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Bless Your Soles

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Feet were sacred to dwarves. They were the first part of the dwarvish body to touch the earth that Mahal had given them such mastery over, and this first connection had been a special one, a personal experience for each of the Seven Fathers as they had first woken under the mountains.

Thorin had heard this story first when he had been very young, a little dwarfling probably still on his nanny’s lap, and from then on had had it repeated to him nigh on infinite times. Dwarves’ feet were blessed, only to be witnessed by your mother when you were a babe and yourself whenever you were grown. Thick socks and heavy boots were to be worn at all times, to protect that tender skin that had first trodden on Middle Earth’s rocks and Mahal forbid you took them off in public!

Through his life Thorin had given little thought to this, keeping his feet well wrapped up at all times as was proper, even when he had found himself amid the settlements of Men, when their poor would run about with battered shoes on, or no shoes at all sometimes! It had been scandalous initially, but the dwarven prince had learned to ignore it as time had gone on and had considered himself a worldly, unflappable dwarf right up until he met his first Hobbit.

Hobbits wore no shoes at all, the idea seemed alien to them and probably with good reason. Thorin had been taken aback by the sheer size of the little creature’s feet – he had nearly trotted his pony straight over the top of one chasing chickens down a country lane – and had averted his eyes in shock. Big feet, with wiggling toes and curls on the top of the foot almost the rival of the curls on top of the boy’s head.

With his gaze still averted, Thorin had asked the way to Hobbiton, where Gandalf had told him his new burglar was to be found, and the boy had chirped the directions in a happy voice, ducking under the belly of Thorin’s pony to continue chasing the chickens down the lane when he finished. Thorin had watched him go, bare soles flicking dust behind him as he ran, and then realised he had entirely forgotten the directions he had just been given.

 


 

Bilbo Baggins is a  soft little gentleman with no place in the wilds. Thorin isn’t sure he approved of having this particular burglar as part of their company, but he had had little choice in the matter once Gandalf had shown his true colours and, by now, as they draw into the hills before the Misty Mountains, it is perhaps too late to find another.

The hobbit is too small, too soft, too pretty, with hands that have clearly seen little work but penmanship, and an alarming obsession for handkerchiefs. The only thing about him that appears to be surviving the wilds are his feet.

Such feet! Thorin’s face goes crimson every time he thinks of them, and he curses his nannies and his tutors who had taught him the rules of dwarfdom and trained in him this taboo. Now all his thoughts when he catches sight of those toes, of the shapely ankle and swell of low calf, was how indecent it all is! It makes his own toes curl in their many protective layers when Bilbo heaves himself over something and his toes spread and curl and clench to grip the surface…

He wipes his forehead on his coat sleeve, feeling more than a bit distracted at the thought and then growls low in his chest when Dwalin gives him a knowing look and urges his pony closer.

“Something on your mind?” the other dwarf suggests, tweaking his scarred eyebrows upwards suggestively. Thorin considers punching him in the face briefly, and then decides to just not reward the impertinence with a response. This does not work. “The hobbit has handsome little tootsies, doesn’t he?”

Thorin doubles the intensity of his glare, but Dwalin has survived worse and smirks wickedly.

“Nice little ankles too,” he says, stretching and clenching his fingers about the reins of his pony. Thorin can tell exactly what he’s thinking, because he’s bloody thinking it himself – those ankles would be excellent to grip, to use them as a hold to keep Bilbo’s legs apart for a good hard lay. Bloody hell, there is simply no help for him!

“And-“ Dwalin starts, but Thorin jabs out a foot, and gives the tattooed dwarf’s pony a sharp kick in the ribs. The resultant gallop has Dwalin clinging to the front of his saddle and hollering Khuzdul curses.

 


 

They stop that night in the relative shelter of a copse, and Thorin doles out watch duty to Dwalin first, as he’s feeling hard done by. Bilbo gets the rest of his wrath, answering the command to collect firewood with a twitchy little start and a twiddle of his toes. Thorin has to sit down at that.

The burglar patters about the wood and collects fallen branches, having to take a few more trips than if Thorin had sent one of his own kin to do the job. Gloin gets the fire going with one of the first loads, but sends Bilbo out to fetch more so they have a supply for later.

