Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bitterly, he finds himself eating dinner alone. It’s no way for a pack creature to survive, but it’s what he has to do to stave off the darkness. There are times when sitting between Dís and Dwalin, with Fíli and Kíli cooing happily amidst their family from the table’s other side, can bring a smile to Thorin’s face. But more and more lately, it only reminds him how alone he is.

Sometimes, it’s just easier to have the servants bring him something to one of Erebor’s smaller, private dining halls. He picks sullenly at his plate, debating drinking too much wine on purpose, though such behaviour is unbecoming of a king. He still has appearances to make. Who he’s making them for has become far too impersonal, but he retains his sobriety all the same. Instead, he skewers his meat a little too fiercely, ripping flesh off bone with his bare teeth.

When the doors at the other end of the dining chamber open, Thorin expects another servant but isn’t surprised to see Dwalin. It’s difficult to hide his moods from his closest friends, and Dwalin’s frowning through his thick mustache and beard. As he approaches the table, his own plate in one hand and goblet in another, he asks, “Hiding from us again, are you?”

Thorin makes a non-committal grunting noise, still chewing. Dwalin’s bald wolf ears are perked with suspicion, and he slips into the seat across from Dwalin, a dark, knowing look in his eye. Thorin doesn’t bother to answer.

Perceptively, Dwalin says, “You’ll find someone, Thorin.” His tone is compassionate, even if his voice is rough. He wants the best for Thorin, though knowing that doesn’t make the false promise any easier. Thorin’s own ears are flattened back against his head in displeasure. It’s one thing to be brooding, another to be caught. Even though he’s eaten most of the meat, he chews at the bone still held in his fingers, just to have something to sink his teeth into.

But Dwalin doesn’t eat, just watches him with obvious concern, so finally Thorin slams his down and admits, “I’ve had a whiff of every available omega in Erebor, Dwalin. You know this. I’ve even visited those too-tall deer of Dale and the irritating felines that slither around Mirkwood, and I still found no one to interest me.” One of the men in Dale, a handsome elk with the sharp skills of a bowman, drew a second glance, and the prince of Mirkwood was not entirely unpleasant to look at. But no omega yet has caught Thorin’s eye and held it, and he reminds his friend, “I don’t just want to breed; I want to bond.” Dwalin nods like he understands, and maybe he does; he’s already found someone to love.

As if on cue, the doors open again, and this time the dwarf that slips through is closer to a servant. Unfortunately, he’s only so to Dwalin. Ori, with his cute little red-brown puppy ears and wagging tail, bows to Thorin, entire body leaning eagerly towards his alpha.

Jealous but not cruel, Thorin says, “You may come in.” It’s an effort not to make it a grumble; Dwalin would throw a fit if Thorin upset his mate. Smiling sheepishly, Ori practically runs to Dwalin, climbing immediately up to nestle in his lap.

Thorin can see that Dwalin’s trying to play it down for Thorin’s sake, but he can’t resist blushing as Ori nuzzles into his jaw, mewling happily. Thorin nods his head, silently transmitting that Dwalin should give in—after all, they’ve been separated too long, and Thorin knows how much Dwalin’s been looking forward to this reunion. At Thorin’s permission, Dwalin pecks Ori’s round nose and asks, “How was my little scribe’s adventure?”

“Excellent,” Ori sighs happily, the braids on either side of his face swaying as he snuggles his head atop Dwalin’s broad shoulder. “Your brother’s so kind! He taught me so much, and it was good to spend the quality time with Dori and Nori, but of course I missed you.” It’s obvious on his young, love-struck face that he means it with every fibre of his being. Hugging his arms tightly around Dwalin’s taut chest, he nearly moans, “I missed you so much, Dwalin; I thought about you every night!”

“Only at night?” Dwalin chuckles. It’s always a little strange to see him like this; Thorin’s used to the tough, warrior exterior, but Ori always melts right through the gruffness. Ori cutely wrinkles his nose; they all know that he must’ve thought of Dwalin every second minute.

Instead, he responds, “Now that I had my chance to travel and see other things, like you wanted, will you put a child in me?” His expression is pure bliss, like he wants nothing more. Dwalin glances down Ori’s body. Ori already has a round stomach, but Thorin understands that picturing an omega inflated with your seed is an intoxicating concept to any alpha. A shiver seems to run down Dwalin’s spine, and it looks like he wants to throw his little Ori over the table and get started right here and now.

But then his eyes flicker to Thorin. Hesitation overtakes his usual confidence. Thorin, reminding himself that he cares for Dwalin more than he’s bitter, says, “I’m happy for you.” He is. He truly wants Dwalin to be happy. But the words sound hollow. He wants someone to love him as much as Ori loves Dwalin. He wants a mate as adorable as Ori, though the puppy isn’t quite his type. Not that he’s sure what his type is.

As Dwalin growls his assurance into Ori’s trembling ears, Thorin gets up from the table. He nods to his best friend to excuse himself, and Dwalin shortly nods back, now wrapped up in his reunion. Leaving half-full dishes, Thorin heads for the doors, trying to walk instead of storm.

And again the doors open, because it seems Thorin will get no rest tonight. He makes a mental note to take his dinner directly in his private chambers tomorrow.

He should’ve expected Balin. Balin headed the expedition to the Blue Mountains that Ori was off on, along with Dori, who tends to go anywhere Ori does, and Nori, who had some ‘legal’ matters to tie up that he invoked his right not to fully divulge. Thorin suspected some personal affairs with another beta but doesn’t quite care enough to pry.

Balin’s the one he missed the most, and he clamps a hand onto the older dwarf’s shoulder, saying honestly, “Welcome back.”

“It’s good to see you,” Dwalin calls from across the hall, still pinned down under his omega’s weight.

To Dwalin, Balin returns, “You as well. I’m glad to see you together again; Ori pined for you the whole trip.” Ori blushes but doesn’t at all deny it. When Balin turns back to Thorin, Thorin’s already lifted a hand.

“I’m afraid you will have to tell us of your travels tomorrow. Tonight, I’m already off to bed.”

“That’s just as well,” Balin says, still smiling. “I brought back a present for you to enjoy there.”

On instinct, Thorin frowns. He isn’t particularly fond of surprises, and presents are hardly commonplace at his age—aside from public tributes, of course. Knowing Balin, whatever it is will have little to do with Thorin the king and everything to do with Thorin the dwarf. The way Balin’s fluffy white ears stick up denotes that he’s quite pleased with himself; whatever it is, Balin’s confident that Thorin will like it.

Thorin’s skeptical by nature and still asks, “What is it?”

“You’ll see,” Balin cryptically responds, a twinkle in his eye. “I left it in your chambers.”

Mildly curious but mostly finished with everyone else’s happy hearts, Thorin nods and excuses himself from the hall.

The second he kicks off his boots and steps inside his bedroom, he knows exactly what the present is.

He doesn’t even have to look: the scent of a ripe, wanting omega hits him full force, his nose instantly lifting to sniff at the air. Arousal is always alluring, but usually Thorin gets bored after that first sniff, and he can close himself off beneath his armour and resist.

But this pulls him closer, and he takes another step, his eyes falling closed and his lungs inhaling a full whiff of it: such a pungent, scrumptious scent, like fine wine, fresh earth, aged parchment, and, of course, raw sex. It grabs onto Thorin’s chest and yanks him forward another step, his eyes wrenching open to devour the source.

A little creature is sitting on his bed. The fellow can’t possibly be a dwarf; he’s too small, though he clearly isn’t a child. Instead of the rounded-triangular ears Thorin’s used to, the ears that rise out of curly honey hair are tall and thin, fluffy and white. Thorin can only barely see the little ball that matches and serves as a tail, hidden behind a sizeable rump. He isn’t as hairy as a dwarf, though the tops of his feet have mats to match his hair. It takes Thorin a second to realize what animal this creature resembles: a bunny. A soft little bunny, sitting in the heart of Erebor, atop the King under the Mountain’s bed.

And that bunny isn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. The only thing that covers him is several loops of bright red ribbon, cut across his chest just below his dusty rose nipples, perked in the open air, a bow fastened between them. The ribbons crisscross over his round stomach, down his plump thighs, squeezed together to hide his treasures. His steely grey eyes look up at Thorin with a sort of shy curiosity, his cheeks flushed slightly pink. When Thorin takes another deliberate sniff, the calling scent has intensified, which makes him have to fight back a smirk—it means the omega’s judged his appearance and finds it pleasing. This is the sort of allure meant to catch an alpha, but Thorin Oakenshield isn’t so easily swayed.

Still, he’s surprised with himself for how much this scent is getting to him. He moves towards the bed, wanting a slow, dignified pace, but winding up more stalking forward than anything, like a true wolf on the prowl. The bunny leans back, shoulders hunching, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. Brave, whatever he is, to come to the wolf den and resist the urge to hide. Of course, with a scent like that, Thorin would always be able to find him.

When Thorin reaches the bed, he climbs on top, but resists doing anymore. He sits before the smaller creature, carefully not touching him, and asks, “What is this?” He means to make eye contact, but he quickly gives in to looking elsewhere, hungrily dipping along the creature’s flat chest and creamy skin.

“A present for the King under the Mountain,” the bunny coos. The tone is clearly meant to be seductive, but Thorin, having been offered many consorts in his time, can tell that this man is no expert at selling himself.

Really, Thorin knows he should end the conversation there. He doesn’t take sentient beings as presents. But when he opens his mouth, he finds himself asking, “And what is this present called?”

“Bilbo,” the bunny tells him, eyes a little wide, as though he didn’t expect Thorin to ask. “Bilbo Baggins. A hobbit of the Shire.”

The Shire. It takes Thorin a minute to place that on a mental map, so far away as it is, although of course, he realizes belatedly, he should know exactly where it lies—it was on Balin’s route. Hobbits, as Bilbo’s stature reminds Thorin, are halflings. Thorin doesn’t bother reiterating his name; everyone knows it, and if they don’t in the Shire, surely Balin would’ve mentioned it. Instead, he finds his hand lifting curiously to Bilbo’s forehead.

He brushes a few of the curls aside. They’re soft as butter, Bilbo’s skin silk-smooth and warm. Bilbo’s eyes flutter at the touch, and as Thorin’s fingers drift away, Bilbo does the most curious twitching movement with his nose. It seems to instantaneously scrunch, his mouth moving hurriedly in a circle, all back to normal in the blink of an eye. Then he flushes, noticing Thorin staring, who’s not sure he’s ever seen anything more adorable in his life. He didn’t even know noses could move like that, let alone how... enthralling it would be.

He taps Bilbo squarely on the nose, and Bilbo does it again, shrinking back and eliciting a high-pitched squeaking noise, his ears suddenly dropping flat against his head. That draws Thorin’s fingers up to them, while his mouth longs to clamp around Bilbo’s nose and feel it repeat that oddly beguiling habit. He finds the ears somehow even softer than Bilbo’s hair, which would seem an impossibility. As Thorin pets them sleekly down, Bilbo shivers and lets out a low keening noise, innocent and indecent all at once. It twists down Thorin’s spine, and he can feel a feral growl forming in his throat: the urge to claim his mate.

It’s such a fierce desire, so much stronger than anything Thorin’s felt before, that it shocks him enough to make him jerk back. His hands pulls away, his eyes falling to the bow nestled between Bilbo’s tits, then leaping back to Bilbo’s eyes, where he forces them to stay.

He says, “I can’t accept it.” His voice is thick, icy, shut down. He would look away if he could, but he can’t. Bilbo’s pretty features fall, his ears wilting flat atop his head.

He asks, sounding both surprised and hurt and maybe even a little demanding, “Why not?”

Because he’s a decent dwarf. He explains, “I have no interest in being given a pet by others.”

Bilbo frowns. Then his eyebrows knit together as though he’s mad, though he’s far too cute to look as effective as a dwarf does when they’re angry. Sounding cross nonetheless, Bilbo huffs, “I’m offering myself!”

The attitude makes Thorin snort. “Balin has a funny sense of humour.”

“Who said anything about Balin?” Cheeks flushing darker, irritation flitters over Bilbo’s face, and he insists, “Balin didn’t capture me from the Shire—I asked to come here, so I could meet new alphas, although it’s true that Balin did suggest I might do well with you. Of course I didn’t automatically assume that a great Dwarven king would want me, but if you’re going to reject me, reject me for me! I don’t want to be forced on any alpha that doesn’t want me, even if... even if when you came in, I did think you were dreadfully handsome, and... and maybe you smell rather intoxicating... but, um...” By the end of his speech, Bilbo trails off, looking more disappointed and sad than angry. Head drooping, Bilbo self-consciously shifts his thighs tighter together and puts one hand over them, the other across his chest, hiding his nipples. Thorin has to fight back a tinge of his own irritation—he isn’t used to offered omegas hiding themselves from him.

