Time Frame: Movie verse
Author's Notes: I blame Martin Freeman's face for this fic. Maybe if he'd stop gazing heartswellingly at other dudes, I'd stop slashing him with them. Just saying.
Summary: Thorin teaches Bilbo how to handle a sword. That's right, I went there. Obviously PWP.
"Yes, probably." Bilbo turns back to look at Thorin, who's gathering firewood with a truly impressive degree of solemnity. "What . . . in particular?"
"Charging that Orc."
This from the Dwarf who brandished an axe at a stone giant. "Saving your life, you mean? You're welcome, by the way."
"Yours may be a worthy blade, but you do not handle it properly. You were lucky, as is so often your way."
"That's me," Bilbo says, resigned. "Your very own lucky hobbit." He adds a fallen limb to his armful of firewood a bit too vigorously.
"This road will only lead us into darker danger, not away from it. You will need to learn to fight." Thorin eyes him, which Bilbo used to interpret as suspicious but has since realized is just the way Thorin looks at everybody. "I will teach you."
"Right, well, thank you for the offer, but ooh, drat it all! I haven't got my sword with me just now."
Thorin's brow furrows. Well, more. "Why not?"
"It's not that it's heavy," Bilbo says, because Thorin's eyeing him like he's a tweenaged hobbit lass. Again. "It's just a bit clunky and gets in the way when gathering firewood."
"True. But it also gets in the way of any Orcs who may happen to ambush you when gathering firewood."
"That . . . well. Yes."
Thorin sighs and heads back to camp while Bilbo quietly berates himself. He sets his lame collection of twigs on the forest floor.
When Thorin returns, his own bundle of branches still secured under one arm, Bilbo is practically bouncing with anxiousness. Thorin hands Bilbo's unsheathed blade to him—thankfully un-blue—and Bilbo's glad they're far enough from camp that none of the others will bear witness to his guaranteed clumsiness.
"Now, then. Let's see your grip."
Bilbo grips the hilt, which he hadn't known was called a hilt until he'd overheard Balin and Dwalin bragging about who had the bigger sword one night. "I don't want to brag or anything, but this served me well enough when I faced down those ruffians."
"That may be, but you are doing it . . . wrong."
"Oh, indeed? Tell that to the Warg carcass a few miles west."
"The one you impaled accidentally?"
Sometimes, Bilbo honestly hates Thorin. "What is wrong with my grip, pray?"
"Hands much too close together, for starters. They should be wider apart. The weight—"
"Yes, thank you, I daresay I understand the concept of weight distribution. We happen to farm and garden and all manner of things in the Shire."
"You do?" Thorin gives him an awfully disdainful once over for someone with braided hair and a pretty velvet tunic.
"Listen, I have it on good authority that you've got to hold a garden hoe a certain way or the petunia bed will be simply a mess come summertime. So."
Thorin's advancing on him, and Bilbo fights the instinct to back up, meets Thorin's steely gaze evenly. In all likelihood, Thorin isn't about to murder him, but that perpetually deadly glint in his eye isn't very reassuring.
Thorin adds his firewood to Bilbo's pile, then stands behind Bilbo and rearranges his hands on the sword. Thorin's hands are calloused and wide and covered in a thin layer of grime that seemed to come standard as soon as you left the Shire. "Like this," Thorin says, just a rumble from behind that Bilbo feels more than hears.
"This feels strangely, though." Bilbo doesn't think he'd be able to maneuver very well with his hands like this.
"You are not accustomed to it, that is all." Thorin's graduated from rumbling to breathing ticklishly across Bilbo's ear.
Bilbo shivers despite himself. "Strange as news from Bree . . ."
"Are you cold?"
"No, no." Bilbo's startled into laughter when Thorin's hand snakes under Bilbo's sleeve, encircles his wrist to coax it to a different angle. "It's barely past Lithe."
"The days are growing cooler, and the sun has almost sunk below the Greenwood. And you are not wearing shoes, for Durin's sake."
