"Don't," says Kili, when nobody's around and the bubbling stream is loud enough to drown out their voices. Bilbo, his arms full of dry sticks, looks at him in confusion.
"I mean it," continues Kili. "I see how you look at him-- my uncle, I mean-- and I know he's looking at you too, but it's not... it's not how you think it is, with dwarves."
"I don't really see how that's any of your business," huffs Bilbo, though he feels the color rising in his cheeks. "And it's hardly-- it's all very chaste," he adds, trying to summon a patronizing tone. "He hasn't so much as laid a finger on me."
Kili throws down his own armload of wood beside the stream, lips tight with frustration, looking around to be certain that no-one was nearby. "He won't, either, while Gandalf is here, but if you keep... encouraging him, he'll find some way to chase the wizard off."
A chill courses up Bilbo's spine, a hint of danger that he does not yet understand. "Do you mean to say that he intends me harm?"
"Harm? Of course not. Hah." Kili turns his back on Bilbo and makes himself very busy picking up his fallen load. "He'd cut the beard off anyone that touched you, even now. It's just..."
Bilbo watches, his insides a curious tangle of emotion and trepidation, as Kili stumps up the streambank, his face set blank. "It's just that it'll be public," says Kili, voice carefully neutral. "It'll be different."
"It'll still be none of your business," says Bilbo, and Kili feigns a laugh again and leaves him by the streambed with an armful of sticks and a bellyful of dread.
The thing is, Bilbo wants it to be different. He's had his fill of the friendly courtships of Hobbiton, the propriety of well-bred townsfolk stepping out of an evening; he hungers for the intensity and the silent restraint that Thorin displays. He imagines Gandalf leaving on some scouting errand, and himself imbued with some excess of courage: settling his bedroll next to Thorin's, reaching out to touch a braided lock of Thorin's beard, watching that regal composure snap like a thread...
In his imaginings, Thorin is forceful, tender, a possessive kisser, a crushing embrace; they kiss, they embrace... and, because Bilbo is too ashamed to carry the fantasy further, they fall asleep with their fingers entwined.
After Kili's speech, Bilbo's fantasies take a strange twist. Public, Kili had said. Public means marking, means carrying bite-bruises upon one's throat and blushing when the others notice. Public means touching, Thorin's fingers finding his hair when they sit close to each other, perhaps the two of them nestling by the fire, and Thorin glaring defiance at anyone who dares raise an eyebrow.
Dangerous, dangerous. Bilbo looks at Thorin with new eyes, now, and finds that he likes the thought of being known as Thorin's lover, that his body thrills at the thought of his travel-companions overhearing his muffled sighs as Thorin kisses him.
And despite all of this, Thorin dose not touch him, does not claim him, does little more than let his eyes linger when their glances cross. Chivalry, Bilbo calls it, and shivers.
Then Gandalf disappears.
Dwalin is the first to announce it, gruff and matter-of-fact. "Looks like the wizard's gone hunting, lads," he says, and no-one remarks on it at all. Bilbo seeks out Bofur later in the morning, and Bofur merely shrugs.
"He'll do this from time to time," says Bofur, though his carefree eyes hold a strange expression. "Ever since we took up traveling with him, he goes off for days at a time. We carry on; he catches up."
"What if we're attacked? By wolves, or bandits?"
"Why then we've got our axes," says Bofur, patting the weapon at his hip. "Besides, little burglar, I suspect you've got bigger things to worry about than bandits."
Bilbo's throat goes completely dry, and he clears it twice before he can speak. "Bigger things?"
"Oh, don't imagine we haven't seen you mooning over Thorin. Settle your broken heart, Bilbo, he's noticed you. He's just been biding his time, and unless I miss my guess, tonight's the lucky night."
Bilbo's face is aflame. "I hadn't thought it was so obvious," he mutters.
