Chapter Text
Erebor was a shadow of its former glory, but Bilbo could appreciate the vast halls, the decades and centuries of dedication it had taken to create them. A lot of them lay in shadow, Balin explaining that there had been clever contraptions to reflect daylight deep into the mountain, quartz lamps illuminating other areas. Not to mention fires from braziers, torches, hearths and forges.
Bilbo still walked mostly in shadow, in dust and debris, the former glory of Erebor only visible in the glow from the furnaces still lit from their clever trick having Smaug assault them. He felt drawn to them at times, for the warmth as well as the glow that felt so much more comfortable than the harsh light, daylight as it was, of the throne room, or the fire baskets flickering and reflecting in the gold in the sickly treasury Smaug had made of Erebor’s halls.
Thorin wandered those hills and dells of coin and artifacts day and night, whenever he didn’t sit listlessly on the throne, ordering the rest of the company to seek for the Arkenstone.
How they were to find it was beyond Bilbo, and not just because it was safely concealed in his bedroll when it was not tucked into the oversized coat he still wore.
It was only an afterthought that Thorin let them hunt for snackrats for meat, not only relying on their last rations, although the taste truly was hard to tolerate. Nevertheless, even entranced by the gold - more than most of them had seen all over their lifetime - the other’s came back to their small camp to get some of the simple roast meats, cram suddenly a delight to savour for afterwards.
But it wasn’t that Thorin didn’t eat it because of a lack of appeal in the food, he simply didn’t. His eyes were forever trained on the treasure beneath his feet.
He had grown leaner and leaner on their quest, and the last few days of not eating or sleeping seemed to have taken their toll even more so on him. He seemed gaunt and thin to Bilbo, his muscles showing every move under skin that seemed papery and sallow in the torchlight reflected by the gold.
And yet Bilbo couldn’t deny his need for Thorin’s touch, his own yearning eerily acute and sharp at times.
So he wandered down to the hoard when the rest of the Company had fallen into fitful slumbers.
As always Thorin was taking slow steps through the landscape of the hoard. He seemed mesmerised rather than deliberate, his eyes only ever so slowly falling onto Bilbo.
His own name no longer felt sweet as it rolled off Thorin’s lips, not in the way it had. It had the rotten smell and taste of meat gone bad.
And yet Bilbo stepped closer, drawn to Thorin like a lodestone.
“Look at this,” whispered Thorin, spreading his arms and turning, gesturing at the large open area between the houses.
“This is the bastion, Erebor’s innermost fortifications. The central keep housed the treasury even before Smaug. There was also the homes of the Royal Family, halls carved into stone over generations. Down here were the servants’ halls.” He scoffed. “Even the lowest rag washer here led a less modest life than my family did in the Blue Mountains.”
Bilbo’s heart constricted. He had seen few Dwarven houses from the inside, but they had been sturdily built, in those less touched by over one and half centuries of a dragon residing close, the furniture seemed well made, functional, but also intricate in the Dwarven way. He had little knowledge to judge the square, geometric designs, but they must have taken time to include in carving a chair, forging a lamp or what he now knew were holders for quartz crystals emitting their own light.
Suddenly Thorin’s hands were gripping his shoulders tightly and his eyes were searching Bilbo’s beseechingly. “You will see, Erebor will be restored. It will want for nothing.”
Bilbo was about to point out how it would want for friends, if Thorin was to continue to shun the claim of the Men of Esgaroth, but Thorin continued, softer.
“You will see, I will make sure you want for nothing,” he near whispered, still heat in his words, but less like the furnaces burn, more like the gentle warmth of a hearth’s fire washing over him. “I will make sure you have books, and an armchair, a garden even. Anything you wish for.”
There was something so determined, yet vulnerable in Thorin’s eyes.
Bilbo’s heart faltered.
Thorin would provide for him.
Warmth met a thinly veiled hunger in Thorin’s eyes. His fingers came under Bilbo’s chin and tilted it up, Bilbo leaning into the kiss.
It was brief and Bilbo was left reeling from the loss of contact while Thorin was striding away again, eyes on the gold, looking at it as if he was trying to caress each with his gaze.
A few steps away he turned around to Bilbo.
“Tell me, what in these Halls do you desire?”
Bilbo swallowed hard. “I don’t desire any of this.”
Thorin’s eyes grew hard and cold, and he strode towards Bilbo. “You must desire something.”
As the large form of Thorin loomed over him, Bilbo swallowed hard. “Only you,” he whispered, not sure where that thought came from.
“What?” Thorin asked, taken aback.
“I-I… only desire you,” Bilbo answered. He swallowed. Well, he desired for Thorin to be rid of this curse, to be his again, to be soft and tender and to laugh with Bilbo. To share a meal, as frugal as it might be.
Thorin’s head tilted and his lids lowered slightly, his lips drawn into a thin smile. “Me, halfling?”
Bilbo swallowed again, blinking helplessly. “You,” he repeated. As much as he found it odd, his body reacted.