"Well, the thing is, from my perspective it's rather strange that your folk insist on wearing them everywhere you go. Nasty old things, shoes, rubbing in all the wrong places, I expect, and it can't be very sanitary to wrap one's feet up like that all the time, if you think about it and what are you doing exactly?"
Thorin doesn't answer. He does continue tracing the outer shell of Bilbo's ear with his tongue.
"This isn't, er, something that's . . . well . . . done in the Shire."
"You are certain of that?" Thorin pries Bilbo's sword out of his hands and retreats to lay it carefully on the ground. The heat of his body when he pulls Bilbo back against him feels like more than before, or maybe that's just down to Bilbo starting to sweat or panic or go weak in the knees as Thorin's strong hands make quick work of Bilbo's remaining waistcoat button and run slowly up his sides and down his chest.
"Erm." He is not going to faint. Again. "This. I. Well, it's certainly not respectable, hm."
Thorin laughs quietly, which Bilbo feels down to his toes. "You are a warrior now, are you not?"
"Yes . . ." Thorin's hands have slipped up under Bilbo's shirt to skim lightly over skin, and he's taken to leaving vague warm kisses on the nape of Bilbo's neck. "Yes . . ."
"Then you shall have to fight me off," Thorin says, a low growl spoken into Bilbo's ear before he sucks on the tip in a manner that makes Bilbo moan very softly.
After a small eternity of sensation, Bilbo manages to really think about the situation, weigh his options, and make a decision.
He squirms free of Thorin's grip, spins around and grins triumphantly at him. The astonishment on Thorin's face turns into something akin to respect, with Thorin smiling mysteriously behind all the fresh scrapes and bruises marring his features. "Well done, Master Hobbit."
Bilbo laughs, nods to himself a few times, glances at Thorin a few times. Then, he grabs the Dwarf by the fur on his coat and kisses him against a pine tree.
Thorin makes a lovely pleased sound into Bilbo's mouth, then kisses back hard until Bilbo's head can't go back any further. Bilbo feels dizzy and bent backwards and like he'll topple at any moment, but luckily Thorin's steadying him with strong hands on Bilbo's hips, scrunching the fabric of his britches up while his thumbs drag lightly at his sides.
Thorin's tongue teases the corner of Bilbo's mouth, then licks across the seam of his lips before thrusting inside. Bilbo groans at the suddenness of it, at the heat of Thorin's tongue running leisurely along his and the mere idea that this is happening. Then he sucks on Thorin's tongue til Thorin's practically whimpering.
Bilbo smirks against Thorin's mouth, pulls back and kisses his neck. It's much less of a strain on Bilbo's neck, like this, and the sounds Bilbo tastes as he mouths against Thorin's throat are especially delectable.
"You find this," Bilbo gasps, "exciting, do you?"
Thorin clutches at him, can't seem to catch his breath.
"Mountain troll got your tongue, Master Dwarf?"
"You," Thorin growls, which just makes Bilbo laugh at this point, but then he seizes Bilbo's sadly tattered cravat and tugs him into a nearby thicket. They're more safely out of sight of camp, here, but Bilbo doesn't have much time to take in the scenery because Thorin presses Bilbo against a fresh tree almost immediately.
Thorin kisses him fiercely but briefly, his hair hanging down and enclosing Bilbo as he tells him, "I have wanted you."
"Yes, I er . . . gathered that, yes."
"Bilbo?" And Bilbo doesn't know what the question is at first but then Thorin's hand is flat against Bilbo's arousal.
"Oh . . ."
And rubbing, now. "Oh, Elbereth . . . oh, sorry, I mean. Sorry."
Thorin snorts. "The Elves do not have a monopoly on the Valar themselves, Bilbo."