"Plain as the look on Thorin's face," laughs Bofur, "which has been spectacular, though I can't say I'll be sorry to watch his face tonight." And with that, he laughs again, and knees his pony off at a trot, leaving Bilbo tremulous with dry-mouthed anticipation.
Jittery threads of adrenaline spring taut in Bilbo's body for the rest of the day; his stomach is too unsettled to eat, a true sign of distress. Thorin does not so much as look at him, and Bilbo does not seek him out, but Thorin calls a halt to their travels early that evening, and there is a strange tense atmosphere as they clear their camping-ground and set up the fire.
Everyone is looking at him, Bilbo realizes, when they aren't looking at Thorin; some are hiding smiles, others dart furtive glances. Kili looks pained, as if he expects this night to be difficult to bear.
There is a strange air of preparation. Bofur corrals Ori and settles him in the shadows between his brothers, nodding to Bifur and Bombur with some hidden instruction upon his face; then he takes his bedroll and sets it up across the fire, where Bilbo can see him clearly, and nods at the hobbit with a wry quirk of his lips. Balin, Dori, Nori, and Oin are deep in conversation, and seem to be reminiscing, their eyes far away; Gloin and Dwalin sit in silence, drinking from a flask and staring into the fire. Fili sits merrily stropping a dagger, watching his brother carefully as Kili's fists open and close upon his knees.
Bilbo has set up his bedroll at the root of an old stump, rather closer to the fire than he usually prefers; and without preamble, Thorin throws a worn rug over the stump and takes his seat. His foot and calf are scarcely inches from Bilbo's arm, where the hobbit rests against the knurled wood in breathless perplexity.
The air is thick, and crackles with intensity. Bilbo wonders if they are going to sing. Instead Thorin speaks: "We have traveled far together, my fellow dwarves; we have labored for our coin and turned our forges to the crafts of horseshoes and plowshares; we are far from home, and yet we are proud, and stand upon tradition."
Absolute silence holds around the fire. Bilbo's heart races.
"On this night I invoke one of our most sacred traditions, the right and duty of a king. I wish to take a consort."
Bilbo's breath stops short; around the fire, various sounds of approval issue forth. Thought he would never, mutters Dwalin; so romantic, sighs Ori, and Bombur arranges himself so that he blocks the young dwarf's view almost completely. Balin clasps a hand over his heart and smiles, hopelessly.
Clearly the older dwarves think this is absolutely precious, and this eases the vice-grip that Bilbo's chest has placed upon his heart; but Bombur is now engaged in very serious conversation with Ori, and he and Bifur seem to be... protecting the youngest dwarf. From whatever is about to happen with, or around, or to, Bilbo.
And Bofur is not smiling.
Thorin speaks again, and the sound is almost a song, a drone in the dwarven language that Bilbo does not understand a word of; and then Thorin looks down at him, extends a hand. Bilbo takes it and is drawn up to standing, and allows himself to be brought to face Thorin, feeling his pulse in his throat.
"I would take you as my lover," says Thorin, his voice low and grave, and his eyes pierce Bilbo through with such intensity and desire that Bilbo feels his pupils dilate like a hare in flight from the hunter.
"I will be your lover," says Bilbo, in a small and terrified voice, but his heart feels too large for his chest, and the blood is thrumming in his veins, and as Thorin lays his palm against Bilbo's cheek a spike of awful hunger surges through the hobbit's body and leaves him dizzy, panting through flared nostrils, harder than he has ever been in his life.
"Then will you pledge yourself to me, and be shown as my consort before my subjects?" Thorin seems to be asking more with these words than Bilbo can entirely comprehend; but whatever he wishes, Bilbo will give it.
"Yes," says Bilbo, and to his confusion Thorin turns him so that his face is to the fire and to his watching companions, and so that his rear is nestled up to Thorin's groin (and there is the hint of a growing shape there that quite takes Bilbo's breath away).