 On one of these trips – Thorin has almost calmed himself by now, watching Bombur and Bofur argue over what they’re going to cook for dinner – Bilbo lets out a startled little yelp. The dwarves are on their feet, hands going to knives and axes instinctively, within seconds, and Thorin crashes through the brush to where he saw the hobbit last.

Bilbo is standing on one foot, balanced precariously as he examined the sole of the other. Thorin stops in front of him, confused, and nearly recoils when the hobbit holds out his foot with a pleading face.

“I think I’ve got a splinter,” he says, voice tight about the edges. Thorin can’t trust himself to look, but the other dwarves are catching up to his headlong flight and he can’t stand the thought pf them examining the hobbit’s feet. “Could someone look?”

He dismisses the gathering crowd back to the camp – “Our burglar perhaps just needs more practice on being light on his feet,” he says, and they chuckle and pointedly don’t look at Bilbo’s foot, like good dwarves should – and directs Bilbo to be seated on a stump. There is still enough light to see clearly, and Thorin takes a deep breath before he kneels down.

Bilbo shifts his injured foot across, hovering it carefully above Thorin’s knees, and when the dwarf prince looks up the handsome little face is creased with mild confusion and a healthy amount of awe but no mischief, no malice. He simply doesn’t know what feet mean to dwarves, and Thorin suspects he would be horrified he if realised what a faux pas he was making.

For the first time in his life, Thorin takes hold of someone else’s foot and then makes a very undignified noise in the back of his throat. The hair on the top is an even dirtier shade of Bilbo’s own dirty blond and feels coarsely dense. The foot itself is a tough little paw, but the bones  sit high to the skin and the tendons flex near the surface. Bilbo’s sole is so filthy that Thorin does not think he will be able to see anything, but the splinter of wood is a hefty size to be embedded in a hobbit and he locates it by sight alone.

“Dori or Oin will have some forceps to take this out,” he said. “Can you walk?”

“I should think so!” Bilbo blinks when Thorin does not let go of his foot. “Um… Mister Thorin?”

His arches are lovely curves, thinks Thorin in a slightly mad fashion, and his heels are so pleasantly rounded. He can imagine those heels knocking against the backs of his thighs as he would fuck the hobbit with long, sure strokes. Those toes scrunching with pleasure as he drove his cock hard into the willing body beneath him…

Thorin drops the foot as if scalded and stands well back. If Bilbo’s face flickers with disappointment, he doesn’t notice it.


“I’ll finish your collecting,” says the prince gruffly, clenching his hands convulsively. “You return to camp.”

He waits until he hears voices raised softly in greeting, then wrenches his  trousers and underclothes open to fist his cock a few desperate times and comes with a groan he must stifle in his sleeve, feeling like a filthy person indeed.

 


 

Thorin remains terse with Bilbo and in an exceptionally bad mood with everyone else all night. Oin removes the splinter from the hobbit’s foot – he is a healer, Thorin supposes, and many a dwarf had dropped something so heavy on their toes that even their heavy boots could not protect them against injury – and recommends Bilbo apply a salve to the nasty little puncture. The hobbit refuses the offer of a pair of Bofur’s spare socks to protect his soles from further injury, but accepts a cloth to tie over the wound for the night.

All the other dwarves are unsure of hobbit feet too, Thorin is satisfied to see, although none of them appear to have been crippled with lust by the indecency of seeing them all day. Dwalin is obviously unconcerned with all propriety and looks openly on Bilbo’s toes without any care, but the rest avert their gazes satisfyingly.

Gandalf had remained on his moss cushioned seat while the dwarves had rushed off to Bilbo’s rescue, and now is supping happily on a second helping of Bombur’s stew as Fili and Kili creep up either side of him.

“And what would you two be wanting?” the wizard asks. Thorin throws his gaze over, just in case his nephews do something foolish.

Kili looks about nervously and Thorin rolls his eyes,  because they’re about to ask some damned stupid question, he can just tell. Fili is the one who plucks up his courage in the end to speak.

“We wanted to know about hobbits,” he said, leaning back to make sure Bilbo was far enough away. He is indeed on the other end of the clearing, playing a dice game with Ori, Nori and Bofur.

“Well, you should ask our burglar then,” says Gandalf, but there’s a wicked glint in his eye.

“Well, we…” Kili starts, but he can’t seem to get the rest of the words out and turns bright pink – Thorin thinks it’s nice to know that it’s the entirety of Durin’s line who blush at such impropriety and not just him.