"Right, right, I know. But still. Sorr—"
"Stop talking," Thorin says, then makes sure of it by kissing him again. His hair tickles but against Bilbo's oversensitive skin it's delicious. Bilbo had had such clever plans, but at the moment he's clinging to Thorin desperately and whining pathetically and wishing he'd unfasten Bilbo's britches a little faster, please.
"I did not expect you to be so eager," Thorin murmurs.
"Oh no?" Thorin's hand slipping beneath Bilbo's underclothes. "Well, huh, evidently you haven't been paying attention have . . . you . . . Thorin."
Bilbo nudges his hips up into the friction, urging Thorin to stroke him faster. Thorin does the opposite by slowing his hand and Bilbo makes a pleading sound into the kiss. Fine.
Bilbo forms another plan of attack. He attempts to stealthily work his way through Thorin's elaborate layers of clothing while Thorin is otherwise occupied mapping the inside of Bilbo's mouth with his tongue.
Bilbo's surprised by how easy it is, especially considering how terribly good Thorin's hand on him feels, and before long Bilbo's wormed his way past Thorin's trousers and—
"Hey!" Bilbo blinks up at him, can't wriggle his wrists free of Thorin's grip and wonders how they'd got above his head quite so quickly. "Half a minute, now, don't you want—?"
Thorin doesn't answer, just squeezes Bilbo's arousal a bit more and moves a bit faster and Bilbo forgets all about reciprocating for the moment, no matter that his instinct for courteousness was clamoring. Instead, Bilbo struggles to free his wrists just to make Thorin keep him still, grins at him and Thorin stops looking so intense and laughs fleetingly before moving his hand faster over Bilbo's member til Bilbo can't think at all past pleasure and yes and more, oh just like that and—
"Thorin," Bilbo gasps, shuddering through his release. Thorin tilts his chin up to kiss him tenderly and Bilbo lets him for awhile, but then he decides to bite Thorin's lower lip and suck it into his mouth. Thorin's breath catches and Bilbo takes the opportunity to reach between his legs and wrap his hand around Thorin's straining erection.
Thorin presses his forehead into the bark just above Bilbo's head, panting and moving his hips forward beggingly. Bilbo tugs on him a little faster. Thorin remains impassive, though, so Bilbo does it slower instead, and then Thorin moans lusciously, abruptly loud and reverberating around them. Bilbo's got to kiss his neck since it's right there anyway, and Thorin moans at that too and claws at Bilbo's shoulder and thrusts harder and spills between them.
Thorin doesn't waste time indulging, however, and refastens his trousers so quickly that Bilbo wonders how often he does this sort of thing. Bilbo begins to follow suit but Thorin bats his hands away. Bilbo just watches Thorin tidying him up efficiently, rebuttoning his waistcoat and everything. He smooths his hands over Bilbo's front and dusts him off and finally looks at his face. Bilbo starts to smile.
"Hullo, lads!" Kili shouts, bounding into view.
Thorin goes white as a sheet while Bilbo takes a generous sidestep and attempts a weak little wave.
Kili frowns. "Still not done gathering wood?"
Bilbo feels nervous laughter bubbling up. "Ah, well, you see—"
"Can't be that hard," Kili says teasingly. "Why, between the two of you, you ought to make a quick job of it."
Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose, mutters, "Oh, this is happening."
"We shall not be much longer, Kili," Thorin says, summoning up some majesty for the occasion.
Kili shrugs and disappears into the brush.
"Kili?" Bofur emerges from behind a tree. "If we go over here, I think it's—oh hello, Thorin. Bilbo." Bofur gets a better look at them. "Oh. Hello."
"Bofur," Thorin warns.
Bofur holds his hands up and trots after Kili, but Bilbo has a feeling he'll be smirking at the two of them for a fortnight at least.
Bilbo can feel Thorin staring at him, hopes he's not too flushed with embarrassment as he tilts his head back and meets Thorin's eyes. They continue staring at each other silently for a good long minute before Thorin's mouth twitches. And then Bilbo laughs, and then Thorin can't seem to help laughing, too.