Thorin reaches around him in something like an embrace, and to Bilbo's shock he unbuttons the hobbit's shirt, one button at a time. "Then let us begin," he says, his voice deep and furious as a war-drum, and Bilbo's shirt falls away.
"Begin what," says Bilbo, but his voice is hollow and far away, and Thorin's hands are hot and possessive on his shoulders even as the chill night air tightens the hobbit's skin and peaks his nipples. Nobody answers him, at any rate; he feels strange, exposed, confused.
Thorin pulls him back tighter, one powerful arm wrapped around his torso as his other hand works at the laces of his trousers, and by the time Bilbo thinks to struggle against this-- he has been naked before the others frequently, bathing in streams, but now he is hard and he can feel the flush of arousal spreading over his skin, and they are all staring. Bofur is watching him intently; his mustaches are as jaunty as ever and his cap gleefully askew, but his expression is deadly serious, and as Bilbo glances at him for some word of advice the corner of his mouth twitches and he nods. There is something like sorrow in his gaze, and hunger.
In all of this Bilbo does not even imagine pushing away Thorin's hands, which are holding him and undressing him so mercilessly. He can feel the shape of Thorin's arousal pressing into his backside, and he can feel Thorin's hot breath ghosting over his skin; when Thorin leans forward and presses his lips to Bilbo's neck, he lets his mouth fall open in consternation and in shuddering want.
Then Thorin pushes him forward, just a pace, just far enough that he can see Ori asking questions with rising concern in his face, and Bombur looking helplessly to Bifur for assistance. Bilbo wishes he could hear what they're saying; it seems that something distressing is about to happen, and nauseating anxiety twists with desire in his belly. And then Thorin strips away his trousers, suspenders and all undone while he stood paralyzed, and Bilbo stands utterly naked before his companions, aroused and defenseless.
"What--" he says, and twists to look at Thorin, but Thorin does not reply; he guides Bilbo's face back toward the fire with his hand, gently, and draws the other hand down his side in a caress that leaves burning skin behind it. Bilbo shivers, and not with the cold. No-one has said a word; the reminiscers glance at him and back to each other, and Gloin and Dwalin watch him as if he is an interesting play; Bofur holds him in a piercing gaze, anticipating, and Kili will not look at him at all, though Fili nudges him and speaks under his breath.
Thorin pulls him back again, and Bilbo complies, glad to feel the warmth and bulk of Thorin's chest at his back and the encircling protection of Thorin's arm; and then Thorin wraps his other arm around him and closes his hand around the length of Bilbo's cock, and Bilbo gasps and jerks and realizes at once what public means, what Thorin is doing. It is a landslide, crashing down on him; it is the collapse of every propriety and moral that Bilbo has ever known; and Thorin's strong hand tries him, one long certain stroke, and Bilbo can hardly recall why propriety and morals have any claim on him.
He thinks his knees will give out; he sags into Thorin's supporting arm gratefully, completely vulnerable, and he feels the intake of breath as his backside drags against the swollen shape of Thorin's cock. He makes sounds, mewls of protest, groans of dismay. His hands come up to clutch the arm that Thorin has wrapped around his chest, and he clings to the muscle and sinew with white knuckles, gasping. The friction is slow, tantalizing, unbearable; the pressure of eyes upon him is humiliating, debasing.
Thorin kisses him on the shoulder, and Bilbo sees the movement of Bofur placing one hand upon his own shoulder, mimicking the touch; then, as Thorin's supporting hand wanders to flick across Bilbo's nipple (a quiver of agony and delight unspooling inside him), Bofur thumbs his own chest through his tunic, and the intensity of his gaze does not waver.
To his horror, Bilbo sees that Dwalin is unlacing his own trousers, watching the proceedings with a smirk, and he hopes that Thorin is not inviting their companions to join in; but Dwalin sets to stroking himself with leisurely motions, looking Bilbo up and down as he does so. If Gloin is doing the same, Bilbo can't see, and he tears his eyes away with burning cheeks, his breath coming short under Thorin's ministrations.