“We wanted to know about his feet,” hisses Fili. Thorin chokes on his own breath.

“His feet! Well!” Gandalf slurps the rest of his stew, seeming to take a long time at it. When he finally sets the bowl down, Fili and Kili are both clearly champing at the bit for information and Thorin is feeling impatient too. He crosses to the fire, ostentatiously to warm himself and feed a few more branches into the flames but in truth to have a better position to hear what Gandalf has to say. “Hobbits are strange creatures, as I am sure you have guessed. They move quietly and quickly, and have remarkably good grip in their toes if they are called to climb something.”

“They do not wear shoes!” says Kili, sounding for the world like a scandalised dowager. Thorin has to hide his laugh as a cough.

“I am glad you have managed to notice that!” says Gandalf, with a touch of exasperation. “No, they do not. Their soles grow to be tough and calloused, and the layer of hair on top keeps them warm and partially water proofed. I cannot think of a single hobbit who cared to wear shoes, or even  socks!”

“But-“ Kili looks down at his own heavy boots. “It’s not right!”

The wizard sighs. “Hobbits do not think of feet in the same way as dwarves do. They are a useful mode of transport, and many hobbits take pride in having clean feet with well combed curls, but that it is. Mr Baggins is not aware of your customs beyond your dreadful table manners.”

Nice clean hobbit feet, thinks Thorin, slightly dazed by the wave of lust that strikes him immediately; with handsome blonde curls on top and those shapely ankles to grip. He orders the company to their bedrolls early that night and has dreams of toes trailing up his legs.

 


 

The trolls and the warg riders chase all thoughts of handsome hobbit feet from Thorin’s mind at least for a few days, and then his company finds itself in Rivendell.

Their statues have bare feet and delicately carved toes and Thorin thinks it’s simply scandalous. In his quarters there’s a tall painting of a slight elf maiden, sitting on a tree branch, and he has to remove the damn thing from the wall because she has bloody bare feet. Bloody elves probably put him there on purpose.

As much as he dislikes the elves, he can’t bring himself to return to the march just yet. His company are travel-sick and tired, and they’ve lost supplies after the ponies fled the trolls. They must regain their strength and restock, and only then will Thorin lead them out of this accursed place, be it Elrond’s will or no. Gandalf, at the least, is on their side and while the elf lord is clearly not a fan of Thorin traipsing across Middle Earth and stirring a dragon, he is not adamantly against the plan either.

The dwarves mostly camp out in one lonely hall at one end of the settlement, where few elves ever go. Thorin and Balin are granted rooms for their seniority, and Gandalf is clearly a regular here, as he has permanent quarters of his own.

Nearby are a set of baths, supplied by one of the waterfalls that threaten to overrun the buildings, like vines creeping about foundations. There is a great row of hot pools, steaming constantly, and some lukewarm showers to rinse off under. All the company visits at some point during their first day there, and Thorin waits to the last before he ventures inside.

He finds a pool and a shower that won’t be easily spotted by anyone blundering through the door, and strips himself of every last sticky, stinking layer. He must take his boots off to remove his trousers, but the last layer are his thick socks. It’s almost a shock to see his own feet again after having them so hidden away for so long and he can’t help but stare for a minute.

His feet and ankles are a shade or two paler than the rest of legs which have seen sunlight once in a while, but shockingly white in comparison to his arms and torso. There are no scars below his knees, no callouses on his soles or toes, his nails are trim and straight; Thorin has kept well to this aspect of the sacredness, and cared for his feet well.  

A dip in the hot bath eases the aches out of his muscles and releases the tension across his shoulders, and Thorin takes a seat on the stone step under the water, spreads his arms across the edge of the bath and leans back to relax for a minute.

Soft feet pad on tiles nearby. Thorin’s head whips about, all relaxation forgotten and tension returned. A growl has already formed in his throat and he’s considering how he might chase the intruder away without having to climb out of the bath and bare his feet to them, when Bilbo Baggins pokes his head around a carven stone column.

Mahal…” spits Thorin, and he slumps back against the edge of the pool in a glowering temper.  Bilbo tiptoes closer and then ‘eep’s in shock. “You might as well take your bath too, burglar,” Thorin growls. “I shall not object to your lack of attention this time.”