He’s also a little frustrated with himself for taking the wind out of Bilbo’s sails. It catches up with Thorin how very scary that must’ve been for a little bunny, leaving his safe home behind for a far off pack of wolves. It’s impressively brave, even if the huddled creature that sits before Thorin now sets off all his protective instincts. And then he realizes that Bilbo thinks he’s handsome and smells good, and he almost blurts that Bilbo’s hardly bad to see or smell himself.

Instead, he lifts his hand again to scratch below Bilbo’s a chin. It’s a cheap move used to cheer someone up, at least on wolves, although petting puppies like Ori that way can also make their tails wag faster than light. Bilbo’s lips part for a tiny gasp to slip through, his head tilting up again and his eyelids falling half-closed. Thorin dutifully pets his jaw and throat, and Bilbo leans deeper into it, letting out a quiet, needy mewl, pretty and sweet, his whole boy starting to tremble. His rear lifts off the mattress and twitches suddenly, tail flicking. It catches Thorin’s eye right away, and he nearly stops, his heart skipping a beat, but he hurriedly returns to his ministrations a split-second later, eager to see the same phenomenon that made Bilbo’s nose so cute. Sure enough, as Bilbo trembles and whines in Thorin’s grasp, his tail flicks again, his ass twitching back and forth once. It only happens every few strokes, but every time it does, Thorin’s throat gets a little drier. Bilbo’s dripping in sex now; Thorin can smell it on him, like the heady stench of sweat and waiting bodies. Thorin knows that if he doesn’t stop soon, he’ll probably end up ravishing the poor creature.

But he can’t stop, because he doesn’t want to, and then Bilbo moans, breathless and wanton, “Could you breed me? Please?” Thorin freezes immediately, his hand pulling back, but Bilbo keeps trembling, exuding arousal, and his head hangs again as though in shame, mumbling, “You could still breed me... even if you don’t want to keep me...”

Thorin’s trousers are uncomfortably tight. Every bone in his body screams to fill Bilbo with his seed, yet he growls, “Why would you want to be bred and tossed aside?”

“I want... I want a child...” Bilbo murmurs, and now his hips are rocking lightly in the air. “I... I don’t want a lazy bunny from the Shire, I want... I want someone more... adventurous. I thought if I had a dwarf...” He breaks off, lifting a hand and pressing the heel against his mouth. When his thighs part enough to give his hips more leverage, Thorin catches the peek of a small, pink cock nestled between them, already crowning through the foreskin and wet at the tip. Thorin’s breath catches.

It doesn’t quite make sense. Most men who can bear children have pussies, like Ori, but obviously Bilbo thinks he can. Maybe Bilbo can see the confusion on Thorin’s face, because he explains, “That... that was one of the reasons I like traveling. When I was younger, a wizard took me to... to Rivendell, to help transition my body more as I liked... oh...” His scent peaks: it’s becoming irresistible. It takes Thorin a second to realize that his own pheromones are in just as much overdrive; he’s feeding into it without even meaning to. His body wants Bilbo, more than it’s ever wanted anything, and it’s giving out those signals. Poor Bilbo looks like he’ll melt if he isn’t thoroughly fucked into the bed.

Before Thorin can answer any of Bilbo’s confessions, Bilbo turns abruptly around. He sticks his red face down into Thorin’s pillows, small fingers grabbing at the sheets below, while his ass lifts into the air, knees spreading and thighs straining to push it as high as possible: on display. His fluffy tail flicks back, revealing an already open, dripping hole, dilating with want and the natural juices that any omega secretes when they want to be taken. The pink, puckered brim, glistening with need, is almost enough to make Thorin rip his trousers open on the spot. His eyes trail hungrily down Bilbo’s round cheeks, to the soft lips that sit where balls might, branching into a small, curved cock, hard as Thorin’s and swinging back and forth between Bilbo’s legs, faster with each twitch of his rear.

Thorin’s still admiring the view when Bilbo looks timidly over his shoulder, explaining, “It’s hard to take men in my pussy, but m-my other hole is good. And... so long as I’m really drenched, there’s still a chance I can be bred...”

Drenched. He’s practically begging Thorin to cover him in seed. His face is begging. It’s obvious that he wants Thorin, and if he can’t have Thorin, he at least wants to bear Thorin’s young. And it’s leaving Thorin’s brain reeling.

Bilbo wiggles his butt. He cheeks jiggle with the movement, but he keeps swaying as he pleads, “Take me, please.” Such a polite little thing.

Such an incredibly enticing, adorable, wanton little treasure, and Thorin can feel his resolve crumbling. The ribbon still wrapped around Bilbo’s thighs and back hammer home that he’s for Thorin. And Thorin’s never been given a better present.

Yet he still finds the words to mutter, “I don’t have any desire to breed and then send you off with a child I’ll never see.”

Again, Bilbo wilts, disappointment washing over everything. His rear sinks lower to the bed, all the perk gone out of his tail. It’s absolutely crushing to watch—Thorin’s had bloody wounds that hurt less.

He licks his lips. His tongue winds up lagging around his teeth, wanting to sink into flesh, not to hurt but to lave his spit over warm skin and hold a lover in place while his cock sinks inside a willing body. He wants to leave his scent, his saliva, his mark, everything on this trembling rabbit, even if he has to send the poor thing home in the morning.

But that’s the morning. And not every touch needs to be for mating. He can’t trust himself to rub his cock along Bilbo’s body, but... “Perhaps there are... other... things we can do.” One of Bilbo’s ears lifts, curiosity flickering across his face. Thorin strokes the scruff of his beard with one thumb and index finger, trying to justify in his head: “There’s no reason to waste a night...”

Bilbo mumbles, “Oh?”

Thorin tries to answer, but it only comes out as a growl. He would think the sound would make such a tiny creature flinch in fear, but lust washes instantly across Bilbo’s face, and his rear perks back up.

Unable to resist any longer, Thorin grabs at Bilbo’s hip. Bilbo mewls and pushes instantly into the touch, letting Thorin strokes his meaty thigh, squeeze and hold on. It feels as good in his hand as Bilbo’s jaw and ears did. He uses the grip to steady himself.

And then he dives down, mouth opening wide to seal over Bilbo’s twitching asshole. Bilbo yelps immediately, but Thorin’s already found his target, his face burying between Bilbo’s round cheeks, his broad tongue swiping around the furrowed dot to lap up all the juices. Bilbo makes an almost distressed noise, which makes Thorin pull back immediately, looking over the bunny’s back to Bilbo’s blushing face, peering over his shoulder. He stutters, “What are you doing?”

“I was going to eat you out,” Thorin answers, as confused as Bilbo is. Bilbo’s cheeks turn completely scarlet.

He looks away, then back at Thorin to murmur into Thorin’s pillow, “That’s not... we don’t do that in the Shire.”

“Eat ass?” Thorin asks, eyebrows knitting together. Bilbo shakes his head.

Then asks, “H-how can you... how can you do that? It’s dirty.” Thorin snorts, unable to stop a wolfish grin. Dwarves are hardly turned off by dirty things. He doesn’t need to say it; he’s sure Bilbo can see it all over his face. Bilbo mumbles, “...Hobbits are much more proper.”

“Yet you didn’t want to breed with a hobbit.” At Bilbo’s answering silence, Thorin asks, trying to cut any judgment or disappointment out of his voice, “Do you not want me to do that?”

Bilbo doesn’t directly answer. Not in words. But he does wag his ass enticingly again, his knees trying to spread his legs a little wider, and he does bury his face back in the pillow, hiding his embarrassment.

Thorin pecks one of Bilbo’s ass cheeks as chastely as he can, and it pushes back into him: all the signs he needs.

He shifts his face back to Bilbo’s crack, burrowing in again to run his tongue back over the leaking hole, adding his own liquids to those trickling down Bilbo’s rear. Thorin can’t remember ever seeing an omega dripping so profusely before, which either means that he’s never seen anyone more aroused, or Bilbo’s body is particularly wet and inviting. At least for him. Thorin knows enough of sex to know that his alpha pheromones are triggering Bilbo’s, and apparently they’re telling little Bilbo Baggins to open up.

Bilbo’s obliging. Under the quick swiping of Thorin’s expert tongue, Bilbo’s hips twitch and canter up into him, bucking out of control the more he tastes his prize. At first, he just squirms around the brim, lightly brushing his teeth over the puffy flesh and locking his mouth around it all to apply some suction. Then he starts to push his tongue inside, just little thrusts at a time, until he can squirm deeper and deeper, letting his broad tongue untwist and curl inside, lapping at Bilbo’s walls. The taste is utterly divine, unexplainable but just as perfectly tailored to Thorin’s liking as Bilbo’s smell. There’s a slightly salty, tangy flavour brought on by the gushing juices, which Thorin readily sucks down. Before long he’s fucking Bilbo with his tongue, shoving all the way in only to withdraw a moment later, then repeating it hard enough to make Bilbo tremble around him. Bilbo’s noises are what really make it; he moans and gasps, twisting in Thorin’s grasp, crying out every time Thorin curls to lick at him. He’s a constant symphony of desperate pleas. The more he squeaks, the more Thorin wants to fuck him hard.

Thorin could do this for ages. He’s rock-hard in his trousers, but he doesn’t touch himself because he doesn’t want this dizzying high to end. He would bring Bilbo to his dining hall like this if he could, push his little bunny over the table and devour his precious hole at each meal, or at least bring him to the training yard as a prize snack for whenever Thorin’s adrenaline spiked too high. The knowledge that he only has this one night drives Thorin to claim Bilbo fiercely, nearly feral in his need. He growls into Bilbo’s hole, pushing forward so hard that Bilbo’s ground into the pillow, knees lifted off the mattress.

One more thrust of Thorin’s tongue, and Bilbo shrieks. His head tosses back, knuckles going white in Thorin’s pillow, and his hips hump back against Thorin’s face with a startling fervor. Thorin delivers a few more licks throughout it, but pulls back as they start to putter out, because he wants to watch the flush creep over the thick cheeks, Bilbo’s own face flushed and panting. There’s a shallow puddle in Thorin’s sheets where Bilbo’s come, and the lips beneath his cock are dribbling a clear liquid. Between that, the natural lube, and Thorin’s spit, Bilbo’s entire ass is drenched, but unfortunately, not in Thorin’s seed.

Bilbo’s hips continue bucking a few more times, as though he can’t stop them. Then he suddenly collapses, his knees giving out from under him. Lying on his stomach and still trembling, Bilbo mumbles, “’M sorry.” Why, Thorin has no idea. Just watching Bilbo’s orgasm nearly brought on his own. Now he can’t takes his eyes away from Bilbo’s rear, and he reaches down to stick a finger against the bottom of Bilbo’s pussy, slicking through the sticky liquid. Bilbo mewls. If Bilbo’s apologizing for the rareness of his body, he needn’t. As far as Thorin’s concerned, he’s never seen anything more beautiful than Bilbo’s ripe figure, all laid out before him.

He leans down for one last, affectionate lick, and as he rises, Bilbo huskily asks, “Can I taste you?”

Thorin lifts an eyebrow. He can feel the blood rushing to his cock, but he still teases, “I thought it was nasty?”

Bilbo whimpers. Then he pushes up on shaky arms, seems to gather himself, and turns to sit before Thorin. He shuffles up between Thorin’s knees, and he dips his head forward to nuzzle into Thorin’s broad chest, still covered in his tunic. Bilbo’s little pink tongue darts out to wet the fabric, and he begs, “Please?”

Thorin’s hands move on their own. He lifts his brown tunic, exposing his broad, muscular chest, tight and taut with coarse, black hair everywhere. Bilbo snuggles deeper into it, inhaling with a happy expression on his face, and then he tilts his chin so he can lick at Thorin’s nipple. Thorin sucks in a breath, and Bilbo laps away, all with tiny, soft touches, so different than Thorin’s big, textured tongue. Bilbo kisses a trail to his other nipple next, and Bilbo’s lips open to lock around it, sucking once. Thorin grunts, but Bilbo continues suckling, his eyes still cloudy from the sex but clearly content.

Finally, he breaks off to nuzzle his way down Thorin’s stomach, to the prominent bulge in Thorin’s trousers. Even satiated, his scent is overwhelming. He mouths at Thorin’s crotch until Thorin fiddles off his belt and wrenches open his fly, pulling his long, thick cock out, already stiff and purpling with desire. Bilbo stares at it for a few seconds, eyes opening wide again, as though in awe. Then he dips forward for one quick, tentative lick of the head that leaves Thorin groaning. Bilbo’s nose twitches, and then suddenly he’s lapping away it, running all up and down the base.

By the time Bilbo comes back to the tip, Thorin’s ready to burst all over Bilbo’s face. But before he gets the chance, Bilbo wraps his stout fingers around it, holding it still while he rubs his face into it, letting the pre-cum beading at the tip swipe over the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his lips. He nuzzles into it for several delicious seconds, before he opens his mouth impossibly wide and pops around the tip, latching on. Thorin groans instantly, fighting to keep his hips from ramming up into Bilbo’s mouth. Bilbo looks up at him, lips stretched wide around Thorin’s cock, and it takes everything Thorin has to not to finish right there.