Across the fire Kili is arguing quietly with Fili, gesturing at Ori, who is sitting between Bifur and Bombur, staring at the ground with flaming cheeks where he can avoid looking at Bilbo entirely; Fili shrugs, gestures, and Bilbo hears the words uncle and honor. Kili spits a curse, and then looks up at him, meeting Bilbo's eyes; there is sorrow in his eyes, and loss, and his lips part as if he will speak, and then he turns his head and stares at the ground, his cheeks red and his jaw clenched.
Bilbo is trembling now, filled with shame and with pooling desire, the steady strokes of Thorin's hand tantalizing rather than satisfying. He wants more; he can see how the others look at him, but he wants to know that Thorin enjoys this, that Thorin desires him, and he grinds back against Thorin's cock with some trepidation, and is rewarded with a low groan.
Thorin's hands shift on him, and Bilbo is off-balance, falling forward, hands grabbing at Thorin's arms to hold himself up; then he is lying forward, his body supported by Thorin's palm at his breastbone as though he weighs nothing at all, and Thorin is nudging his feet apart. Bilbo looks up; Dwalin pulls at himself, and the older dwarves smile wistfully, like ladies at a wedding. Kili looks again, tears his eyes away, turns his dark gaze back to Bilbo's face, and Bilbo wonders if he looks as ruined as he feels, if his own lips are swollen and parted, if his curls are mussed with sweat. Fili is watching him too, with burning intensity and an expression of pure lust.
Thorin opens him with such care, with warm oil, with thick powerful fingers that leave Bilbo shuddering and spasming at the intrusion and drive anguished gasps from his throat-- holds him effortlessly, absorbing the motion of Bilbo writhing with shame and pleasure, heels locking around the front of Bilbo's feet so that he can gain no purchase on the ground and must dangle, toes curling in the earth and in the fabric of his fallen trousers, in front of all his companions.
"Durin's beard, he wants it," laughs Dwalin, rolling his balls in his free hand.
"Course he does," retorts Fili, his tone light even as he tilts his head for a better view, and thrusts his jaw out as his eyes narrow. "Who doesn't want to be fucked by a Durin?"
"Bilbo," says Bofur, and when Bilbo raises his head to look at him-- feeling the tension and pleading in his own face, the wreckage of his own self laid plain for all to see-- he continues: "Are his fingers big? Are they stretching you?"
It is an impossibly personal question, intimate, intrusive; but the rule seems to be that they can speak, and even ask such things of him, and touch themselves however they will, and only Thorin may touch him. "Huge," gasps Bilbo. "Full."
Dwalin grunts, working himself faster. Bofur offers him a lopsided smile without any humor in it. "Huge," he echoes. "Can't wait until he's fucking you."
"Shut up," says Kili, who is watching Bilbo now unabashed, his face utterly overwhelmed with desire.
"I'm not even touching myself yet," says Bofur. "Saving it for the real show. Will your highness be joining us in enjoying it?"
"Shut up," spits Kili, and Fili laughs at him and grips his own crotch, massaging himself through his trousers. Bilbo is flayed open, panting, groaning; he does not think he can bear at once the sight of his companions taking pleasure in his debauchment and the catastrophe, the immense penetration, that he knows will befall him soon.
When Thorin's fingers withdraw from him at last, leaving him twitching and twisting and wondering how anything so awful and impossible as being stretched with Thorin's fingers-- in front of everyone-- could become something that he would miss like breathing when it was gone, Bilbo is given a few panting moments of respite.
He stands, cold and bereft of Thorin's supporting arm, and hugs himself with his arms as if trying to protect his modesty, though from the aching fullness between his legs and the burning flush across his face and throat he knows he cannot possibly regain his dignity now. "Please," he says, not knowing quite who he's speaking to, "please tell me what's happening to me."