The hobbit apologises profusely, but Thorin waves the words away dismissively. Now he is less upset: better the hobbit than one of his nosy kin, or even worse, an elf! No, Bilbo can stay. Thorin pointedly turns his head again, and waits only a few short moments for the rustle of clothes: the hobbit is a fastidious little creature and had been quite heavily soaked in troll snot, so the urge to get clean has clearly overcome his shyness.

A lock of hair drifts across Thorin’s face as he sits there, and he tosses his head to rid himself of it. This neatly brings the edge of the neighbouring pool into his vision again, just as the burglar dips one foot into the steaming water. Bilbo groans quietly and slips the other foot in, the rest of his body following swiftly. What semblance of control Thorin had built over the last few days creaks warningly and he looks back to centre again and begins to name types of jewels to distract himself.

Bilbo does not help matters. He hums while he bathes, bursting out into spontaneous snippets of song on occasion or pausing to hiss or groan as his ablutions cross a sore muscle or a bruise. When he gasps particularly loudly, the prince has no choice – no choice at all he insists to himself – but to turn around.

With a particularly comely blush, Bilbo apologises again and then adds, “My back just hurts a bit is all.”

Thorin’s mouth seems to operate without any suggestion from his brain. Perhaps it was listening to other organs at the time. “Come here and I will attempt to work out the muscle.”

“Oh but-!” Bilbo looks down at the water lapping his chest and blushed even more fiercely. “It wouldn’t be seemly.” Then he looks up and his bright eyes are hopeful and full of suggestion despite his words. Thorin feels a smirk begin to twist his face.

“Come here,” he growls, and the hobbit is bound to follow. He hops out of his bath – gloriously naked and glistening with tracks of water – and splashes down into Thorin’s. “Sit here.” The dwarf directs him to a position perched on the step between strong thighs, and places his hands onto the hobbit’s shoulders. It serves to highlight the size difference between them and Thorin licks his lips at the thought, leaning in to rumble in the hobbit’s ear. “Where does it hurt?”

“Lower,” gasps Bilbo, evidently a lover of a deep commanding voice. Thorin chuckles darkly and sliders his hands to the point where the water met the hobbit’s smooth skin.

“Here?” He drives his thumbs into the muscles either side of the little creature’s spine and growls at the gasp and arch it gets him. Sometime brushes the inside of his calf, but he pays no attention because now Bilbo is whimpering and telling him to go lower still. His hands reach the slope of the hobbit’s lower back and, while the hobbit is clearly not entirely concerned with his sore back, the muscles are still tight and tense. Thorin has had many an aching back and sore muscle, so he presses his fingertips deep into the stiff flesh and ekes out as much of the tightness as he can. Bilbo hisses and gasps at first, but the noises slowly soften and lengthen; soon the hobbit is groaning and sighing, wriggling his arse back against Thorin’s thighs. The dwarf parts his legs a little more, twitching when a sharp touch catches the back of his knee, and Bilbo slides back just far enough that Thorin’s very interested cock nestles against his back. The wicked little hobbit merely gasps and then twists about to catch the dwarf in a hot kiss, grabby hands catching hold of a chunk of dark hair.

They kiss deeply, Bilbo’s tongue slipping through to tempt Thorin further and earning himself a feral growl. Thorin picks him up bodily, turns him around and sets him kneeling over his lap, taking a sharp breath when he realises Bilbo’s feet are touching the outside of his thighs. To distract himself from the filthy urge to get his hands on the hobbit’s feet again, he snatches the creature back in for another kiss, and another, until they’re both hissing to breathe and have to move apart.

Bilbo’s hand is smooth and soft, tentatively briefly on Thorin’s chest even as their cocks rub together under the water. He swallows convulsively, a gesture that Thorin chases with a sharp nip to the throat and a sucking kiss on the underside of his determined little jawline. Bilbo whines and tilts his head back for any ministration Thorin cares to give, so he kisses and bites and licks and sucks, rubbing his beard against the marks he leaves behind because the hobbit gasps so sweetly when he does so. Pretty pink nipples perk ecstatically when Thorin laves them with his tongue and Bilbo squeaks at the gentle rake of stubble that follows.

“Keep touching me,” Thorin reminds the hobbit, for his hands have stopped moving downwards with the distractions the dwarf is offering. They start their journey again almost immediately, combing through thick chest hair, following the trail over the centre of his belly  and down to the throbbing length that was making it entirely impossible for the dwarf prince to think. Bilbo’s eyes widen almost comically as he comes to touch Thorin’s cock, but they also darken immeasurably with lust. Tempted to laugh, Thorin gets his almost immediate comeuppance when his burglar grinds his own hips forward and takes up both their cocks, both hands needed to reach around the combined girth.