He knows he won’t last long. He wanted Bilbo the minute he stepped into this room. It isn’t right, but he can justify one orgasm. Bilbo sets to work, slipping a little ways down his cock, then pulling back to trail spit along Thorin’s throbbing member. Bilbo pushes a bit farther each time, until he gets about halfway, and then he can’t seem to take anymore—or at least, it would take practice, which he would get if he were Thorin’s mate—but for now, he bobs eagerly up and down on the end of Thorin’s cock, sending a sharp spark of pleasure through Thorin’s body on every movement.

He tries to suck, too, but then he nearly chokes himself, and he stops to adjust, mouth still full of Thorin’s cock but nose working to breathe. It twitches again, and that’s what sets Thorin off, such an insignificant, innocuous motion that makes Thorin roar, and suddenly, he’s bursting in Bilbo’s mouth. His hands fists at his sides, hips fighting to stay still, while Bilbo gasps around his mouthful but doesn’t pull off, taking the sudden rush of thick, Dwarven seed straight down his throat. The line of Durin’s always spent particularly large loads, and Bilbo tries to swallow, the fluctuating walls of his mouth only milking Thorin out more, but poor Bilbo can’t keep up. He swallows and swallows, and still it wells up around his lips, slipping out the sides and dribbling down his chin, until he finally pulls off with a gasp, and Thorin’s tip is free to splatter all over his face. He closes his eyes in time, squeaking in surprise, but he doesn’t think to close his mouth, and it lands all over his tongue and drenches his cheeks, decorating his nose, his forehead, even his hair. But he doesn’t pull away.

He licks his lips, swallows again, and then pushes forwards to press his lips against Thorin’s still-spraying cock, Bilbo’s quick tongue lapping at the fountain to take in as much as he can. Thorin shudders, his roar dying into a growl, as he watches Bilbo drink from his cock until the very last drops. Bilbo’s on hands and knees again, his ass and tail up while his face nudges into Thorin’s dick, as though checking to see if there’s anymore.

But Thorin’s finished, having just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life, despite not even being fully sheathed in an omega. He watches Bilbo curl up on the mattress and paw at his eyes to wipe them clean enough to open, and all Thorin can think is that he just met Bilbo Baggins, and yet he already wishes he had put a child in Bilbo’s belly.

Bilbo doesn’t seem to mind the seed where it is. He licks off his lips and uses his hands to scoop what he can’t reach into his mouth, suckling languidly on each finger. His form isn’t shaking as much as it was before, but there’s still a faint tremor in him. Thorin doesn’t know how much sexual stamina rabbits have, and he can’t help but wonder if it could ever rival a wolf’s. He never thought he’d be interested in another species; too many complications.

It’s already late, and Bilbo’s come a long way, and Thorin doesn’t trust himself to get hard again without taking things farther. He debates where to send Bilbo—Erebor is full of places for cute omegas to sleep, but he can’t think of any where others wouldn’t come to gobble such an irresistible partner up. Of course, that shouldn’t be a problem, given that Bilbo wants to be bred by a wolf. But Thorin...

He’s not sure he’s ready to give Bilbo up just yet. He knows better than to claim an omega over one night of fun, but he doesn’t want that night to end. Watching Bilbo clean himself in fastidious swipes, Thorin offers, “You may spend the night, if you wish.”

Bilbo blinks. He looks up at Thorin, pausing with his tongue flat around one finger, and then he pushes to sit up. Before he answers, he tugs at the bow between his nipples, not hard enough to pull it loose but as though he’s thinking of it. Finally, he mumbles, perhaps a little prim and difficult, “I don’t want to be a burden.”

If it were a fellow dwarf, Thorin would growl at the attitude, but for this gentle hobbit from so far away, Thorin evenly replies, “You’ve had a long journey, and you deserve a rest. Just because I’m more discerning with my lovers is no reason you can’t stay in my bed for one night.” He realizes after he says it how wrong that sounds, but he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t trust himself to explain why he doesn’t want to fall for the first whiff of attraction, lest he reveal just how powerfully attracted he is to a creature who probably couldn’t even handle him beyond that first tryst.

Bilbo’s ears don’t flatten entirely, but they’re not as upright as Thorin would like. It gives away Bilbo’s displeasure, but still, he nods. Then, without waiting for Thorin to move first, he turns and crawls between the covers and the pillows, pushing down beneath them. He doesn’t throw them back like a wolf would—and he couldn’t, with Thorin still weighing them down on one side—so much as burrow in, fidgeting until the only thing that sticks out is his face and the tip of one tantalizing shoulder. Movement continues below the blankets, and a moment later, Bilbo pulls the long length of ribbon out, tossing it over the side of the bed. He mutters, “I guess there’s no sense in that.”

Thorin has to kick off his socks and strip of his trousers and tunic before he joins Bilbo in the bed, and he can feel eyes on him the whole time. When he’s as naked as Bilbo, he lifts up his own end of the blankets far more daintily than usual, trying his best not to disrupt the bunny already beneath them. As he settles in, Bilbo watches him, then sighs, and seems to give in.

He shuffles closer to Thorin, nudging his way right under Thorin’s arm. He snuggles into Thorin’s neck, sniffing a few times, licking once, then blushing, as though he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help himself. Thorin understands. Their scents are strangely compatible. But Thorin’s been jaded through time, and he can’t shake the fear that in the morning, they’ll feel nothing. Of course he was driven to take Bilbo; any alpha confronted with such a catch would do the same. But now that he’s had Bilbo in his bed, the attraction might slip away. Or linger until he mates with Bilbo properly. In some ways, he feels like they already have.

Bilbo is a most confusing, curious creature. Yet he fits so very well in Thorin’s arms, and it feels too right. Thorin shuts his eyes, willing his racing mind to sleep.

He doesn’t succumb for a long time. Bilbo falls asleep quickly; he can tell when the fidgeting stops and the breath against his shoulder becomes even. All of him is warm, soft, pressing into Thorin, and Thorin has to constantly resist the urge to roll Bilbo over and mark him with Thorin’s scent, shortly before burying inside him.

But even more so, Thorin has to resist naming a new Prince under the Mountain and giving away his heart.

Chapter Text

For the first time in many years, Thorin wakes up feeling perfectly at peace.

He knows right away that it’s because of the cute hobbit nestled up against him, face buried in his neck and little fists sandwiched against his chest. His own arm is over Bilbo’s waist beneath the covers, his legs intertwined with Bilbo’s, both of their bodies sticky and stale with the leftover mess of last night. Normally, Thorin would extricate himself, go to clean up, and leave to start the day.

But he doesn’t want to disturb Bilbo’s sleep. He doesn’t want to leave Bilbo. Even with the soft bunny off in dreamland, his scent has its claws in Thorin. It’s not an active searchlight like it was last night: more like a lilting lullaby ever present in the background of his life. He knows it’s there, and that’s comforting, reassuring, and he still likes it, wants it; the only thing that brings him pain is that the scent hasn’t yet mingled with his own.

As he looks down at Bilbo’s forehead, curls slightly slicked across his forehead with day-old sweat, Thorin wonders if he made the right choice, turning Bilbo down. The fierce, jaded side of Thorin’s head tells him it was right, but the rest of his body disagrees. He could have Bilbo right now.

He lets out a long sigh, trying to crush down the thoughts. Amazingly, he isn’t hard; perhaps he got enough out of his system last night. He can feel Bilbo’s soft cock nestled against his thigh, but he tries not to think of it, instead eyeing the sleek ears lying limply across his pillow. They match the curly locks well. Thorin doesn’t think Bilbo’s hair is quite long enough for braiding, not properly, anyway, but he could try.

A muffled knock punctures the pale morning air, and Thorin’s head jerks around instantly. His instincts flare to protect Bilbo, even though he knows, intellectually, that this omega isn’t his. A few seconds pass, and the knock sounds again.

If he doesn’t do something soon, Bilbo will wake. So Thorin begrudgingly detangles from Bilbo’s sleeping form, slipping out from beneath the covers. As soon as he does, he feels cold and dreadfully alone again. Bilbo’s scent is still there, a tiny amount rubbed onto him, but it’s not enough, and he wants the contact. But he’s a king, and he can’t stay in bed all day just because certain hobbits are very different to leave.

There’s a robe at the side of the open doorway that leads out of Thorin’s bedroom, and he dons it and ties the sash as he pads across the living space, glad for the thick rugs underfoot. He only pushes one of the grand doors of his quarters slightly ajar, ready to shoo whoever it is away.

Balin smiles kindly at him and asks, “Did you enjoy your present?”

Face warring between a flush and a scowl, Thorin grumbles, “You’re a dirty old man.”

Balin chuckles. He doesn’t look particularly put out, perhaps because Thorin reeks of sex or perhaps because Balin’s simply known Thorin long enough to know when he’s really mad. The only person Thorin’s actually angry with is himself, both for falling so quickly and for not being able to just trust it. If he didn’t have Bilbo to get back to, Thorin would probably invite Balin inside to talk. Balin is the best dwarf Thorin knows to consult with for advice. But instead, he waits in silence until Balin asks, “Will you come down to eat today? Dís is growing worried for you.”

That might crush him. He’s not sure he could stand to see Dwalin and Ori right now, so thoroughly in love. His sister would see right through him. He loves his nephews with all his heart, but sometimes, watching Fíli and Kíli just makes him long for children of his own. Shaking his head, Thorin sighs, “I would prefer to have it sent up.”

There’s a twinkle in Balin’s eye, and when he says, “Of course,” his smile doesn’t falter. He glances sideways down the hall and must deem that it’s empty, because he turns back to Thorin after to lean in and conspiratorially whisper, “For the record, Master Baggins makes excellent biscuits and tea. Perhaps tomorrow morning you could clean yourselves up enough to make it to the kitchens, and I’m sure you’ll find him full of surprises.”

Thorin already has. But he never even considered cooking—as a king, he has servants who happily do that for him. Yet the thought of eating food out of Bilbo’s hands, food that Bilbo made himself just for Thorin, is strangely appealing. Then he wonders if Bilbo can clean, too, and then he wonders why in the world he’s contemplating domestic things. He’s never considered himself a domestic person before, and surely he wouldn’t fit well with a mate more inclined to keeping house than fighting battles.

But then, Bilbo did come all this way; he’s proven his bravery. And Thorin has other warriors in his friends and family; there’s no reason he should need one in a partner. Perhaps it would be better to have someone to balance him out. He sighs aloud; he’s starting to think like Balin.

As though he knows, Balin grins fondly at him, saying only, “Good day, Thorin.” He dips his head in a respectful goodbye, and then he turns and heads down the hall, leaving Thorin to shut the door again.

He thinks of stripping off the robe and rushing back to bed, but he also thinks of sitting by the door to wait for breakfast—Balin will likely inform someone to have it sent up.

A yawn from the other room decides it for him. The sound sends a shiver up his spine, and Thorin has to bite down to stop the growl that forms in his throat as a response. A simple yawn shouldn’t leave him so hungry, but it does. He hurries back to the bedroom, turning the corner to find Bilbo still lying on his pillow, stretching beneath his sheets. Even straining his limbs as long as he can, none of Bilbo’s reach farther than Thorin’s. Even his mouth is smaller when he opens it in his next yawn, showing off his dulled, pearly teeth and flat tongue. His ears shift oddly behind him, then seem to fall limp again as he settles, twitching his nose and curling back up. His eyes are still closed, as though he’s still lost in sleep.

Thorin creeps towards the bed, wondering if he can slip back inside without waking Bilbo at all, but as soon as his knee is on the mattress, Bilbo peeks one sleepy eye open. The other follows, and Bilbo mumbles groggily, “Good morning, King under the Mountain.”

“Good morning, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” Thorin replies as formally, unable to stop his lips from twitching up in humour. Bilbo smiles back sheepishly, hopefully getting the message that ‘Thorin’ will do. Thorin strategically leaves his robe on as he sidles back up to Bilbo under the blanket. He doesn’t know if they’ll touch again, but if they will, he’ll need a barrier of fabric to resist going farther. Sure enough, Bilbo shifts closer to him, even sticks one soft knee between his, just below the hem of the robe. It’s already riding up from Thorin’s tail, which seems to curl higher around Bilbo—hardly noteworthy when it lies between tunic and trousers, though when it needs to stay down to keep a skirt in place, such interest can be a problem. He’s just glad he doesn’t wag as much as Ori does, and if he should start, now that they’re not dripping in sex or too spent to move, at least the blanket should hide his nonsense.

If Bilbo’s short tail is twitching, Thorin has no way of knowing. He wants to throw his arm over Bilbo to find out, but instead he keeps his hands harmlessly between them and asks, “How did you sleep?”

“Wonderful,” Bilbo murmurs, a bit of a moan in his voice, as though he’s never slept so well before. Thorin hasn’t. Another sniff, and a blush comes over Bilbo’s pretty features while he adds politely, “Thank you for letting me stay the night.”

Thorin says, “That’s alright,” when he means to say it’s his honour. Bilbo’s smile wilts slightly; perhaps he expected more.