Uneasy looks pass around the fire; finally Kili speaks. "I tried to tell you," says Kili, his unhappy voice a strange counterpoint to the arousal that thrums in Bilbo's blood. "Dwarves have strange customs-- the dwarves lucky enough to live in their own lands, with their own kin, in their childhood."
Bilbo realizes that Kili is humiliated for him; he realizes that in his transaction with Thorin he has lost something that he might have had, once, the thing that allows him to feel embarrassment or fear and then act upon it. Behind him he feels, in the movement of the air and the rustling of leather and the motion of Thorin's thighs that his new lover, who has never kissed him on the mouth, is unlacing his trousers and pulling his braies aside.
If Bilbo asks, all of this will stop; Thorin will leave him be, and probably never touch him again. He will be free to take up with anyone else he chooses-- and he is beginning to understand that he might have his choice-- and nobody will say a thing: this is a test, and he is free to fail it.
But failing means that Thorin, who lives on the sustenance of tradition, who will be King Under the Mountain as his grandfather was, will follow the honorable path of his people even if it means leaving Bilbo behind.
There is no other option Bilbo can live with. Being fucked in public is a price he is willing to pay, if only he can stay by his king's side.
So he holds his tongue, though the younger dwarves tense as if they expect to have to fight on his behalf; and his moment of reprieve passes, and Thorin's hands are upon him again, drawing him back and lifting him until he feels like a doll in Thorin's hands.
Thorin himself is leaning back upon his seat, bracing himself against Bilbo's weight as he pulls the hobbit up into his lap. Bilbo's shins dangle astride Thorin's massive thighs; Thorin's cock rests against his back, heavy and burning-hot, the tip resting very high upon Bilbo's spine. Cold tremors race through Bilbo at the thought of taking something so... enormous into his body, and as he feels the color drain from his face, he realizes that the company has been waiting for him to understand the gravity and challenge of this evening.
Bilbo is going to be torn in half. He is going to weep, he is going to be sick; he still wants it, more than he has ever wanted anything, if it will give him Thorin for his own. If Thorin can be his, he is eager for any consequence, even shame, even pain. He feels his trembling body tighten.
Across the fire, Bofur pushes down his blankets to his knees, and Bilbo watches him free his cock and palm it. He is preparing, Bilbo realizes. What he wants to see will happen very soon.
When Thorin pushes him forward, forces him to take his own weight on his hands (which rest gratefully upon the rock-solid might of Thorin's thighs) and expose his buttocks, Bilbo feels himself hyperventilating, his breath escaping too quickly to do him good, the vital substance of his body spilling out into the air. There is pressure at his entrance-- the head of Thorin's cock, which is too massive to bear thinking about, which Bilbo has never seen-- and he gives himself over to shudders. He is twitching, though he schools his muscles to stillness; he expects to be breached with cruel thoroughness, and he hopes he survives.
Instead the weight remains, the pressure gentle but implacable, neither relenting nor penetrating. Thorin is waiting, Bilbo understands, until the tremors pass and his body is ready (though Bilbo privately thinks this will never happen, and Thorin will be forced to open him with violent force). Bilbo wants to escape into glassy-eyed unawareness, but he is so aware of his audience; and as Thorin begins to murmur to him, soothing reassurances, kingly guidance, Bilbo's gaze darts around the fire.
Ori is no longer visible; Bombur and Bifur are patting him, speaking in low consolatory tones. The older dwarves have begun some ceremonial song together, only half-watching the proceedings, remembering some distant glowing time when this would have been a great production in the king's court, with high-ranking lords jostling for a chance to attend.
Fili is rubbing himself now, through cloth, but with the shape of his hard cock clearly visible; Kili squirms, and while his face is still dark, he is forced to shift in his seat for comfort. The movement reveals that he is rock-hard, straining at his pants, and Fili snickers at him. Dwalin growls something at them, incomprehensible as he pulls at his cock; Gloin huffs in agreement, but the tone of his voice suggests that he's enjoying himself the same as Dwalin.
