Oh No. The Inside Thoughts Got Out.

Summary - Two *very* good ‘friends’ share dinner and a dance

A/N - I am so sorry I have been missing for so long, I’ve had so much going on and I’m hoping to upload a little more regularly from now on. However, I found this in my drafts and I couldn’t not post this during pride month. I hope you’re having a lovely pride month whoever you might be and be proud of yourself, your identity and those who paved the way for us x

Most people on their little street knew that the two men living in the cosy cottage at the end of the road were just two middle-aged bachelors saving money by cohabiting together; perhaps they knew better but chose not to comment. After all, Bilbo, the shorter one with such lovely chestnut curls, went all out for bake sales and other community events. His blueberry muffins were just to die for, and their next-door neighbour, Mrs Simmons, had been trying to get her hands on Bilbo’s treacle tart recipe since he gave a tart to her as a gesture of goodwill when they moved in.

Of course, his husband friend, Thorin, was so helpful with repairs and other such matters, especially when it came to woodworking, that he was almost putting the local handyman out of business! They were such pillars of the community that no one commented on the abundance of lavender growing in the front garden. If asked, neighbours would dismiss any potential connotations and comment on how lovely it smelled and how wonderful Bilbo’s lavender, lemon and Earl Grey biscuits tasted before quite firmly turning the conversation to other matters.

At 6:54 pm on the dot, Thorin’s black Ford Poplar would trundle along the road and pull into their drive. Bilbo would be waiting by the front door, having given up on subtlety a long time ago. As soon as the door shut, they would share a tender kiss in the privacy of their own home, where no one could see. Thorin had to travel into the city for his job working in his family’s company: Durin Jewellery. Bilbo had originally taken a part-time job in the local bookshop, but when the previous owner had retired, he had given it to Bilbo on the promise that he would receive a discount whenever he came in, which Bilbo was more than happy to oblige.

On this particular summery Friday evening, Thorin’s car comes to a stop on the drive a few hours later than usual. He sits back in the driver's seat, letting the exhaustion wash over him and his muscles go lax. Today had been unjustifiably long, their client had not been satisfied with the original designs Thorin had presented them with and had spent many hours in that meeting with them, drawing and redrawing necklaces, bracelets and earrings until his client was satisfied; and that was on top of everything else he had to do today. The sky had nearly turned to night, the last vestiges of a lovely evening still clinging to the stars. The living room lights are on, their soft glow illuminating the beautifully planted flowerbeds beneath the windows. Wearily, he pulls himself from the car, picking up his briefcase, hat and jacket and heading inside.

“Bilbo?” He calls out to his husband. While not legally married, they both wore rings on chains hidden beneath crisp, ironed shirts, having exchanged whispered vows to one another on a quiet evening a few years ago.

“Out here, Thorin!”

Bilbo calls back from the garden. Bilbo comes jogging through the back door to the entry hall, where he shares a gentle kiss with Thorin before pulling Thorin’s things from his hands.

“Come, I have prepared a surprise for you. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten?”

Thorin shakes his head, curious and amused about what Bilbo has planned. Bilbo’s face is slightly flushed, a wide, excited grin on his lips and a twinkle in his eye. Bilbo takes his hand and pulls him towards the back garden where romantic music floats on a warm night breeze.

On the wooden table and chairs in the garden, a bottle of Thorin’s favourite wine is waiting along with two glasses, next to two plates of steaming shepherd’s pie smothered in gravy, just the way Thorin likes it. Lanterns are hung at various points around the garden, illuminating the scene in flickering, golden light. The cherry on top, of course, is their brand new record player balanced atop a large, empty plant pot, music dancing around them. Bilbo looks at Thorin suddenly hesitant at Thorin’s lack of reaction.

“Do you like it? Mr Hatfield came into the shop today and mentioned he was selling it along with a few of the records and I just thought- mmf!”

Bilbo is cut off as Thorin’s lips come down on his, banishing all thoughts from his head as he melts into the kiss. His hand finds its way to Thorin’s hair as he is held in a crushing embrace. Eventually, they both relax, content to stand there gently swaying to the music.

“Thank you, my darling. Thank you so much, this is…it’s wonderful.”

Thorin murmurs into those curls that he adores so much.

“Happy Anniversary dearest.”

Bilbo whispers back.