He asks so quietly that it’s almost a whisper, “Should I go?”

Thorin opens his mouth. He wants to say no—wants to roar no—but he can’t justify that. He already rejected Bilbo. He thinks of telling Bilbo to stay anyway, in a land that isn’t his home and that’s all built too big for him and nothing like what Thorin’s heard of the peaceful, hillside Shire, devoid of any mountains. Maybe they could get to know each other, and Thorin could see if this could last. But it doesn’t seem a fair thing to ask.

Bilbo goes on, “Perhaps I could catch an eagle back to the Shire; Balin spoke of them. I’ve never flown before, but... I’ve also never met a wolf before... and that was...” He trails off, looking mixed. Last night was wonderful, but Thorin can feel himself failing.

He blurts numbly, “You don’t have to go right away.” Bilbo’s eyes dart to his, hanging on, and Thorin licks his lips, clutching at straws to explain, “I’m having breakfast sent up; we could at least enjoy that. ...Assuming hobbits are breakfast folk.”

Bilbo breaks into a beautiful smile that lights up his whole face. When he chuckles, the sound rings in Thorin’s ears: a tune of pure delight. Bilbo practically laughs, “Hobbits love breakfast.”

He shifts closer to Thorin, so close that their stomachs touch, Thorin having to shift his arms out of the way to make room. Clearly, the matter’s settled. Bilbo will stay. Having no desire to change that, Thorin digs one arm under Bilbo, the other tossing over Bilbo’s middle. Bilbo makes a cute mewling sound, indicating that he finds the new position most agreeable.

He lifts a hand to stroke along Thorin’s jaw, soft finger pads tracing the line of stubble. Thorin shivers but lets Bilbo pet him. Bilbo’s own plain chin, devoid of any decorative facial hair whatsoever, is strange for what Thorin’s used to, but like all of Bilbo, he finds he doesn’t mind. He lifts his own hand to mirror the movement, and Bilbo nuzzles into his palm, full of little keening noises. Grinning, Thorin pulls his hand away, letting it rest along the back of Bilbo’s shoulders, and Bilbo returns to his own attentions.

As he brushes up to play with Thorin’s braid, Bilbo sighs, “Until breakfast comes... will you tell me about Erebor?”

Thorin decides, “Only if you promise to tell me of the Shire.”

Ori’s knock interrupts Bilbo’s thrilling story of outsmarting trolls on the road to Rivendell. While Bilbo’s friendship with elves scores him no points in Thorin’s book, cunning and courage certainly does. Thorin’s disappointed when he finds a bundle of clothes in Ori’s hands under the plates of food, which Ori explains, “Balin said they’re from Master Baggins’ bags. Do you like him, Thorin? I do. He makes delicious seed-cakes.”

Thorin doesn’t know quite how to answer that without delving into more than someone else’s omega needs to hear, so he only answers, “Thank you, Ori.”

Ori nods his head in respect and backs away as Thorin takes the plates. Ori wouldn’t dare pester his king, and, mostly likely, he already plans to pester Dwalin for details as soon as Dwalin gets any. Which he likely will. Thorin can’t keep this inside forever, and there’re very few dwarves he’d ever discuss his personal life with, Dwalin and Balin being some of them.

When Thorin places the pile on the bed, Bilbo now sprawled out in the middle, all eyes go to the clothes. Thorin’s still in his robe, but, surprisingly, Bilbo doesn’t reach for the folded fabric. Instead, he takes one of the smaller plates off the larger tray below, filled with sliced carrots and small fruits. They’re not the sorts of things Thorin would willingly eat, but Bilbo doesn’t even look at the slices of meat. From the looks of it, there’s no rabbit meat, although that shouldn’t mean anything—Thorin’s eaten wild wolves before—the non-sentient, pure animal kind, of course.

Bilbo pushes a carrot stick between his pink lips, takes the tiniest of bites possible, chews, swallows, then asks, “Do you mind if I get dressed after we eat?” His cheeks are a bit flushed, as they so often are, but the rest of him looks very determined, like defying Thorin to order him to dress. Thorin doesn’t have quite that much control. If Bilbo wants to stay naked, he’s not going to stop it.

They’ve run wet rags over themselves to clear away the mess, and some of that dampness still clings to Bilbo’s skin. He sits on his knees, which still doesn’t quite make him as tall as Thorin, cross-legged. With his legs slightly parted, Thorin has a nice view of Bilbo’s small, soft cock, poking out of an array of light curls. Thorin tries not to look at it, but of course he gives in every so often, and also to Bilbo’s rosy nipples, the curve of his belly, and the fluff of his tail and ears. Every part of Bilbo’s body is alluring in one way or another. It seems amazing that they could be sitting here and not wildly fucking, but then, the conversation hasn’t been anything erotic—travel, tastes, homes and traditions. Thorin can only assume the way Bilbo eats is another Shire-ism; no dwarf would ever take such small bites.

Thorin’s devoured an entire steak by the time Bilbo finishes his carrot stick. Before his hand can fall to the plate, Thorin reaches to pluck one of the strawberries up. Holding it by the leafy stem, he holds it up to Bilbo’s mouth. It’s all pure instinct: protecting an omega, making sure they eat right, watching them open up and swallow. Bilbo dons a sheepish smile, then opens his mouth in a wide ‘o’, leans forward to close his lips around the ripe fruit, and bites off just the tip.

In some ways, the absurd way of eating is good for Thorin; it means Bilbo has to keep going back for more. Each time, he stops in between to lick the red juices off his lips. When he gets to the very top, his wet lips close around Thorin’s fingers, and Thorin nearly shivers, pulling the left over stem away.

Thorin finds himself admitting, “You’re adorable when you eat.”

Blushing deeper, Bilbo mumbles, “Thank you.” He picks up a pastry next, which is good—he couldn’t possibly keep up his nice tummy on fruits and vegetables alone. Holding it in two hands, he looks sideways at Thorin and hesitates, then adds, “I’m sorry. I find dwarves eat a little... well, barbarically.”

Thorin snorts. That’s nothing he would argue. When he picks up one of the same pastries Bilbo did, he shoves the entire thing into his mouth in one go. Bilbo makes a giggling noise, and Thorin says around his mouthful, “Yet you want a wolf child.”

Bilbo’s eyelids lower slightly, as though in far off thought. He looks down at the tray of food instead of at Thorin, returning to chew his pastry while Thorin goes in for another stake.

Only when Bilbo’s done does he ask, hushed and wavering, “Is there still no way that you would give me one?”

Thorin pauses mid-bite. Lowering the thick slab back to his plate, he counters, “You still want one from me?”

“I can smell you,” Bilbo murmurs, his voice so thin that it’s nearly a gasp. His chin lifts, lids lowering almost to closing, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Shoulders hunching together, Bilbo licks his lips, practically moaning. “Your pheromones... I’m still...” He stops, winces, and looks away, like admitting a dirty secret. “Even though you’ve made it clear that you don’t desire me to mate with, I... I’m so very attracted to you, Thorin Oakenshield. I’ve never been more attracted to anyone in my whole life.” Shaking his head lightly, he ends with a meek: “It’s been a surprise, to say the least and I’m... not sure how to deal with it...”

Thorin understands exactly what Bilbo means. He’s never wanted anyone so much either, but now new problems have arisen; could he really keep a bunny from so far away? Erebor is nothing like the Shire. And he’s the king, he can’t leave. Short vacations, perhaps, but he could never be gone for long, and surely such a gentle soul as Bilbo wouldn’t want to stay.

And he’s younger, softer. Could he even handle a wolf? It seems an easy thing to say, but in practice, how could a hobbit ever take on one of the fiercest dwarves alive? Thorin has no wish for a mate that couldn’t hold their own against him.

And even if all that were to fall away... Thorin’s realizing he doesn’t know how to accept a mate. He turned away from it for too long. He didn’t want to be alone forever, but he still accepted it and thought he would be, and he’s been bitter and closed off for so long that opening up seems almost more insurmountable than dying alone.

The only answer Thorin has for Bilbo is a heavy sigh. Bilbo nods, like it reflects his own feeling. He picks up another carrot stick and mutters almost as bitterly as Thorin, “I half wish you didn’t smell so good.”

In a lighter mood, Thorin would snort. In his current one, he grumbles, “There’s more to it than that.”

Bilbo nods again and keeps eating.

They change in silence in different rooms, Thorin in his bedroom and Bilbo in the washroom. The clothes Thorin dons are the usual for him—black trousers, thick boots, a royal blue tunic with intricate, silver trimming. He doesn’t pack on a fur coat yet because he doesn’t know what they’ll be doing—or, for that matter, how long there will continue to be a ‘them.’

The next knock on the door comes while Bilbo’s still in the washroom. He’s taken a while, as Thorin said he could, but it leaves Thorin to wonder what’s going on in there—a bath in Thorin’s tub, perhaps. He would’ve liked to be there for that, though he knows it would lead to no good.

Dwalin’s at the door, a heavy hammer over his shoulder. “Practice?” he asks with a friendly smile, though Thorin knows that there’s probably an ulterior motive to draw Thorin outside. Before Thorin can answer, soft footsteps pad into the sitting room.

He turns, Dwalin already looking over his shoulder, to find Bilbo walking toward him, stopping only a few steps away. He doesn’t have any boots—no footwear was brought to him. His clothes are conceivable but still not quite right for dwarves; they must be Shire-made. A pair of brown-green khaki’s clings to his thighs, stopping short halfway between his knees and ankles. Matching suspenders climb up his front and over his shoulders, over top of a crisp, white shirt with buttons up the middle. All in all, they look absurdly light, but they’re fortunate to be at a mild time of year, and Thorin tells himself that if Bilbo grows too cold, he can always wrap up in some of Thorin’s furs.

At Thorin’s lingering look, Bilbo says, “It’s a shame none of my handkerchiefs made it this far—I’m afraid my pockets feel a bit empty without them.” It takes Thorin a minute to even remember what a handkerchief is—they’re hardly common amongst dwarves. Under Thorin’s lingering scrutiny, Bilbo’s cheeks turn a little pink, and he looks deliberately elsewhere.

“Master Baggins, is it?” Dwalin cuts in. Anyone else would’ve stuck out a hand to shake, but not Dwalin. Thorin can see the way he eyes Bilbo’s unusual ears, doubtless wondering the same as Thorin—should such a small, gentle creature be found in a wolf’s bedroom? But then, Dwalin chose Ori, who has no experience beyond talk, so he’s in no position to criticize Thorin.

“Good morning,” Bilbo greets by way of confirmation. “And you would be Balin’s brother? Lovely fellow.”

Dwalin responds with a grunt and short smile; no one would ever disagree on that. In the end, politeness wins out, and he adds, “Dwalin, at your service.”

Bilbo smiles back, then glances at Thorin, who smartly makes no such claims. He can only hope that Bilbo doesn’t take such customs literally and turn to Dwalin for wolf sperm. He has no right to hoard Bilbo to himself, of course, but that wouldn’t at all stop him from flying into a rage if one of his friends found a way around all his reservations.

Before they can exchange any more words, Thorin says, “Dwalin asked me to go practice.” Bilbo tilts his head to the side, in a gesture that shouldn’t be but somehow is ridiculously cute. Taking it for curiosity, Thorin elaborates, “Fighting practice.”

Bilbo’s head straightens out again, and he chirps, “Oh,” then, looking bright and young and lively, adds, “Could I possibly come? I’m no good with weapons myself, though I’ll admit I’m not half bad with a wooden slingshot, but I’d be interested to see.” In the corner of his eye, Thorin catches Dwalin lifting an eyebrow—a slingshot is the only ‘weapon’ Ori’s any good with. When Thorin turns to look at him, Dwalin nods.

So Thorin says, “Alright,” full of ulterior motives that burst to life when Bilbo smiles.

In truth, Thorin doesn’t expect Bilbo to make it all the way to Ravenhill, where they do most of their training. But for such a small thing, Bilbo has surprisingly big feet, and he doesn’t have any trouble walking the distance, even barefoot over rocky terrain. The air is cool and still, pleasant enough, and far from complaining, Bilbo eyes everywhere they go with a keen interest, asking once, “Could I possibly have a map of this place?” To which Thorin, of course, promises a map to anywhere he likes.

At Ravenhill, there’s a circle cleared out, wooden benches around the rim and stands of practice weapons and armour. Often, Thorin brings his own sword, but that’s only when he knows he’ll be taking on warriors that can handle him, such as Dwalin, Glóin, or Dís. Because he’s been told that Fíli and Kíli are there, he doesn’t bother. A part of him growls to have his own steel anyway, just to impress Bilbo, but the rest of him knows that’s foolish; Bilbo is no ordinary omega, at least, not the sort that dwarves are used to, and Thorin very much doubts that violence will impress him. Perhaps clean, dulled practice: fighting prowess with a low risk of consequence won’t offend Bilbo’s sensibilities. When asked if he has any weapons of his own, he said only that his wizard friend tried to give him a dagger once—which would, to a person so small as him, serve as a sword—but he refused, never wanting a need for it.