It bothers Bilbo, for a split second, that he can't even see all the people who are watching him be deflowered. But it's hard to focus on these small injustices when Thorin begins to press harder against him, when the flutters of his spasming hole cease to be against and begin to be around.
And Bofur, eyes wandering over Thorin and Bilbo with starving intensity, strokes himself with slow and patient purpose, still waiting.
But now the true penetration has begun, and Bilbo's attention turns to Thorin's hands, which guide his hips surely and hold him where he can scarcely resist. He has been well-prepared, he knows; his body protests, and indeed Thorin is terrifyingly large, but the muscle yields. His hands twitch, fingers gripping Thorin's thighs, and his head hangs down as he feels his body work against him, drawing Thorin's cock up into him, heedless of the stretch.
Thorin groans, and Bilbo is jarred by the sudden roll of his hips, pushing that breadth into him faster than he is prepared for; he has only taken half of it, perhaps, and he already feels too full to draw breath. "Oh," he says, "oh please," and other babbling words that fall from him uncontrollably; Thorin's right hand comes up and takes Bilbo by the chin and jaw, cradling his face, righting his head so that he can see the reactions of his fellows.
Dwalin's face is red, his jerking hand frantic (Bilbo writhes, taking more of that inexorable cock, burning and consumed)-- Bofur has begun to stroke himself in earnest, his mouth relaxed open and his eyes hooded, and with his other hand he reaches lower between his legs, prodding at himself (Bilbo understands that he is, in his mind, being Bilbo, slowly fucked open by his king)-- Fili has undone his belt and taken himself in hand, and Kili is staring at him with undisguised and delirious lust, lips parted, fingers twitching on his thigh as if he wants nothing more than to fuck up into his palm while he absorbs the sight before him, restrained by his un-Dwarven shame.
It is unbearable, the fullness and the pressure, the gentleness of Thorin's touch, the ecstasy of submission that Bilbo feels as his propriety and squeamishness are subsumed in Thorin's will; it is unfortunate that Kili seems to have such conflicting emotions, but Bilbo cannot bear to see him deny his own pleasure and issue judgement instead.
"Kili," he gasps, struggling to draw breath: "You disrespect your king, and yourself. You-- oh-- you are ashamed for me-- but I am not ashamed."
"Shame has nothing to do with it," says Kili, his voice hot with unsaid words, but the sound of Bilbo's broken voice seems too much for him, and he groans as he speaks.
Bilbo can feel Thorin's strong possessive hands on him like brands, but he knows what respect means to Thorin, and he is on the verge of speaking again-- though he cannot imagine what sound will come out, as Thorin's length flexes in him and his thighs shake with the effort of stretching-- when Thorin speaks instead, gruff and dark:
"Put your hand on your cock, boy, and honor your king's consort."
Kili's eyes are rebellious, but Bilbo can see the relief in his face as he surrenders to his darker urges, and he undoes his laces and gives a great tortured sigh as he wraps his fingers around his shaft. He strokes; Bilbo meets his eyes, and he shudders all over and strokes again.
"And you," says Thorin to Bilbo, in an amused voice with only a hint of strain, "you had best behave, or you will find yourself loaned out."
"You wouldn't," squeaks Bilbo, and Thorin replies with a low hungry laugh and pulls Bilbo back to him, hard, filling him with the last few inches and letting Bilbo's buttocks settle at the juncture of his thighs.
Bilbo gasps for air and rocks himself back and forth, seeking some relief from the pressure and the intrusion, but there is no solace to be had. He is full; he is owned.
Now Thorin's chest is against his back, his arms wrapped tight around Bilbo, cradling him in his ecstatic distress. "Hush," he says, though even Bilbo cannot silence the whimpers that accompany his every breath. "You're doing so well," he adds, and his hand trails down Bilbo's abdomen and closes upon Bilbo's cock.