Thorin pulls back and flashes Bilbo a mischievous grin, which Bilbo isn’t sure he likes the look of. Thorin slides one hand down to Bilbo’s waist and takes Bilbo’s hand in the other. Hidden in their secret haven, away from prying eyes and discriminatory laws, they dance. Bilbo laughs as he trips over Thorin’s feet, nearly sending both of them into the fence.

“Oh, you silly thing! I’ve two left feet!”

Thorin chuckles, his firm grip and strong balance keeping Bilbo on his feet.

“Don't worry, I’ve got you.”

Summary - Bilbo has left Erebor and is heading home, accompanied by Gandalf. Although Gandalf doesn’t understand why Bilbo didn’t stay.

A/N - I apologise for the break in between posts, it’s been a very busy couple of weeks. In light of recent events, this one’s been inspired by my favourite Ozzy song ‘Ordinary Man’ funnily enough. I absolutely could not stomach doing one to ‘Mama I’m Coming Home’ at this time. I hope you enjoy it.

Bilbo’s bones seem to creak in the cold, and his whole body feels heavy with exhaustion and a strange sort of grief and yet a relief of some unknown weight from his shoulders. Two weeks ago he’d bidden goodbye to the company one by one, given tearful hugs to Fili and Kili who are both still confined to bed rest and pressed a secret kiss to Thorin’s temple; with Thorin still unconscious from the battle, it would be his secret to take home with him and plant with his acorn.

Despite his longing to stay, there is no need for a hobbit in a dwarven kingdom. Everyone had their place, their plans, their dreams and…well Bilbo’s plans involved a lovely evening in his armchair next to his fireplace with a book and a warm mug of cider back in his hobbit hole. Goodness yes, it would’ve been lovely to pop and see Dori on a Wednesday morning for a pot of tea or discuss recipes with Bombur or spend quiet evenings with Thorin. But he’s a hobbit and hobbits belong surrounded by earth, not by stone. Some might argue that he would still be living underground but that’s not here nor there, Bilbo had made up his mind that he was going home.

He was currently between Laketown and Mirkwood and what a joyous prospect traversing back through that forest alone was. Bilbo had made up the fire just as Gloin had taught him all those months ago, set up his camp as Dwalin had done many times over. But sitting on his bedroll in front of that fire with a lonely bowl of stew, one of Bombur’s recipes, there is no nostalgia or familiarity in his chest. A rustle in the bushes sends him scrambling for Sting, eyes peering uncertainly through the leaves. Not for the first time, he wishes he had the dwarves' ability to see clearly in the dark.

“Bilbo Baggins!”

Gandalf’s relieved voice breaks through the tension as he wanders into view.

“I have been looking all over for you! I promised to deliver you home again did I not?”

Bilbo’s thundering heart slowly begins to settle back in his chest after sitting in his throat for a good couple of seconds there.

“Gandalf. What a relief it is to see you again, although I would appreciate not having the living daylights scared out of me again like that.”

Gandalf shakes his head and huffs a slightly exasperated sigh, making up a bowl of stew for himself (without asking, Bilbo noted) and dropping himself onto the bedroll beside Bilbo.

“My dear fellow, why didn’t you stay longer at the mountain? Why such a rush to get home?”

Bilbo opens his mouth and closes it again, not having a response.

“Well, the company have their home back and I would very much like to return to mine. Yavanna knows the state I left Bag End in, my father would’ve been rolling in his grave.”

“Ah but your mother would’ve been so proud of you, you’ve certainly proved your Tookish ancestry. I think this is the furthest a hobbit has been from the Shire since the Wandering Days.”

Gandalf points out, with a twinkle in his eyes. Bilbo allows the smile to tug at his lips.

“I can’t wait to hear what Lobelia has to say about it all.”

A comfortable silence stretches between them as they slurp their stew and listen to the quiet noises of the night.

“Perhaps I was wrong.”

Bilbo looks at him as if he has grown a second head.

“Wrong? About what Gandalf?”

Gandalf pulls his battered and worn pipe from a pocket within his robes and begins packing it. The smell of Old Toby makes Bilbo’s heart ache strangely, his fingers itching to make a grab for the pouch and bury his face in it.