Still, he looks quite chipper as he takes a seat next to Ori on a wooden bench, the two of them already knowing each other and exchanging short greetings. Fíli and Kíli both lower their practice swords, tails wagging fast, and they rush to the newcomer to introduce: “Fíli.”

“And Kíli.”

“At your service.”

They bow in unison, and when they rise again, Kíli asks, “Are you Master Boggins?”

“Baggins,” Bilbo corrects, still smiling cheerfully. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“My nephews,” Thorin explains, as he steps up to the group, shooting them both a warning look, as the brothers can be overwhelming at the best of times.

“Balin told me,” Bilbo says, nodding, and at Thorin’s lifted eyebrow, he shrugs and explains, “I have a vague interest in genealogy, and in Dwarven culture in particular, so he was happy to oblige me... and as he was teaching Ori about the ways of a scribe, I naturally picked up a few things...”

Fíli and Kíli looks sincerely disinterested in that, but Fíli brings it back around to things more in their realm my blurting, “You’re cute. I’d like an omega like you.”

“You’re not going to be an alpha,” Kíli snorts beside him, drawing an irritated look.

“Of course I am,” Fíli answers, the two of them now locked in with each other, Bilbo, however cute, completely forgotten. But Thorin would expect nothing else to come from the mere mention of the brothers ever separating; if either of them ever does get a mate, the other will probably drag them back kicking and screaming. “Durin’s line is all alphas.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Kíli insists.

“How would you know? You never pay attention when mother—”

“Alright,” Thorin cuts in, “that’s enough, both of you. Neither of you will ever get a partner like Bilbo from any category if you can only fight the way children bicker.” All four ears, two gold and two brown, flatten against their owner’s heads, tails hanging, faces looking instantly chastised. Thorin barely has to point towards the middle of the makeshift arena, and the two are trotting back there, leaving Bilbo with apologetic smiles and shrugs.

In their absence, Bilbo chuckles, “They’re cute.” Thorin only sighs in exasperation, and Bilbo’s grin increases. He sweetly adds, “And you’re good with them.”

That makes Thorin flush more than he’d like. Of all the brief glimpses of his role as an uncle, Thorin would’ve liked Bilbo to catch one that didn’t come from arguing. But then, arguing is a fair representation of dwarves on the whole.

With a curt bow of his head, Thorin leaves Bilbo and heads for the stack of practice swords, choosing a wooden one to match Fíli and Kíli’s. They’re both adequate fighters for their age, but they can be impulsive and foolish, and they’re nowhere near Thorin’s level. He would never want to hurt either of them, even for something as small as a cut, partly because he’s got a bigger soft spot for them than anyone could know, and mostly because if Dís ever found out, she’d kill him. Given their sheer energy, he’s more worried they’ll accidentally jump against the side of his blade than worried that he’ll go too far, which leaves a real blade out of the question.

Dwalin, who has trouble using practice-anything, stays on the bench next to Ori. He’ll have to learn to be gentler once he has a child of his own, but for now, the teaching falls to Thorin.

Training with Fíli and Kíli—and it is training, more than practicing—is always fun in its own way. It’s a good warm up—he lets them both take him on at once, taking the opposite side of the pitch. Standing at the ready, he waits for them to charge, and of course they do first, screaming their roaring battle cries and racing for him from either side. Though they never huddle to plot out their strategies, they seem to be able to have whole conversations just by looking at one another for a few seconds. They converge on him at once, but he does a dive roll out of the way and down the middle, and they just go sprawling into one another.

Tapping Fíli with the hilt of his ‘sword’ simply because Fíli’s a fraction closer, Thorin announces, “You’re dead!”

As though to avenge him, Kíli leaps up, bringing his sword towards Thorin’s hip, but Thorin spins on the spot, his tail wrapping around Kíli’s wrist in an instant and yanking the sword right out of his grasp. It hits the floor with a heavy clunk, and Thorin taps Kíli on the shoulder. “You’re dead.”

Fíli’s on his feet again, but by now Thorin’s jogging backwards, putting more space between them and letting the brothers regroup. They look at each, nod once, and then rush at him straight down the middle. They’ve tried this before, and of course it never works, but at the last second, Kíli mixes it up by diving, rolling to hit Thorin’s legs.

Thorin leaps over him, turns, finds Fíli surprisingly ready to meet him, and their swords slip along each other, Thorin deflecting a blow from his middle. But the angle isn’t a good one, and Fíli’s sword slips over the edge, throwing him off balance, just before Kíli can rush in to help. It puts Thorin and Kíli into a clash of swords, during which Thorin deliberately lets Kíli have several openings that he never quite takes in time. When Fíli rushes to take one, Thorin lifts a boot and kicks him aside.

Kíli makes the mistake of turning to check that Fíli’s alright, so Thorin bops him on the head, right between the ears, chuckling another, “You’re dead.”

Kíli drops his weapon, grabbing at the spot Thorin touched, his face screwing up as though in pain, and he wails suddenly, “Owww!”

Thorin freezes instantly, the fear of having hurt Kíli shooting through him, even though he’s sure he didn’t hit Kíli that hard. His own sword falling lax to his side, his other hand lifts to Kíli’s head, trying to shift over the long hair to see if there’s any damage, when Kíli’s ears, once wilted, snap back up.

Fíli rams into Thorin from the side, and before Thorin can growl at him for going on when Kíli’s hurt, Kíli’s joining in. Swords forgotten, the two wrestle him down, fighting to hold onto his larger limbs as he tries to throw the little cheaters off. He’s more mad at himself that at them for such obvious tactics—he should’ve seen it coming.

But he didn’t, and it takes considerable effort to throw them both off, pitching them to the side. They go rolling over one another and land in a messy heap of sweaty bodies and limp tails. Fíli, on top, makes a pathetic whimpering sound, and Kíli squirms below him, while Thorin pushes to his feet and brushes himself off.

Marching over, he bends to grab each one by the tail, hiking them both up. They yelp in protest but go, and Fíli mumbles, “Sorry.”

Kíli says, “It was his idea,” which earns him a quick glare from his brother.

Thorin asks levelly, “You think I’m going to believe anything you say now?”

For one quick moment, Kíli looks horror-struck. Thorin knows that losing his respect would crush either of them, but he still stands firm, until Kíli nearly shouts, “Sorry!” and launches at him, this time for a big hug. Thorin ‘oomphs’ with the impact but takes it, stumbling back half a step when Fíli joins him. The two of them cling to him around the middle, nearly squeezing all his air out, and their tails start to flick again.

But when they pull back, he decides, “That’s enough for you two, today.”

They glance at each other in disappointment, but then Kíli asks, “Do you think lunch is ready yet?” and Fíli’s eyes go wide, clearly wanting to check.

They take off around him without another word, but before they get out of the circle, Thorin calls, “Fíli, Kíli.” And they stop in their tracks. While they look back at him, Thorin gestures towards their fallen swords, and they bubble over with apologies, racing to pick up their weapons and replace them at the side. Thorin takes back his own wooden sword, because he wouldn’t insult Dwalin by using it. Instead, he takes the finest sword he can find.

Before he can even turn around, Dwalin’s at his side. Dwalin mutters under his breath, “You’re making the little bunny pine for you.” Startled, Thorin glances back at the bench. He’d been trying not to think of Bilbo with his nephews around, but now it’s all adults, and Bilbo’s allure is as powerful as ever. He’s talking to Ori in whispers, but his cheeks are pink and his thighs are rubbing slightly together. It makes Thorin blush in return—he didn’t think that particular bout of ‘training’ was worth much of anything. But then, he remembers, Bilbo didn’t want him for his battle prowess, but for his role as a father.

When they catch Thorin looking at them, Ori waves and Bilbo grins sheepishly. Then Ori says something, and they laugh.

“Those are the sorts of omegas we used to dream about pouncing,” Dwalin says, voice thick. He isn’t wrong. His hardened veneer melts more the longer he stares at his mate, and he nearly sighs, “And now, I get to pump my seed into that gorgeous dwarf every night and several times a day, and with any luck, he’ll carry my young in his belly.”

“You’ll have that luck,” Thorin assures him, careful not to add his own thoughts on Bilbo. “Óin said he was very fertile before he left. That won’t have changed over one journey.” Dwalin nods, but he probably isn’t really listening, instead lost in his own daydreams.

Still, he follows when Thorin walks to the middle of the ring.

Their match is much swifter, more serious, and far more deadly. The mismatched weapons keeps things more interesting. Both of them know just how to use their respective tools, and both of them know one another’s fighting styles, and now, both of them have omegas to impress. The first time he and Dwalin clash at an angle that lets him glimpse Bilbo’s face, he finds a mixture of worry and intense awe on Bilbo’s face, his hands on his knees as he leans forward, ears perked to catch every grunt and clink of metal. The brief lapse of concentration gives Dwalin an opening, but Thorin recovers quickly and comes back just as fierce. Dwalin already has his mate. Thorin, though he was the one to turn Bilbo down, still feels the wild, primal urge to win his.

The match is ferocious. They go for a long time, until both are sweating, panting lightly but enduring, refusing to budge. Neither’s weapon has connected with the other even once, but still they try. Thorin can’t be as creative here—he can’t risk rolls or spins or even letting his tail get in the way, because Dwalin will catch him if he drops his guard for even a second. The longer they fight, the more into it they get: two alphas at each other’s throats. But then they meet in the middle again, his sword shoved up against the shaft of Dwalin’s sword, and they catch each other’s eyes, and Thorin understands: it’s not just the fighting, it’s the pungent stench of two dripping omegas waiting to be taken.

Still up against one another, wrestling for dominance, Dwalin hisses, “We better call a match, or I’m going to try and take you right here.” Thorin’s teeth are grit together, knowing exactly what that means. He nods once, and it’s over.

They release the pressure, lowering their weapons at once, and they turn to look at the bench.

Ori’s squirming. He has one hand in his lap, pushing down his knit sweater, but between that and his boots, his thighs are bare. Thorin hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he sees Ori’s skin is glistening, he certainly does. Ori’s dripping with juices, red across his face with his other hand over his mouth, and as soon as he realizes the fight’s over, he practically leaps off the bench, racing for the pit.

He latches around Dwalin a split second later, practically humping Dwalin and begging lewdly, “Take me.” The hammer falls aside; Dwalin’s kissing him before he’s even completed the second word.

Thorin takes an automatic step towards Bilbo. As powerful as Ori’s scent is, Bilbo’s is so much greater. It calls to him, clouding his brain and whispering sweet things in his ears, making his pulse skyrocket. Bilbo’s squirming just as much, but his hands are hiding his lap. His eyelids and ears are heavy, mouth open with his tongue hanging out, panting like a too-hot animal. Thorin wants to march over and shove his cock right into that waiting mouth, then drench Bilbo in his seed, just like Bilbo asked. Bilbo’s scent makes it undeniable that he’s very much turned on.

But Thorin still has a sword in his hand. He takes it to put away, just to give himself that moment to breathe, to gather himself. He knows Bilbo could use it, too. When he turns around again, Dwalin’s fucking Ori’s right in the middle of the pit. Ori’s on his back, legs thrown into the air as Dwalin’s cock pounds into his pussy, adding loud squelching sounds to the mix of pleasured cries. It doesn’t at all help Thorin’s resolve.

He walks swiftly back to Bilbo and asks, “Come with me?” Though it comes out as something of a snarl: an order. They should give Dwalin and Ori some privacy, even though they started it right out in the open. More importantly, it makes him want to join the mess of bodies. Bilbo nods like he understands.

They have to go a long way down the hill before Dwalin and Ori’s noises disappear in the wind, and by then, Bilbo’s scent has calmed down somewhat, though it’s still very powerful, simply no longer raging. Thorin doesn’t talk, because he needs to focus on not tackling Bilbo to the ground. At the bottom of the hill, Bilbo mumbles, in a tone that sounds like it’s trying to be neutral instead of an erotic moan, “Your skills are... very impressive.”

Thorin says, “Thank you,” sounding just as breathy.

“And you’re amazing with your nephews; you’ll be an excellent father.” This comes out sounding mildly sad. The unspoken end is: an excellent father... to someone else’s children.

As they turn toward Erebor, Thorin suggests for both their sakes, “Let’s take the scenic route back into the mountain.”

It doesn’t help. They take a long, twisted path out of the way, between little hills of rocks that cut off the view and give them that shield. They don’t pass anyone; it’s just the two of them, trying to talk about unimportant things, though since they’re getting to know one another still, everything’s important. Thorin sucks in every detail that makes up who Bilbo Baggins is, and Bilbo listens to him in return.

Bilbo doesn’t need shoes. He never complains on the walk, is sturdy and solid and notably resilient. He talks mostly of quiet things—he likes to keep house, cook and clean and mend and that sort of thing—but he also enjoys adventures now and then. He collects maps and has started writing, though he’s not quite ready to start his masterpiece because, he explains, he hasn’t finished living it yet.