The conflict of that sensation-- the fullness, the surrounding warmth-- is so intense that Bilbo would collapse if Thorin weren't still holding him up with one strong arm. Bilbo's fists curl uselessly on the leather of Thorin's trousers (for Thorin is still completely clothed) and his feet drum against Thorin's calves as he struggles to contain himself, to assimilate all these feelings into something that makes even a shred of sense.
"Please," chokes Bilbo, "please, please--"
"Tell me what you want," growls Thorin.
Bilbo can scarcely find words for it. He wants to be used; he wants to be hidden away where nobody can see him; he wants more of this, and for the whole world to know how good it feels, and for death to come and release him from the humiliation of squirming on Thorin's cock for the viewing pleasure of his traveling companions.
"What do you want," snarls Thorin, his breath hot on Bilbo's neck, and Bilbo cries out: just do it, just fuck me, please and with a groan like a falling oak Thorin pulls back-- so wrong, the sensation of withdrawal-- and fuck him he does.
Bilbo has no chance to ride him, to push back against him, to find some place of purchase to put his hands and offer resistance. Thorin's encircling arm tightens, holding him so firmly that he can hardly breathe, and while Bilbo pants in shallow struggling gulps Thorin lifts him and thrusts him down, forcing him back onto that thickness without mercy. Thorin's hips are still, except for the way he rolls back each time he thrusts Bilbo helplessly down onto his length.
It's demeaning; it's delicious. Bilbo is powerless, struggling to grasp something that will support his weight, but each crushing thrust overwhelms him entirely and soon he can do nothing but clutch at Thorin's arm and wail. The whole time Thorin's fist is tight around Bilbo's cock, and if he is too preoccupied with fucking to stroke him properly, Bilbo hardly wants for stimulus.
He forces himself to look out, to survey the company, because he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he is going to come soon, and it's too much to ask for him to take that humiliation without knowing who's watching.
It isn't until he locks eyes with Dwalin that he realizes how he must look: debauched, slick with his own sweat, mouth slack and brow strained with pleasure, struggling to thrust himself into Thorin's hand even while his body is stretched to agonizing fullness with Thorin's cock, insatiable. And he realizes this because when he opens his lust-hooded eyes and looks at Dwalin, Dwalin groans and spills over his hand, tensing and relaxing.
There are other sounds around the fire as Dwalin sags to the ground, satisfied; Fili keens as he jerks himself, and Ori is peeking at him around Bombur's bulk, his cheeks flaming red and his eyes fascinated; appreciative sounds rise from the older dwarves, who seem to be viewing this whole thing with a bizarre disinterest, nodding and smiling at Dwalin as one does at a crying grandmother during a wedding.
Bofur is pacing himself, though his breathing has grown heavy; there are deliberate pauses in his stroking. And Kili is still rubbing himself, although with every few strokes he's forced to grip himself tightly at the base of his cock, tearing his eyes away and biting his lip as he struggles not to come.
It's too much, far too much, a nightmare of insurmountable pleasure; Bilbo's toes scrabble at Thorin's trousers as he struggles to accept his impending orgasm. Against his back he feels the thunder of Thorin's groans and growls; within him is slick motion, complete violation, the bulk of a cock so massive that he can feel it in his belly. He is going to come; he is going to die.
Fili gasps, close to the edge, and calls out: "Tell me it's good, Bilbo, tell me you want it," and Bilbo is too shocked and too shattered to answer, but Thorin pauses in his thrusts-- letting Bilbo settle against his abdomen to shiver with the effects of that unyielding penetration, and letting his hand release Bilbo's cock to play with his hair-- and Bilbo chokes out:
"It is, it's good, I'm so full--"
Fili groans and laughs, and Bilbo rocks back and forth, sobbing for air as he tries to position himself. Thorin is breathing hard; inside himself, Bilbo can feel the pounding of Thorin's heartbeat, the closeness of completion. Thorin follows the lines of Bilbo's face with his fingers, demarcating eyes and jaw and lips, and Bilbo can feel in that lingering touch that Thorin wants more than anything to kiss him, as Bilbo wants to be kissed.