Bilbo’s strokes are clumsy and faltering, but he strikes a rhythym quickly and brings his thumbs up to tease the slit of Thorin’s cock at the top of each stroke, experimenting with pressure until he elicits a throaty moan from the prince.

Thorin closes his own hand about the two of the hobbit’s much smaller ones and pumped faster, squeezing his grip a little tighter. Bilbo mewls helplessly and nuzzles another pleasure fogged kiss to the edge of Thorin’s mouth; the dwarf turns his head and catches the hobbit’s lips fully against his own, raising a hand to tangle in steam damp curls and hold the wanton creature in place. Bilbo’s hips are jerking forward helplessly now, garbled pleas spilling beautifully from his kiss swollen lips, and Thorin takes pity and adds a wicked twist of his wrist to the end of his strokes that has his partner groaning and spilling his seed in only moments.

Normally Thorin would have liked to torment his little partner, bring him back up to the edge and hold him there while he sated his own lust at leisurely length, but he has been without the touch of another for what feels like an age and the urge to just be satisfied is undeniable. He lets Bilbo spent cock slip from their hands, but maintains his grip on the hobbit’s hands so he can close them over his own prick and get himself off. Bilbo is lax with his release, but he moves willingly, flexing his nimble little fingers and gasping weakly, as though this act still brings him pleasure.

In the end, what undoes the great Thorin Oakenshield is the scratch against the outer aspects of his thighs as Bilbo’s toes scrunch up and flex out, and he comes so suddenly it takes him wholly by surprise. His belly tenses and his thighs tremble as his spills into Bilbo Baggin’s waiting hands, and the relief is intense.

They sit together for a while, Bilbo’s head cushioned on Thorin’s broad shoulder, one big dwarvish hand resting comfortably on a hobbit thigh and the other spanning the width of his shivering back. Finally comes the time when they must move, and Bilbo leans in for a last kiss before he will allow himself to be lifted away.

“I do not think I am much cleaner now than when I climbed in,” says Bilbo, no regret in his voice.

“That should teach you to barge in on my bath time,” answers Thorin, voice purring in satisfaction. He watches as Bilbo fetches something from his pile of clothes “Although I would not be averse to you barging in again, if you feel you must.”

“I suspect,” says Bilbo primly, handing over a new bar of soap. “That you will be the one doing the barging, as it were. I might suggest you acquire some oil before you do.”

“Cheeky little hobbit!” Thorin breaks the soap in half and passes a piece back; it’s clearly supplied by the elves and smells a bit flowery for his tastes, but the urge to be fully clean is too great. It builds up a fair lather anyway, and that is good enough to scrub his thick hair clean and clear even the most ingrained dirt from his hands.

Bilbo has already climbed out of the pool and crossed to the showers. Thorin watches him go in mild interest, his earlier intense orgasm dulling normal dwarvish stamina. The hobbit is skinnier than when he had left his little home, but retains the softness of easy life that Thorin has not seen enough of for many years; a soft belly, a deliciously plump arse, that sort of thing. He is not entirely hairless, although in comparison to a dwarf he’s smooth as a peach right up until his feet.

Underwater, Thorin’s cock gives a defiant throb and he has to grit his teeth against an imminent groan. Bilbo finishes scrubbing his upper body and moves onto even better pastures; he smoothes the soap down his legs, turns partly to the wall to clean between his legs and then bends down to care for his feet.

Cares rapidly vanishing and his cock surging awake again, Thorin watches with an open mouth as the hobbit carefully cleanses the thatch atop of each foot and then rolls the soap under each arch to scrub the dirt from his soles and his nimble toes. He does so with such concentration that he doesn’t notice Thorin’s approach until the prince blocks the flow of water onto his bent back and he finds his face level with a thick cock.

“You have some stamina!” Bilbo goes to his knees as if it were a natural thing; Thorin decides not to think about that over much, and closes a hand in thick curls as that noisy little mouth laps over his prick.