He doesn’t seem to mind that Thorin’s a big, messy, stubborn dwarf who’s better with a sword than a broom or a pan. In truth, Thorin would like someone to take care of these things for him, though he wouldn’t have quite equated it with a mate before, because they seemed like servant’s things. Yet he gets the distinct impression that if he implies to Bilbo they’re any less noble than his sword practice, he’ll get an earful. By the time they’ve reached the gate, they’ve spoken a great deal but nowhere near enough, and it hasn’t done them any good.

Bilbo still smells like pure desire, and Thorin still very much wants him. Thorin stops around the corner, at the edge of the river, behind a large statue. He grabs Bilbo’s hand before Bilbo can leave around it. If they reach the steps of Erebor, Thorin’s worried Bilbo will give off such alluring scents that all Thorin’s guards will converge on him at once.

It’s not his right to hold Bilbo back, but he does so all the same. Bilbo looks down at his wrist in Thorin’s thicker fingers, then up at Thorin with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. His ears twitch. His body seems to shake, and Thorin asks even though he’s the one that feels more of a wreck, “Are you alright?”

Bilbo nods. Then the trembling increases; his arm pulls out of Thorin’s grasp so they can both wrap around Bilbo’s stomach. With all their words fallen away, the underlying emotions rush up again, and Thorin’s head clouds with the pure, unadulterated scent of an omega perfectly tailored to him. Bilbo shakes his head, and then, out of the blue, he latches onto Thorin, flattening their bodies together and clinging tightly around Thorin’s middle, his face burrowing into Thorin’s neck, his breath hot along Thorin’s skin. He rolls his hips once against Thorin’s crotch, and Thorin gasps; they’re both still hard from the training session. Neither went fully limp, and they leap to life at the contact, Thorin tensing every muscle in his body to keep from grinding into Bilbo back—he’s sure he would hurt Bilbo if he unleashed right now, because he wants to slam Bilbo into the stone and fuck him mercilessly.

Bilbo moans, “You smell so good.” His voice is wavering, his hips starting to move in quick, short bursts, rutting against Thorin, and Thorin, holding back onto Bilbo, feels his knees go weak.

His back presses against the cold stone of the statue’s legs, and he goes slowly sinking to the ground, taking Bilbo with him. He lands on his ass, Bilbo climbing into his lap, straddling his thighs. Bilbo continues to grind them together, but now his face moves to lick at Thorin’s throat, then down Thorin’s chest. He rubs his face all along Thorin’s pecs, nosing against the growing bumps of Thorin’s hardening nipples. His fingers run down Thorin’s stomach to dip below Thorin’s tunic, and all Thorin can do is groan and let Bilbo’s warm palms slip beneath his clothes.

This is too public. Anyone could hear them, wander by and see them, and still he thinks of taking Bilbo right up the steps of Erebor and fucking him right beneath the gate for all to see. He’s king; it would be his right to claim Bilbo on the threshold of his mountain. It’s so hard to fight it, with the way Bilbo starts to mouth at him through the tunic. Bilbo’s hot mouth makes a wet stain in his fabric, but the warm breath snakes through to his nipples below, his chest arching forward. Bilbo makes a trail of kisses over to Thorin’s arm and starts to nose beneath it, inhaling the stench of Thorin’s armpit, where the training’s left him full of sweat. Bilbo can’t seem to get enough of it. He nuzzles below Thorin’s bicep, rubbing his nose along it and making sharp keening noises, while his hips rut into Thorin all the faster.

And Thorin’s hands are just resting on Bilbo’s hips, completely torn. He’s wrestling with himself. Would it be so bad to give in? They’ve made it this far, and he hasn’t grown bored of Bilbo, even after all the talk and differences, and perhaps those differences will be what makes them fit so well together. Perhaps this little bunny could handle a big bad wolf. Trapped between his own back and the statue, Thorin’s tail is squirming beyond his control. Bilbo makes him so happy. Bilbo’s licking his way over to Thorin’s other armpit, strange but intimate and so very personal—Bilbo doesn’t just want any wolf; he wants Thorin Oakenshield, and of course Thorin wants Bilbo Baggins—

Somehow, he hears footsteps coming. It’s amazing he can pick them out with how much of a wreck his mind is, but he manages to recognize the gait and push Bilbo lightly back by the shoulders. Bilbo looks up at him, full of disappointment, and wilts.

Thorin wants to say no, it’s not that, it’s just that someone’s coming and he’s not ready for this, not out here. He’s already pushing to his feet, straightening out his tunic, hoping the wet patches could look like sweat, since he’s on the path to Ravenhill, after all. At least he’s in the shadow of the statue

He turns just in time to see the dwarf coming around the statue. Dís stops in front of him, jerking back a step in surprise. As usual, it only takes her a second to recover, and then she’s reering to go. “I was looking for you,” she exclaims, locking eyes with Thorin and perhaps not even noticing the bunny knelt behind him. “There’s some cat from Mirkwood here—says some of our people broke out of their dungeons, and the king is demanding retribution, of all the absurd things. Anyway, we need to deal with it now.” Of course, everything with Dís needs to be handled now; she’s the sort of dwarf that no one ever dares defy. Not even her brother.

As soon as she’s delivered her message, she turns on the spot and marches back for Erebor, evidently assuming Thorin will simply fall in line. She’s right that if there’s been a diplomatic incident, he’ll need to be there. If it had been anything less than urgent, Dís wouldn’t be too preoccupied to notice what a wreck he is.

He casts a look over his shoulder, then offers a hand to help Bilbo up. He says, “My sister, Dís, Fíli and Kíli’s mother.”

Bilbo says, “I assumed. You have the same beard.” He smiles, as though it was a proper meeting and not a far-too-abrupt interruption. At some point, Thorin will have to arrange for them to sit down and have proper introductions.

In the meantime, Dís shouts back, “Thorin, get a move on!”

And Thorin has to roar back, “I’m coming!”

He doesn’t know what to say.

He kisses Bilbo’s forehead, because it’s all he trusts himself to do. He lingers too long, and when he pulls back, Bilbo says, “Go. I’ll be alright.” He smiles, sincere.

So Thorin does, even though he’d rather never leave Bilbo’s side.

Chapter Text

By the time Thorin trudges back to his room, his feet are dragging and his tail’s wilted. He tries to look angry instead of sad so no one will stop to ask him why, because he doesn’t know how to explain that knowing one little bunny left his world has crumbled what remains.

Bilbo must’ve left by now. There’s no reason for him to stay. Thorin’s turned him down enough, and he belongs far away, where things are cheerful and bright and not so foolish as to turn down the greatest treasures. He was so sure that he couldn’t have Bilbo, and yet now, sure he’s lost the hobbit forever, all he can feel is regret. They could’ve made it work, perhaps. They could’ve at least tried. Perhaps it’s best that he wasn’t there at their parting to hold Bilbo back with his wavering and half-promises, but he still would’ve liked to say goodbye.

He turns into his quarters and bolts the door. He kicks out of his shoes, pauses, and lifts his head to sniff at the air, confused. It’s not the emptiness he expected.

It’s the lilting pheromones that’ve tortured him all day. He shuts his eyes, inhaling deeper, but it’s too strong to be just leftover remnants. He pads towards the bedroom, feeling in a dream.

And he finds Bilbo Baggins curled up in his bed, bundled under all the heavy blankets. Bilbo’s clothes are still on, the same ones from earlier, as though he fell asleep by accident. Perhaps he was waiting for Thorin to return. He fell asleep waiting for Thorin.

Thorin has to grit his teeth together to stop the feral growl from bubbling out of his throat. This is exactly why he shouldn’t have such a gentle lover. It’s such an innocent act, and yet it makes him burn with hunger. The blankets cling to Bilbo’s curves to emphasize his shape, his ears poking out to slump along the pillow. He’s a more tantalizing morsel than any dwarf has a right to.

And Thorin can’t kick him out. Not again. Thorin tells himself, tomorrow, though tonight will be miserable, sleeping next to such a wanton package. If he had any sense at all, he’d take his sorry self into the living room and lie along the couch.

But Thorin Oakenshield sleeps in his king’s bed, and now he peels off his tunic, ready to retire. It’s late enough. He can’t do anything else anyway—he wouldn’t dare disturb his little hobbit’s peaceful rest. There’s nothing to do but lift up the covers and slip inside, making sure to keep enough distance between them for his weighing down of the mattress to not roll Bilbo over. He lies on his stomach, facing the wall. The embers in the fire are low enough to keep the room dim, and he can’t bring himself to get out of bed and tear himself away from Bilbo long enough to properly put them out. They’ll die on their own, eventually. In the meantime, Thorin enjoys the heat and the scent of Bilbo, tugging him pleasantly into a waking dream.

That’s all he does, for a time. Ponder over things in a mix of fantasy and thought, not fully able to succumb to sleep when reality has so much to offer. For the second night, he has a sense of utter completeness, one that’s eluded him for many years, and he knows exactly why: Bilbo’s presence. If Bilbo were to leave, he’s not sure he’d ever find it again.

He’s somewhere in that hazy in-between when he hears Bilbo whisper, “Thorin?”

It’s followed by a hushed yawn and a slight kick to the sheets: limbs stretching. Thorin turns his head to the side, facing Bilbo’s tired eyes, and dares to ask, “What?”

“M’sorry,” Bilbo mumbles, garbled around another yawn. He snuggles closer beneath the sheets, easily slipping against Thorin’s side. Even though he’s fully clothed, in the low light and under the blankets as they are, it feels insanely intimate—sometimes Thorin can’t believe this isn’t already his omega. Bilbo rubs his nose into Thorin’s bicep, his leg hooking over Thorin’s thigh and his arms wrapping around Thorin’s elbow. He makes a small, needy noise, and his pheromones burst into a blazing mist of want, turning Thorin’s blood to boiling. His trousers don’t do enough to protect him, his bare skin warm wherever Bilbo touches him, the want clawing inside him. “I want you so much,” Bilbo whispers, sleep addled but intense, unmistakable. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t stop, even in my dreams, I’m chasing you...”

Thorin closes his eyes. With the smell of Bilbo all over him, he’s still not safe. He understands. He feels Bilbo’s soft tongue swipe over the curve of his shoulder and the roll of Bilbo’s full hips against his side. “Please, please,” Bilbo begs, and Thorin’s resolve is crumbling.

He mutters only, “But...”

“I know you won’t breed me,” Bilbo interrupts, sounding utterly heartbroken at the thought, though he’s still grinding himself against Thorin’s side; Thorin can feel his little cock through both their trousers. “But... just for one more night... can I have you?” The last word breaks off. There’s shame in it and hope. Thorin’s breath catches.

He didn’t give Bilbo nearly enough credit. He’s never met an omega before that would ask such a thing. Yet here he has this bunny, small and cute and soft, asking to top him. At least, he thinks that’s what Bilbo means, but it could just be his own lust fogging his ears, wanting Bilbo to be strong enough, brave enough to match him. Bilbo moans against his shoulder, nosing into the crook of his neck and pleading weakly, “Please, please... I promise not to scent mark you, I won’t, I’ll pull out...”

Thorin almost laughs. Brave and impetuous or not, he doesn’t think a little bunny could overcome the stench of a wolf, a dwarf, a king. But he rasps, “Yes,” half hoping he’ll be wrong.

He flicks his tail aside. It slips away from his rear, while his other hand—the one not locked in Bilbo’s embrace—shifts down to push at his trousers. He gets them down beneath the taut cheeks of his ass, while Bilbo makes a thick squeal of delight, pressing kisses into Thorin’s neck. Those kisses trail over Thorin’s shoulder, up onto the peak of his spine, and then Bilbo’s wriggling over, right on top of him. Thorin grunts with the weight, even though Bilbo’s lighter than any dwarf Thorin’s used to, and he’s more than strong enough to take it. Bilbo’s entire body rolls into him at once, and Thorin’s breath breaks as the outline of Bilbo’s cock rubs between his cheeks. He’s had men inside him before, but only long ago and rarely, and only ever to let off steam, not to mate. Bilbo ruts into him for a few thrusts, as though the poor bunny’s lost his head and can’t do anything else, and then he’s digging his face into the back of Thorin’s and asking, “H-how... how should I prepare you...? You won’t...?” He won’t be ready like an omega. Bilbo groans, then whimpers, “M-my own juices... I’m so wet for you—can I put them in you? I’ll be good, I promise...”

Thorin wants to laugh. He doesn’t even know how Bilbo could be bad like this, but he only nods, the thought of Bilbo’s juices pushing into him more than pleasant. Bilbo makes a giddy sound, and his hands slip down Thorin’s body, no longer clinging to Thorin’s broad shoulders. Bilbo isn’t nearly so wide as Thorin, and it feels like a bit of a balancing act, staying on top, so Thorin is careful not to throw him off. Thorin grunts when Bilbo’s small hands clutch at his ass, five fingers in each cheek. Bilbo makes a keening noise and presses his cheek against Thorin’s jaw, whining, “Thorin...”

