitive flesh again, straying to grope at his thighs for a moment, because he’s so damned close and Thorin’s playing with him. He might throw aside all propriety and pride and sodding beg in a moment, because otherwise he might lose his mind!
Finally Thorin runs a thumb over the tip of the hobbit’s flushed cock – Bilbo squeaks into his own arm and squeezes his thighs tight about the velvety hardness between them – and takes the hobbit fully in his hand once more and strokes him rough and hot and hard and just slightly too much, and Bilbo can’t stand it. He can feel every callous on Thorin’s palm, the brush of his sleeves against Bilbo’s hipbone and the nudge and drag of his prick ploughing between the hobbit’s thighs, glossing the smooth skin with his pre-slick and Bilbo comes so hard he’s sure he’s seeing stars.
Only Thorin’s hand on his hip keeps him kneeling as he trembles and shudders through his pleasure, until he spits out a wad of bedroll from between his teeth and sighs in long awaited relief. And then Thorin is on him once more, pulling back and rolling him over again, straddling his thighs and lunging in for a kiss. Teeth clash momentarily and Thorin’s tongue prowls in to explore Bilbo’s willing mouth as the dwarf grasps himself and his knuckles brush Bilbo’s belly as he starts to stroke.
Bilbo wishes desperately that he could see in the dark, like the dwarves must be able to. The sight he knows Thorin must be right now, looming down over him, face crumpled with pleasure, mouth slack with it as rasping breaths purr out of him. In desperation, Bilbo reaches up, and entangles his hands in thick hair, running his hands through until he finds braids and tugs on them lightly. Thorin groans, his hand working more frantically between them, and Bilbo explores onwards. His fingers trace a stern brow, a very dwarvish nose, the neat pattern of rasping beard blurred with thick stubble at the edges. The hobbit’s soft fingers rasp over the pattern several times, trailing down to a thickly corded neck where a pulse point hammered hard against the skin at the base. His mouth has already started to water again when his fingers trace the collar of Thorin’s heavy velvet tunic, because underneath there will be a hard carved dwarven body, muscle stacked on broad bones and with a thick pelt of chest hair, and he doesn’t even get a chance to venture further because Thorin is gasping and his hand falters briefly in his stroking.
“Bilbo…” He chokes out, and his forehead bows to knock against Bilbo’s shoulder as he spills. The hot slick spreads over Bilbo’s stomach in a thick rush, a few more trembling strokes urging out more droplets, and Thorin near collapses atop of the hobbit. He rolls to the side at the last moment and gather Bilbo up in arms still shaking with the intensity of his release, and Bilbo goes willingly even with his trousers still about his knees, his shirt flung open and Thorin’s release drying slowly on his exposed belly. It is a long time before either of them is calm enough to speak.
“Hobbits are very different creatures,” says Thorin, voice low and husky. “I had thought to do a little study on you, when my kin began to pet you like you were a treasured thing.”
“Oh.” Bilbo had put the touching down to being included in the dwarves’ tactile tendencies, so it is a bit disappointing to learn that they had just wanted to grope him too. “I had thought it was simply part of your culture.”
“It is to barge about your close kin and friends, but not to stroke the cheeks of near strangers.” Thanks to dwarvish night sight, Thorin is able to see his downtrodden expression and draws him into an even tighter embrace. “If you want, I shall hip check you into a stream tomorrow,” he says, chuckling at his own idea. “Or perhaps I will just tweak your curls when I want your attention. Certainly I shall be the one touching you – the others know my intentions now.”
The others? It dawns on Bilbo that despite his best attempts at remaining quiet, there’s no way he has managed it.
“We will have woken everyone up,” hisses Bilbo, feeling his face flush bright red when Thorin growls something about that being a lesson for touching his hobbit so freely. “Oh, I shall have to apologise! How awful!”
Bilbo peeks over the edge of the furs, and finds he can almost see in the gloom compared to the fug under the pelts. There’s a faint glow through the doorway, Dwalin’s silhouette cast from in front of a dying fire, and the hobbit realises that there is no one else in the room with himself and Thorin. He ducks back under, and Thorin’s mouth is curved into a wicked smirk when it presses against Bilbo’s own.
But Hobbits have nimble fingers and Bilbo had really never had grown out of his curiosity. In the end, it would be the great Thorin Oakenshield who begged for mercy from inquiring minds.