“And how would you desire me,” Thorin asked, his teasing as wrong as the rest of him, but not wrong enough for Bilbo and his body not to recognise it.
He was torn between answering Thorin and considering whether he should get away, but then… then Thorin lifted his hand and his fingers brushed against Bilbo’s ears, then cupped the back of his head.
“What of me do you desire?” Thorin asked, running his fingers along Bilbo’s cheek, his jaw. “To touch me? To please me? Or for me to please you? To suckle on my tits before putting it to use elsewhere? For me to take you, to provide willing holes? For my sloppy cunt to wrap tightly around your dick? Myself hard and aching for you?”
“All of it,” whispered Bilbo despite himself. He shouldn’t be so aroused by Thorin’s crassness, or the look in his eyes.
“You would take me, your king, as your fourteenth of the hoard,” Thorin added with a dismissive smugness, that felt anything but. “And I should think you would want me right here, do you not?”
Before Bilbo could reply, Thorin roughly palmed the front of Bilbo’s trousers, apparently satisfied with his findings as he fell to his knees, pushing layers of clothes out of the way and eagerly sucking on Bilbo’s prick as he’d freed it, looking up at Bilbo near challengingly. When Bilbo didn’t react Thorin reached for his hand and put it in his own hair, closing Bilbo’s fingers roughly around a sizeable amount of it right at the scalp. Bilbo closed his fingers slowly, quickly finding resistance as he pulled on it, and Thorin’s eyes fluttered shut as he moaned around Bilbo.
It was intoxicating.
Bilbo’s breath hitched and he loosened his fingers only to close them harder on Thorin’s hair, another guttural sound leaving his throat and it felt it echoed all through the Halls. Bilbo had no illusions that he was directing Thorin’s movements, but he still found pleasure in keeping his fingers tight on Thorin’s hair, moving his hand as if he directed Thorin, ever so often actually pushing Thorin down deeper on his prick, thrilled by the look of utter pleasure on Thorin’s face as he choked and gagged, the sharp arousal when Bilbo gaze his hair another tug.
It didn’t take long until Bilbo came, with a small cry. Thorin near reverently held Bilbo as deep as he could, only pulling away with a small huff when Bilbo relaxed. Thorin’s mouth stayed lax for a moment, lips parted wide and his gaze on Bilbo acute. For a moment Bilbo wondered whether Thorin was trying to slow him how deep he’d taken him, how he’d taken all Bilbo offered him, not a drop of Bilbo’s release lost.
But Thorin wasn’t done with him, it seemed.
With a swift movement Thorin pulled off the fur-lined mantle, spreading it wide over the gold, then pushing Bilbo on it.
The plated armour, surcoat and mail shirt were next, tunic, boots and finally trousers and undergarments.
Bilbo sat entranced as Thorin bared himself without a second thought.
As always, Bilbo couldn’t take his eyes off the Dwarf. He was impressive, if as gaunt as Bilbo had feared from his face, all lean muscle and bone under skin stretched tight.
It was wrong, it should be wrong, he should not react to Thorin like this, he should not feel himself harden as Thorin came closer, falling to his knees straddling Bilbo’s thighs, leaning back slightly as if to present himself.
The fire’s light washing over him and painting him with the same, harsh contrast as the gold made him appear near golden as well and Bilbo couldn’t help reaching out, touching skin to find it warm and smooth and pliant, not cold and unyielding as the gold below them.
Thorin took the hand on his thigh as encouragement. “I will have you, I will give you what you desire and I will take what I am owed in turn,” he whispered, his eyes dark. He moved and sank down on Bilbo, groaning and crying out. “Mahal! Such unyielding, ready hardness for me.”
Bilbo blushed, Thorin’s sounds must carry through all the mountain. And yet, a tiny part of him, a small voice in his head spurred him on. Thorin was his, Thorin should never be anyone else’s, and the Company better know of it, then maybe the world.
Thorin began moving, arched back, his face turned towards the ceiling, as if to receive any sort of blessing from above.
“So. Large. So. Good,” panted Thorin while riding Bilbo with incredible endurance and determination.
Dazed Bilbo kept his hands on Thorin’s thighs, watching him with some lingering concern. He wondered if it was his paranoid mind that made him see his prick push out the wall of Thorin’s belly as he came down, whether anyone could really be so thin to have that happen. Despite Thorin’s vocal claims he wasn’t that big.
Any thoughts left his mind as Thorin straightened, his hair fanned around his shoulders now, his gaze on Bilbo’s eyes.
“Mine,” he growled and eventually leaned forward, fisting the Mithril shirt over Bilbo’s clothes. “You are mine and you will fill me up with your seed until I’m satisfied. I will have all of it. Mine.”
Bilbo’s eyes rolled back as he came for the second time, this night, knowing it probably wouldn’t be the last time.
Come morning the Arkenstone would burn a hole in his coat again, come morning he would try to figure out a way to resolve all this.
But right now he doubted Thorin would have even cared if the stone had rolled out of his coat, would have kept riding Bilbo instead.
And he was pleased by that thought.