Thorin could listen to that all night. All week, all year. A lifetime. One of Bilbo’s hands presses in between their bodies, lifted just a tad too much for Thorin to follow its movements any further. He wants to roll them over and rip Bilbo’s clothes off with his teeth, but he doesn’t want to ruin the magic of this little omega taking control.

After a bit of Bilbo’s squirming and his straining will power not to hump the mattress, Bilbo’s hand draws out. His trousers are opening, Thorin thinks, and then he can feel Bilbo’s soft shaft land between his cheeks. It’s dry, at first, but Bilbo’s fingers take care of that soon enough. A warm, sticky liquid drizzles down along his crack, and Bilbo rubs it over his hole. The thought that that liquid is Bilbo’s want makes it all the hotter. Bilbo whispers just below his ear, “You make me so wet, Thorin. I know I can’t have you, and still my hole keeps opening. My mouth waters for you. My body’s sad you won’t fill me with your cum, but at least I can pretend that I’ll put a little bit of mine in yours...”

Thorin can barely stifle his groan. Bilbo’s too alluring, too beautiful, too charming for anyone to resist. Thorin has no idea how he’s managing. Maybe he isn’t. Bilbo’s stout fingers probe at his twitching entrance, tracing it and circling it until it dilates enough for one digit to push inside. Thorin hisses at the intrusion, though it doesn’t hurt, not with Bilbo’s fingers as wet as they are and himself so eager for it. The first time Dwalin took him hard in the dirt of the fighting pit, Thorin screamed himself hoarse. Bilbo’s much smaller than that, gentler, more comfortable. It never really occurred to Thorin before, being an alpha, that getting fucked could be comfortable.

And it likely won’t be something he’ll contemplate again, because after having Bilbo, he can’t imagine he’ll ever want anyone else. He already doesn’t want anyone else. All the crude ways he tried to tide himself over in the past were mere fractions of this, and they’ve barely even started. Bilbo works his finger all the way to the knuckle before he slips it out and adds a second, coating Thorin’s walls in more juice to ease the way.

The longer Bilbo stretches him, the harder it becomes for Thorin to hold back. His hands grip tightly to the sheets, trying both to be rigid enough not to rub himself off and relaxed enough to take Bilbo inside him. His tail is swaying below the blankets, ears twitching. Bilbo brushes some of his long hair aside to nuzzle against his neck, sniffing and licking him, then moaning, “You smell so good. Thorin. Thorin... your smell...” He breaks off in a little cry, and his fingers pop out. Perhaps he doesn’t know how wild his smell drives Thorin in return.

The bulbous tip of Bilbo’s cock nudges against his opened brim, and Thorin sucks in a breath, waiting. It occurs to him just now that he hasn’t taken Bilbo yet. The first time they’ll mate, the omega’s taking him.

Then Bilbo pushes inside, and Thorin bites into the pillow while Bilbo gasps and buries his face deeper into Thorin’s neck. He pauses, trembling atop Thorin, and starts to push inside, one little bit at a time, while Thorin’s slicked walls pulse tight around him. Thorin practically wills his body open, wanting to take his lover to the hilt, and it doesn’t take long for it to reach that. Bilbo’s cock is as small and cute as the rest of him, and it sits comfortably inside Thorin’s ass, perfectly plugging up his channel.

For a moment, they both lie still. Thorin’s breathing hard, shuddering around the intrusion. It doesn’t hurt. He remembers being taken feeling strange, but it doesn’t, not really; it feels like Bilbo should be in him. He squeezes, flexing his muscles experimentally, and Bilbo keens sharply, rocking his hips and making his cock stab a little deeper. Thorin grunts but takes it. His own cock is rock-hard beneath his stomach, but neither of them touch it. Thorin fears if he does, he’ll come far too soon.

Bilbo whispers a weak, “Thorin...” Then gently pulls back his hips, drawing his cock along Thorin’s rear. It doesn’t quite pop out. The head stays locked inside, and Bilbo mewls and shoves forward again, grinding inside, hitting a different angle that makes Thorin cry out with pleasure. Ecstasy ignites inside him, snaking up his spine and twisting through his veins. Bilbo’s already pulling out again, pushing in again, his hips working into a rhythm of their own, poignant and unstoppable. There’s no hesitation anymore. He fucks Thorin in fast, hard strokes, while his arms wrap around Thorin’s middle. Thorin’s too broad for Bilbo to make it all the way, so he only flattens himself down and reaches as much as he can. His teeth open around Thorin’s neck, not biting but muffling himself, his hot breath fanning Thorin’s sweat. Bilbo’s noises are constant now, louder with each thrust.

Thorin’s no better. His body’s shaking, his thighs trembling, his hips lifting off the bed of their own accord to rise and meet Bilbo’s cock. Bilbo’s weight doesn’t deter him; he thrusts his ass into the air anyway, Bilbo squeaking and bending with him, still clutching on. Thorin’s tail curls back around Bilbo’s body like a ribbon holding him down. But Bilbo doesn’t need any help with the movement—he does that on his own. Apparently, bunnies fuck far more wildly than wolves give them credit for.

Each thrust of Bilbo’s cock is better than the last. He’s moving too erratically to hit the right spot every time, but even the ones that miss fill Thorin with Bilbo, and that’s a pleasure in itself. He can feel more of Bilbo’s juices dribbling down the cheeks of his ass, coating them both, and his own cock is leaking against the sheets. Bilbo closes his mouth again to nose at Thorin’s jaw and rasp, “Thorin, Thorin, please, ahhh, want you so...”

Thorin doesn’t want to talk. He’ll betray himself. But he groans all the same, “Bilbo,” low and deep and feral. His hips finally collapse, unable to keep balance against the haze of pleasure clouding his brain. Bilbo pounds him down into the mattress. It’s hard enough to be fucking, but Bilbo’s nuzzling and rubbing and sweet noises turn it into making love. One of Thorin’s fists releases his sheets, and he slides it down beneath his own chest, over Bilbo’s hand. His broader fingers closer around Bilbo’s small palm, trembling against Thorin’s breast. Bilbo’s hips spur on impossibly faster, like Thorin holding his hand is the hottest part of it all.

Thorin doesn’t know how he’s lasting. He doesn’t know how Bilbo’s lasting. Surely a creature so small can’t hold back its loads for long, not when it’s so intense and perfect, and Bilbo sounds like he’s never experienced anything better in his life. Then Bilbo starts to babble anew, gasping, “I want to mark you so badly.” His voice breaks, quivers, and he cries out, his next words sounding like sobs. Thorin tries to look over his shoulder and sees tears in the corner of his little bunny’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Bilbo whimpers, breathless and never slowing, “I’m so sorry. I want you, I want you so much, I want to mark you, I want you to mark me, I want to smell of you, Thorin, I don’t... I don’t know how I’ll...”

Something takes over Thorin. Something snaps. He growls suddenly, “Do it.” His eyes connect with Bilbo’s, and it only takes a second to communicate that permission.

Bilbo screams. It’s half a warrior’s roar, half an erotic cry. Bilbo’s pheromones seem to explode around Thorin, and his cock follows, bursting inside Thorin with a mass of hot, sticky seed. Thorin can feel it sloshing into him and soaking his channel, more than he’d thought possible from his little omega. Bilbo buries his face in Thorin’s hair and humps out every last drop, rolling into Thorin again and again, while his scent permeates the air. Thorin, overwhelmed, can only lie back and take it.

And then, when Bilbo’s finished and his hips are only giving short, staccato bursts, he slips out of Thorin’s widened hole. His cock nestled down between Thorin’s taut cheeks, still rubbing as if his hips can’t seem to stop, and Thorin hears, smells, then feels Bilbo pissing onto the small of Thorin’s back. Thorin wrinkles his nose at the stench, but he knows immediately what’s happening. It’s how animals have always marked their territory, and how alphas, at extremes, mark their omegas. Bilbo lifts off Thorin’s back enough to aim, hovering over him on shaking arms, and Thorin’s back feels wet and cold for the loss, sweat over his shoulder blades and Bilbo’s piss down near his tailbone. When Bilbo’s done, he stays above Thorin for a few lingering seconds, maybe admiring the view, or maybe just shocked.

Thorin’s shocked. And impressed. He takes a deep sniff, just to be sure, and looks over his back, but there’s no denying it—he reeks of Bilbo. Any other omega that came near him—any beta or alpha, for that matter—would know immediately that Thorin’s just been claimed. He speechless, and when he looks up at Bilbo, he finds his bunny looking sheepish and much the same.

Bilbo slips onto his side. The poor thing is trembling almost violently, flushed pink everywhere, covered in sweat and panting with pupils almost completely overtaking his irises, like the sheer intensity of the sex has overpowered all his senses. He takes a few seconds to writhe, maybe trying to get comfortable now that he’s no longer joined to his lover. Then he curls back around Thorin. It’s pulled their hands away from one another, but Bilbo wraps around his arm like before, looking up at him to sob, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to be so filthy, I just... I just...” Thorin makes a soothing sound, trying to hush him, and Bilbo chokes out, “I just want you so much.”

Thorin, still hard, could devour Bilbo whole. He rolls onto his back instead, letting Bilbo’s mess splash into the sheets and form a wet puddle beneath him. His ass is vaguely sore, but he can hardly feel it amongst everything else going on. Bilbo doesn’t follow him, looking too ashamed.

Thorin scoops him up in one arm, drawing him easily over, and a second later Bilbo’s lying flat atop him, chest to chest. Bilbo’s soft cock nestles against his very hard one. Bilbo rolls into it. He mumbles, “I’ll suck you off again, if you like, or you can thrust between my thighs, or my hands, or even my armpits—anything you like!” But they both must know what Thorin wants, and it takes a great deal of effort not to turn Bilbo around and check if his hole’s still dilating open.

Bilbo doesn’t wait for an answer. He starts to nose into Thorin’s chest the way they did earlier, only now there’s no tunic to push out of the way. Heedless of the dark hair covering Thorin’s skin, Bilbo licks away at him, over to his nipples and into his armpits, nosing in, sniffing everywhere like he means to memorize every part of Thorin in smell, touch, and taste.

Thorin tolerates this for as long as he can. Then he pushes at Bilbo’s shoulders, and Bilbo hesitates, rising to sit atop him. Thorin takes in the sight of him, so achingly beautiful. With a sigh, Thorin announces, “I need to clean up.”

Bilbo’s ears wilt instantly. But he slips obediently off of Thorin, leaving room for Thorin to push off the sheets and roll out of bed. His cock bobs in the air, demanding attention he’s refusing to give it. He grunts, “I’ll be right back.”

And he leans down to kiss his Bilbo’s forehead, because he can’t resist. Then he turns to head for the washroom, not sure if he’s really going for deep thought or to make use of his hand.

Deep thought is made considerably harder by his hardness, which doesn’t go down at all. By the time he emerges, it’s probably been at least an hour, but he has his answer. The nerves are still in him, the hesitation, the weight of being such a powerful figure and the responsibility of that strength. But he knows what he has to do.

He comes back to his bedroom, his cock tucked back into his trousers but straining at the threads, and he finds Bilbo Baggins sitting on the floor.

Bilbo isn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. He’s peeled it all away, down to less than he’s ever been in around Thorin; there aren’t even ribbons anymore to obscure small patches. All that covers him is his own sweat and blushes. His ears are still wilted. He’s on his knees, and Thorin means to offer a hand to help the bunny up, but he finds himself frozen and speechless as he approaches his charge. Bilbo bows his head, his hands held between his pressed-together knees. He looks like a subject pleading a master for forgiveness. He’s trembling, and it makes Thorin tense: he can hear the stifled sobs in Bilbo’s voice.

At Thorin’s silence, Bilbo sucks in a breath. Then he murmurs, “Please, Thorin... I... I know you won’t breed me, and you won’t have me. But please... mark me.”

And then he tosses his face back, throat arched and eyes closed, like he expects Thorin to piss right on his face and be done with it. He holds the pose in anticipation, lips slightly parted. His cheeks are rosy, his hair tousled from their earlier excursion. He looks so damn good that a part of Thorin leaps to obey. It’s hard to turn down such an offering.

But he manages to numbly ask, hollow and pained, “Bilbo... why?”

“Please,” Bilbo begs, leaning forward, but still with closed eyes and his face held at the ready. “Please, Thorin, I... I know you’re the one I want. Even if I ever find another alpha to breed me, you’ll be the one I wanted. I’ll always be yours, whether I’m marked or not, but I... I don’t think I could leave without something to remind me. If I can’t have you... at least let me pretend. Let me lie in bed and smell of you, let me bear your claim. Please.” He’s nearly crying by the end. He sniffs, and his nose twitches, that same little movement that first knocked Thorin hard in love.

He is in love. It feels foolish to have denied it so long. The thought of sending Bilbo away, smelling of him but having never had him, makes the little hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He can’t keep a bunny here. But he can claim Bilbo tonight and try to fight for him after.

Thorin doesn’t have any choice. He’s given up thinking that. His body decided for him, the minute he first discovered Bilbo’s scent wafting over to him.