"Go on," says Fili, and Kili beside him groans; his thighs jerk and he clutches himself tight at the root of his cock while he bites his free hand, pain to hold pleasure in check.
Words have all fled from Bilbo's mind. He opens his mouth, moans like a whore, closes his mouth again in shame; Fili seems to like it, but his gaze demands more even while his chin juts forward in furious anticipation of orgasm. Kili is still struggling with his body, forcing himself to take long slow breaths.
Bilbo collects himself and continues, in a voice that quavers with concentration: "He's... he's got me right on the edge, my whole body, my-- if I don't-- if he doesn't let me come--" The mere thought wracks him with spasms, wrests his breath from him. "I can't, much longer, his cock is so big in me, feels like I can't breathe oh please Thorin please I would do anything if you'll touch me--"
He sees Fili coming, sees the golden head fall back and hears the heartfelt groan of completion, and Bofur is moaning yes oh yes but none of it matters because Thorin's breath catches and his hand descends from worrying Bilbo's lip to seize his cock again; he doesn't thrust, but he strokes Bilbo fast and hard, and between the fullness and the friction Bilbo is absolutely lost. He convulses, feeling himself plummet from the edge; and as his seed spurts over Thorin's fingers and his body shudders, wracked with tormented satisfaction, he sees Kili lose his battle and muffle his agonized cries with his forearm as he comes, painting the ground with wet stripes.
He can feel Thorin begin thrusting again even before his orgasm is complete, riding him through completion into wretchedness, can feel how the contraction and spasm of his gut works around Thorin's cock, and while he is still gasping his way though the violent aftershocks Thorin spends inside him with a roar, and Bofur groans aloud at the sight of his king in climax and wrests his own orgasm from his sensitive flesh.
There is a short period after that of gasping and lying about; the companions who had taken their pleasure slump or sprawl in their places, breathing hard (except for Kili, who flings himself out into the forest at a run, and Fili, who goes after him with a huff of exasperation). The others settle about, climbing into bedrolls, chattering about this and that as if Bilbo had not just been fucked brutally before their eyes.
As for Bilbo, Thorin pulls him up onto his chest-- heedless of the mess, which smears across his trousers-- and, turning him so that they were chest-to-chest, cradles him there, stroking his hair and kissing his brow while Bilbo shivers and clings to him.
"Forgive me," says Thorin, "that there was not more ceremony; I would have covered you with gold and arrayed you with jewels, were we at home in my father's halls."
Bilbo wonders at this, that Thorin thinks he would have balked for lack of adornment rather than for lack of modesty; but he is sated and secure, and he replies lightly: "I would have preferred to be kissed."
At this Thorin tilts his head up with one crooked finger, and looks him in the eye; "Such intimacy for such a public event, do you not think? Would you not be ashamed?"
Different, indeed. For a moment Bilbo is aghast at his audacity, at the impossibility of romance and companionship between a hobbit and a dwarf; then he shakes his head, and Thorin's eyes dart to his fellows as if dreading exposure. He looks at Bilbo in careful query, and Bilbo simply looks back at him; he sees understanding flash across Thorin's face, and horror, and apology, and Thorin lowers his mouth to Bilbo's, and they kiss like this-- Bilbo curled naked upon his chest, and Thorin holding him tight in an embrace, ignoring the scandalized gasps around the fire-- until Bilbo has mapped every inch of Thorin's mouth and they are both panting for air, until Thorin carries him to his bedroll-- now their bedroll-- and kisses him further, until the fire dies down and their companions are asleep and the moon looks down at them all.