At the first taste, Bilbo’s toes curl in and his soles wrinkle. Thorin swallows and heaves in a breath. The hobbit ducks his head and takes in as much as will fit in his little mouth, tongue slicking wetly over the sensitive underside and his feet clench up again. This time Thorin cannot stop his hips snapping forward, and he groans as Bilbo’s toes flex out in shock and the hobbit chokes quietly. A staying hand is rested on a sculpted hipbone, and the other fists the base so he cannot be forced too far down.

Bilbo’s mouth is sweet and warm and wet, and Thorin reckons he should be focusing on the thrust of his cock in and out of those lips, but his eyes are locked on the hobbit’s feet: his toes are wiggling joyously even as Bilbo looks up and realises the prince isn’t watching.

His cock slips from the hobbit’s mouth with an obscene pop, and Thorin cannot even control his breathing long enough to say something to distract Bilbo as he looks behind himself and tracks the dwarf’s gaze to his wriggling toes.

Shame surges up, and Thorin aching arousal is eclipsed by stunned horror that anyone should discover his hateful obsession, but then Bilbo looks back up and there’s nothing but bright desire in his expression.

“Do you like my feet?” he asks, all sweetness even as his tongue flickers out to lap a droplet from the very tip of his cock he still held. “You should have said.”

“I do,” rasps Thorin, horrified by his own admission but unable to stop the words even if he had wanted to. Bilbo’s eager gaze eked the confession out of him easier than any torture ever would. “I do. You flaunt them so readily, and I have wanted nothing more than to push you down and lave every point of them with my tongue. I have wanted them shaking in the air as I open you with my mouth and fingers, and I have wanted them clenching against my thighs as I fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“You only have to ask, my prince,” says Bilbo, and the term sounds more an endearment than a title on his lips. He releases the cock in his hand and bows down fully; his mouth brushes the top of one of Thorin’s feet and then the other, and maybe his tongue laps out in a soft lap that is more worshipful than lustful and Thorin knows he would be having the hobbit today if it killed him.

He crouches himself and brings Bilbo up to meet his gaze.

“Do you have anything that we might slick you with?” he rumbles, and then smiles when Bilbo’s swollen lips split in to a broad grin. A hand slides into his grasp and the hobbit leads him from the showers, and a little anteroom. Thorin’s eyesight adapts rapidly to the relative gloom inside, and what he finds is quite satisfactory.

There is a low couch in one corner and a bed in the centre. The walls are lined with some dull greenery that the elves always find so appealing, but there is a tall shelf lined with interesting jars and bottles. Bilbo chooses one and crosses back over to hand it to Thorin. 

“You have been exploring, little hobbit,” growls Thorin, pleased as the liquid in the jar sloshed in the lazy fashion of oil. He unstoppers it – it smells of some other flowery substance, because Mahal forbid the elves not smell of at least four flowers at all times – and pushes Bilbo to the sofa, where the hobbit sprawls prettily. He parts his legs willingly for Thorin’s broad form, and sighs when the prince bows his head to lick a long stripe up his cock, bobbing eagerly against his own belly. The hobbit tastes pleasant and Thorin swirls this tongue around the head until Bilbo is gasping for air and his heels were tapping against the dwarf’s lower back.

After a brief moment of rearrangement  Bilbo’s legs are slung over Thorin’s shoulders and a cushion is under his hips to support him. Now Thorin ducks his head again and takes the hobbit in his mouth as he carefully slides an oiled forefinger into the tight heat of his arse. Bilbo bucks and whines, fists coming to clench helplessly in Thorin’s still damp hair, but he does not complain and his thighs threaten to tighten around the dwarf’s ears.

“Oh!” A second finger drives a shocked gasp from the hobbit’s mouth and out follows a stream of filthy words that Thorin would have never imagined coming from the prim little creature who had complained about not having a handkecheif for three solid days. “Oh, yes, fill me, yes, my prince.  Oh yes, please, I’ve wanted this! All I’ve ever thought about since I saw you was you –oh yes – towering above me, yes!, letting me suck you. You fucking me, my prince, holding me down and plowing me ‘til I was weeping with the pleasure of it!” He keens as Thorin rubs the firm gland in his passageway with two calloused fingertip, and the words take on a frantic, desperate measure. “Please, please, anything you want of me! Oh, my toes hurt from clenching them so much, but it’s so good, prince, I can’t control it. Ah!” His heels drum frantically on Thorin’s shoulder blades when a third finger squeezes inside.