“That you would not return the same hobbit as you left as. You have certainly changed in some ways, yes. But the fundamentals of your character are as identical as the day you left. Your proclivity for the finer things in life, your comforts. That very Hobbit sense of manners and hospitality. Not willing to potentially overstay your welcome.”

Gandalf watches Bilbo from the corner of his eye and lights the pipe, smoke curling into the sky.

“You could’ve stayed among them.”

He holds up a hand to stop Bilbo’s protests.

“No, you know as well as I do that you could’ve stayed. They thought of you as family Bilbo, there would’ve been a place for you.”

Bilbo takes the proffered pipe and takes a long drag, a rush of emotion seeming to fill up his lungs with the smoke.

“Perhaps. But they are dwarves and I, a hobbit; I didn’t belong there. I will die before any of them Gandalf, years before them, centuries before some. They were my friends and I didn’t want to say goodbye but they’ll be alright without me.”

He turns to face Gandalf fully, letting tears glimmer in his eyes, surprisingly they aren’t of sadness. Bilbo blows a smoke ring before continuing.

“I do however think you were right, I have changed. Life in the Shire had become monotonous and I needed something. I didn’t want to die an ordinary man and you gave me the chance I needed to do that. My name will not go down in their history books and I shan’t be more than a footnote in hobbit history but to me? I will have been someone, if only for a while and that will be enough.”

Gandalf is surprised to find his own eyes burning as he takes the pipe back.

“They shan’t forget you, my friend, never. And neither shall I. Besides, I think Bofur was already writing a drinking song in your honour.”

CW - 18+ for Sex and (respected) withdrawal of consent

Summary - Bilbo and Thorin’s wedding night doesn’t quite go how either of them expected.

A/N - I’m sorry for the slower upload, it’s nearly been a whole week since I’ve posted and I’m feeling a tad guilty so sorry about that. I hope you all enjoy my version of a trope I’ve seen a few times before. Would we like a Pt. 2 👀?

The hour is late. Many people, men, dwarves and elves alike not so much dancing but stumbling around the dance floor, an interesting mixture of slightly inebriated to completely pissed. Up at the head table, a quite tipsy Bilbo is chatting to Bard who’s pretty deep into his cups about something or other to do with fishing. Bilbo’s circlet is slightly lopsided atop his head, the silver and sapphires glinting in the candlelight. An enticing flush has spread from his nose to the tips of his ears as he props his chin on his hand. His tunic and robes of a beautiful cream shade embroidered with genuine silver thread have a strange stain on the sleeve and while present Bilbo cannot find it within himself to care, future Bilbo does in fact wish he’d taken more care as he sprints from Dori’s wrath and sewing scissors.

Thorin is wobbling up to the table, having shed his outer robe at some point during the reception. Bilbo immediately focuses on his new husband, undressing him with his eyes. Just when he thought Thorin couldn’t possibly get more attractive, he is swept out of his chair into a bridal carry. A raucous cheer goes up with a few wolf whistles scattered across the crowd.

“Thank you all for coming to our union!”

Thorin’s voice carries easily over the noise, Bilbo can feel the vibrations through Thorin’s chest and shivers slightly, his trousers feeling that little bit tighter.

“I am off to bed my hobbit! Goodnight!”

With that, Thorin is striding from the hall, carrying Bilbo like he weighs nothing. The thought of not bothering to wait until they get back to the privacy of their shared chambers does cross Bilbo’s mind but he doesn’t particularly want anyone else to be staring at his husband’s wonderful arse. The click of the bedroom door is loud in the otherwise quiet room, the only other sound being the flames crackling in the fireplace.

As soon as Thorin carefully lowers Bilbo onto the bed, Bilbo grabs Thorin’s collar and hauls his dwarf on top of him with a soft ‘oof’ at the sudden weight. Their first make-out session as King and Royal Consort is full of unrestrained lust and burning passion. The kisses are sloppy from the alcohol, hot in more ways than one and bruising. When they both break the kiss to breathe, gulping in air, their hips grinding against each other, all their clothing suddenly feels stifling. Why in Yavanna’s name did Bilbo choose a waistcoat with so many fucking buttons?!