He tells Bilbo in a low growl, “Get on the bed.”

Bilbo’s eyes open. He looks terribly hopeful, even for an omega that thinks they’re only getting marked. He quickly turns around and scrambles up onto the mattress, kicking the sheets away. He lies on his front, his hands curled cutely against his chest, his back dipped low and his ass clearly making an effort to rise as enticingly as possible. His tail flicks up and back, showing off the ample cheeks. Clearly, he doesn’t realize yet that he no longer has to try so hard.

Thorin climbs slowly onto the bed, eyeing Bilbo’s shapely form and bidding, “No, on your back. I want to see your face.”

Bilbo obeys just as quickly. He rolls right over, facing up and spreading his legs. His cock, lying across his stomach, is half hard again, his slit below glistening with moisture. Thorin eyes the hole beneath that, drizzling a clear liquid and trying to open. It looks as though Bilbo’s spent hours on the end of a stimulation toy, made to wet himself all over. His thighs are smeared with his juices, and his body looks ready for Thorin, right up to his perked nipples. With his fluffy ears flopped over Thorin’s pillow, Bilbo looks up at him and asks, “Will you rub it into me, so it’ll last?”

“When I’m done putting my child in your belly, yes,” Thorin answers, now climbing between Bilbo’s spread legs.

Bilbo’s eyes go very wide. He opens his mouth, but no more words come out. Thorin settles against him, stronger thighs slipping under Bilbo’s. He grabs Bilbo’s knees and hikes them up around him, then descends on his elbows so he can brush his lips over Bilbo’s.

He’s moaning the second he does. He melts into Bilbo, wondering how he ever resisted this in the first place. Bilbo’s lips are soft and smooth and delicate, and Thorin drags across them until Bilbo lunges up. He snaps to life, his tongue thrusting suddenly forward and his hands grabbing at Thorin’s cheeks, fingers sliding back into his hair. The dark strands cascade down around them, and Thorin rolls his body once against Bilbo, feeling everything.

When he’s done, he’s ready, and he parts their lips to purr, “Say you want me again.”

“I want you,” Bilbo breathes, needy and helpless with his cock twitching against Thorin’s stomach. “I want you, I want you, Thorin, I do.” Thorin shoves one hand between their bodies, opening his trousers again.

He pulls out his cock, painfully stiff, and holds the tip of it between Bilbo’s cheeks. It’s easy to find Bilbo’s hole: his body seems to gravitate towards it. The puckered brim opens right up for him, covered in liquid, trying to beckon him inside. He holds his forehead down against Bilbo’s, their noses crushed together and the air shared between them, and he savours that moment for several delicious seconds.

Then he pushes in, and Bilbo arches up, tossing his head aside to scream. The pleasure in it makes Thorin want to break apart. He growls his own roar as he slides inside, trying to be smooth and slow but unable to stop. He knows he shouldn’t go in all at once, but Bilbo is so hot, so wet and open for him, and it’s a perfect fit: like Bilbo’s body wants to swallow him up. He listens sharply for pain in Bilbo’s voice, but none comes. Nothing stops him. He slips forward, deeper by bare fractions, until his balls are tight against Bilbo’s rear and there’s nothing left to stuff inside. Bilbo holds onto him, pulsating around him, and Thorin wraps both his arms around Bilbo’s shaking body, holding on so tight.

He’ll never be able to let Bilbo go. He knows that now. It was foolish to think he could’ve. He would’ve chased Bilbo down to the Shire if he had to. He’d abdicate the throne to Dìs, if it came to that. If there’s any truth in gods, Bilbo was made for him.

Bilbo pants hot in his ear, “Thorin, Thorin,” and Thorin nods in understanding. He pulls his hips out as much as he can bear. The tip stays held inside. His tries to lift up on his elbows while his arms stay below Bilbo’s back, along Bilbo’s shoulders. Bilbo runs small palms down his biceps, squeezing at his muscles. Thorin pushes back inside.

Bilbo gasps, Thorin growls again, fierce with lust and a possessive streak. He can still smell Bilbo’s stench on him, and he wants to return the favour. Bilbo owns him. He’ll own Bilbo. He dives in for a kiss, so harsh that it shoves Bilbo down into the pillow, but Bilbo only mewls happily against him.

Another thrust, then another. Thorin sets into strong strokes—he wants to be gentle but can’t this first round—he’s waited too long and he wants this too much—and Bilbo’s proven himself so much stronger than Thorin’s given him credit for. Even now, Bilbo takes the relentless pounding of Thorin’s cock with only adoration on his face, bouncing right back onto Thorin every time. There are tears in the corners of his eyes, and Thorin doesn’t have to ask to know they’re of happiness. Their bond is already forming. He can sense his mate’s pleasure. He lifts his mouth to lick Bilbo’s tears away, while Bilbo laughs between sobs and cries and pets back his hair.

Bilbo feels so good. It doesn’t seem possible. Thorin doubts anything else will satisfy him again, not even his own hand, not if he could have Bilbo’s, any part of Bilbo. He tries to worship Bilbo’s body; his head’s clouded over, focused on the plush walls of Bilbo’s ass, but his hands run where they can, tracing over Bilbo’s small shoulders, down his flat chest, over his round belly, the hairs so much softer and lighter than a dwarf’s but nonetheless appealing. He clutches at Bilbo’s full hips, along his thighs, back over the swell of his stomach that’ll grow when Thorin’s done his work. They’ll have the sweetest children, he thinks, brave and intelligent and newly exciting. Thorin hopes they’ll look just like their father—the cuter one.

He runs his stubbled chin along Bilbo’s, then locks his teeth around Bilbo’s nose, not biting or hurting but tracing the groove of it, forcing him to laugh in delight when Bilbo twitches it. Then Thorin kisses his cheeks, one at a time, and back down to his lips. As soon as they’re free, Bilbo pants, “I love you so much.” It doesn’t even seem strange to Thorin. They’ve just met, but they’re an alpha and an omega and they’re two puzzle pieces that fit together. Bilbo looks like he might cry again, bouncing up and down on Thorin’s cock and gasping, “I wanted you so much.”

“I wanted you too,” Thorin hisses—there’s no point in holding back. He’s sure Bilbo can feel, sense, smell his love, but he drives it home anyway, grinding his hips in deep. “And I love you too, Bilbo Baggins. I was a fool to think I didn’t. But I will have you, and I will treat you right...”

“I’ll be good for you,” Bilbo whines, full of promises, his arms back around Thorin’s shoulders to keep them tight together, chest-to-chest with Bilbo’s stout cock rubbing between them. “I’ll love you to the end of my days and follow you anywhere you should go.”

Thorin shivers, not wanting him or Bilbo to go anywhere but here. He wishes they could stay in this bed forever. He wishes he could take Bilbo forever. But it’s been too long, and he’s too hard, and soon it’s too much to take. It amazes him he’s lasted as far as he has, having taken Bilbo inside him, and he can still feel it when he clenches. He cups Bilbo’s cheek in one rough palm and pulls his mouth away to scream, buckling in desire.

His orgasm hits him like a stampede. It’s the greatest he’s ever felt by far, and his balls respond accordingly. The lake he pumps into Bilbo is a tidal wave, one hot flood after the other that has Bilbo arching up and shrieking, his cock bursting a second time between them. His release splatters their chests while Thorin’s fills Bilbo’s channel, soaking it to the brim.

When it comes sloshing out the sides, Thorin’s still emptying his load, and he jerks out of Bilbo with a roar, remembering his bunny’s words. He points his cock down at Bilbo’s rear and lets his release splash everywhere. It sloshes between Bilbo’s spread cheeks, clinging to the pink lips below his cock and the base of his shaft, sticking all over. Thorin drenches Bilbo’s bottom, until he’s shaking the last few drops along Bilbo’s thighs, and Bilbo’s lying spent below him, panting beautifully.

Thorin just stares. His head is spinning, and he needs those few moments to get his bearings. Bilbo looks beautiful and wondrously hot. But then he bites his lip and murmurs between gasps for air, “You... said you’d... mark me...”

“I did,” Thorin growls, though he knows there’s more to it. He shakes his head, muttering, “I’ll need a few minutes.” But he’ll do it. He will. For now, he enjoys the mix of Bilbo reeking of him and him reeking of Bilbo, before he empties another wolf load and tips the scales. He can feel his tail flicking happily. With how much water his cock can hold, they might not want to do it here, lest he ruin the whole bed.

He sighs, “I’ll clean you up,” and moves to scoop his arms under Bilbo’s sides.

But Bilbo whines and pushes at him, mewling, “Not yet. I don’t want to lose any of it.” So Thorin just grins and kisses Bilbo’s sweaty forehead. At least putting something off forces Bilbo to stay.

Thorin can at least reach for the blankets. He kicks out of his own trousers first, because there’s no sense having a barrier between him and his mate. Drawing the blankets with him, he curls up next to Bilbo’s side and throws an arm protectively over his hobbit’s stomach. They lie together in silence, basking in the afterglow and the tightening threads of their bond.

Then Thorin asks, heavy but unsure after the words spoken during sex, “How long will you stay?”

Bilbo looks aside at him, blinking cutely and saying, “I hadn’t meant to leave at all.” Donning a sheepish grin, he adds, “I knew I wouldn’t want to the minute I met you. Didn’t you realize by now that I need a bit more adventure than the Shire? Although I wouldn’t mind a vacation back, here and there.”

“But you’ll stay with me,” Thorin confirms, hardly able to believe his ears. Bilbo nods like it’s an easy decision that doesn’t require any thought. He rolls onto his side, snuggling up close. He rubs his nose against Thorin’s, and Thorin gives in to rubbing it back. He’ll have to thank Balin in the morning.

He’ll have to talk to Dís in the morning.

But first, he’ll have to show his new mate around their home, and figure out how to introduce the newest prince of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield’s omega.

Chapter Text

He returns from practice sweaty, already stripping off his coat when he comes through the door. Dwalin’s grown fiercer since learning he’d be a father soon, and Thorin’s no better. Paternal instincts give him extra strength, both to prepare himself to protect his child and to impress his mate, although at this point, he’s accepted the fact that Bilbo isn’t going anywhere.

Indeed, he finds his little bunny tucked into their grand bed, wearing one of his thin, lacy nightgowns with the sheer fabric stretched taut over his round belly. A map is strewn out before him, and he lets go of the edges when he sees Thorin enter the room. Whatever news Thorin had to tell slips out of his mind. He’s struck with the beauty of his omega, just as he is every time they meet anew. By the time he reaches the bed, he’s down to just his tunic and trousers.

He takes a seat beside Bilbo and leans down for a kiss, Bilbo automatically rising to meet it. He makes a mewling noise and tries to deepen it, but Thorin has other plans. He kisses Bilbo’s chin and tilts it up, kissing down his throat and along the dip in his collarbone. Thorin’s fingers brush one strap down Bilbo’s shoulder, the ribbon easily tugged aside, and he dips the hemline as low as he can, until Bilbo’s nipple is properly exposed. His breasts have swollen slightly with his pregnancy, still flat but fatter, and Thorin runs his tongue straight to the center, lapping at the tiny bud.

Bilbo makes a keening noise and fidgets, but he doesn’t pull away. Hobbits are, apparently, very fertile, and even though their pup is still just a nugget inside Bilbo’s belly, Bilbo’s milk is still readily accessible. Thorin takes the hardening nub between his lips and sucks until his mouth fills with the rich liquid, far sweeter than anything else in his diet. Sometimes he thinks of breeding Bilbo constantly and raising a full litter, just to keep this milk available to him.

For now, Bilbo lets him drink it, squirming here and there and whimpering, threading his tiny fingers in Thorin’s hair to hold him on. Thorin is careful with his teeth but hard with his suction, and he wraps an arm around Bilbo’s waist to pull him up and hold him in. Bilbo gasps and holds on. By the time Thorin lets him go, he’s flushed and trembling.

He nuzzles his face into the side of Thorin’s and moans, “Thorin... breed me again.”

But Thorin only chuckles, “Patience, little one. We already have one on the way.”

Bilbo whimpers but nods, turning to press his face into the crook of Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin snuggles closer, squirming under the blankets and curling up around his bunny. Bilbo’s considerably heavier, but Thorin can still manage to tug Bilbo into his lap. From there, Bilbo tugs the corner of the map and sighs, “I’d like to visit some of these places, when we can. Only for a little while; I know it’s difficult for you to get away...”

“I can afford family vacations,” Thorin assures him. “...Once the baby has come, and our family is secure.” In truth, he thinks it might be good to get away; his life was growing too stagnant before his Bilbo came. He likes new things, likes adventure, though he never thought a bunny would be the one to show him that.

Smiling happily, Bilbo rolls the map up. Thorin plucks it from his hands and places it on the nightstand, returning his attention to Bilbo. Pulling his strap back into place, Bilbo settles back against his wolf.

By the time the night falls, they’ve already drifted to sleep in one another’s arms, only good tidings on the wind.