“I’ll hold your ankles apart while I fuck you and you can show me,” growls Thorin, pulling off as the taste of salt thickens in his mouth. Bilbo deflates with the loss, but a few rough thrusts of thick dwarvish fingers in his arse livens him back up again and soon Thorin knows he is ready.

He shrugs the legs off his shoulders , hooking them over his elbows, and pulls Bilbo to the very edge of the sofa seat, placing another cushion to tilt his hips to the perfect angle. In this position, the hobbit is rather scrunched up, forced to look upwards at the dwarf as he slicks his thick cock and presses it to the pucker between his thighs. Thorin stares down at him, pushing his hips forward with inexorable pressure until the soft resistance opens up around him and Bilbo gasps as he was entered. He moves at a steady, slow pace until his thighs brush up against Bilbo’s arse, and there he stops, waiting patiently as he can as Bilbo pants and tightens around him.

Finally the little hobbit licks his lips and gives an experimental clench, trying to rock his body upon the thickness inside it. Thorin takes this as his welcome cue, and slides back, changing his grip on Bilbo’s legs so his hands are wrapped tightly about both ankles, holding the hobbit’s legs apart like he’d planned. He begins a steady rhythm, fucking in and out slow at first, but then he catches sight of the hobbit’s flexing toes and feels the shifts in the tendons of those shapely ankles and all rationale flees him. His pace grows punishing, but Bilbo just moans louder, almost unintelligible words of pleasure and fealty to the dwarf who is pounding him into the cushions. A nimble hand worms up to touch himself, stroking his hardness in time with Thorin’s thrusts and the dwarf gives him a few extra hard thrusts at just the right angle to set him to spilling his seed down his belly with a cry.

Thorin fucks his burglar through his pleasure, eyes torn between the hobbit’s face and his clenching, flexing, wriggling feet. They both speak of wicked joys, urging Thorin to fall as well. His own orgasm is so near, and his ruined brain has no control over what his body wants. He pulls out from Bilbo’s tight, still trembling heat, grasps both of the hobbit’s feet and clasps them tightly to his cock. It is loose and rough, slickness rubbing away fast, but Bilbo is staring up at him with such devotion and this is such an indecent act, so filthy and forbidden; total and utter sacrilege. Thorin comes with a roar, his seed slicking one of the hobbit’s ankles.

The pleasure is even more intense that his first orgasm, and he has to brace himself against the sofa back just above Bilbo’s head. The hobbit’s hands reach up to roam his chest, only spreading more shivers where they settled and Thorin is utterly divested of all sense for a few long, pleasure racked minutes, until his knees give way and he must sit down or fall. He sinks to the stone floor after letting Bilbo go, and braces his back against the sofa.

Emptiness follows the satisfaction, and for a moment he has never felt so filthy and depraved in his whole life; then Bilbo shifts behind him, swinging a leg over so his limbs dangle over Thorin’s shoulders and the hobbit can lean over the dwarf’s shaggy head. He presses a kiss, soft and loving, to the crown of Thorin’s head, and some of the weight is relieved immediately. How could the act be so disgusting if Bilbo would still treat him with such kindness after? There was no pity here, just devotion and Thorin cannot remain horrified by his own actions.

He lifts one ankle to his mouth and kisses the bony inner surface, tasting his own spend there. The other receives a kiss too, and then he teases his fingers thorugh the curls on top, brushes down to stroke the edge of the little toe and then back down the low curve of the arch. Neither of them speaks, and Thorin thinks this might be the most holy moment he has ever been involved in.

“Feet are sacred to dwarves,” says Thorin roughly, fingers still shaking as his trails them over the thick curls. “You should not even show them to another if you can avoid it, let alone allow someone to touch them.” He swallows. “Or fuck them.”

Bilbo’s touch is calming though, stroking through his damp hair and petting his upper back. “I had not realised. Perhaps I should ask the elves to find me some shoes.”

“No!” gasps Thorin. He has just discovered he is allowed to touch the damn things, yet they are to be hidden away again? He would go mad with longing for the sight alone!

“All right, I shall proceed barefooted as ever then!” Bilbo laughs and tweaks a strand a hair to make Thorin look up at him. “It is strange that you should find such attraction to something which you have never seen before, but I suppose we are similar in that way.”

“How so?” Thorin scowls briefly when the hobbit drops a kiss onto the bridge of his nose, but the expression is wiped away when Bilbo next speaks.

“I’d never met a dwarf king,” he laughs, “Until I saw you!”