Thorin’s trousers are barely halfway down his thighs before Bilbo lunges forward, still fully clothed, and takes Thorin in his mouth. The sheer, unadulterated passion crashes into Bilbo like a tsunami, to finally be able to be intimate with his husband after all these months is almost akin to relief. He traces his tongue over the sensitive nerves there but Thorin’s hand is on his shoulder and pushing him away. Disappointment sits heavy in Bilbo’s chest but he immediately pulls back and puts some distance between himself and Thorin.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Bilbo asks carefully, keeping his hands where Thorin can see them. Thorin for his part does indeed look ravishing, his hair a complete mess, his face and chest flushed with a thin sheen of sweat but the slightly horrified expression on his face stops Bilbo in his tracks.

“What in Mahal’s name were you doing?!”

Thorin asks, eyes wide with shock. Bilbo looks at him, confused, and tilts his head slightly.

“I was going to suck you off? Some foreplay I suppose?”

The blood abruptly drains from Bilbo’s face.

“I-I am so sorry Thorin, I should’ve known. I should’ve asked for your consent before doing anything like that, especially since we’ve not had any sexual contact during our courtship. I wrongfully assumed with your body language and what you said earlier that you wanted to have sex with me. If you want me to leave-“

Bilbo knows he’s rambling but the absolute guilt and self-hatred in this moment seems to take control of his mouth and cut off access to his brain.

“No, don’t leave. I meant putting my…my…hammer in your mouth. That’s unsanitary, I urinate from there!”

Bilbo sits back on his knees and looks, really looks at Thorin.

“What?”

“You can’t put my hammer in your mouth, it’s not clean.”

Thorin emphasises, his erection slowly flagging. Bilbo blinks, trying to absorb the information.

“I assume you went through the same rigorous bathing I did before the ceremony with all the scrubbing and anointing oils?”

“Yes?”

“Right. So you’re clean.”

“But I pee out of there.”

“… Were you intending to pee in my mouth?”

Bilbo asks slowly, trying to suss out the bizarre situation he’s found himself in. Thorin looks absolutely disgusted by the thought.

“Mahal no!”

Bilbo holds up his hands.

“Okay, okay. No judgement here, some people enjoy that, I was just trying to figure out what’s wrong.”

“You’re trying to put my hammer in your mouth. That’s not safe.”

“Not safe?”

Bilbo asks and quickly puts up a hand.

“And why do you keep calling your cock a hammer?”

“Because it is?”

Thorin says confidently but there’s an undercurrent of confusion there.

Bilbo is well and truly soft at this point so he just sighs, gets to his feet and gently leads Thorin to sit on the bed with him.

“Thorin are you a virgin?”

Bilbo asks carefully.

“Of course I’m not. I’m King of Erebor and a rather attractive dwarf, of course I-“

“Thorin.”

“Yes.”

Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Right. This is beginning to make sense.”

Bilbo looks upwards, knowing the gods are laughing at him and silently prays for strength.

“What-…what is the extent of your sexual knowledge?”

Thorin shifts uncomfortably on the bed, folding his arms over his chest.

“I don’t see why that’s relevant.”

Bilbo reaches out to touch him but hesitates, looking at Thorin for permission. Thorin nods and Bilbo places his hand on Thorin’s upper arm, thumb soothingly swiping over the skin.

“It’s not a question to embarrass you or to mock you. I simply want to know where we’re both starting from.”

This seems to reassure Thorin as the tension seems to release from his shoulders and his hands drop into his lap.

“The only knowledge I have is from the lessons my tutor gave me on conceiving an heir. Sex is not openly discussed among dwarrow and certainly only done within married couples. It is just simply not done.”

Bilbo nods, staying quiet to encourage Thorin to continue.

“My tutor told me that dwarves have hammers and dwarrowdams have forges. That the hammer is inserted into the forge and with Mahal’s blessing, a child shall be created.”

The low dwarven birth rate suddenly makes a lot of sense to Bilbo.

“What about homosexuals? Where there are no forges or no hammers? Obviously, there is no child but what about sex for the sake of pleasure? What did you expect for us?”

Thorin blanks there, obviously stumped.

“I…I don’t know.”

Thorin turns to look at Bilbo.

“Is this not the same for hobbits?”

Bilbo thinks back to all the times he snuck into Farmer Maggot’s barn for a tumble in the hay bales, nights after various parties with drunken, whispered fumbling in the dark, sneaking out of various bedrooms before suspecting parents came looking.

“No.”

A solid hour and one very explicit discussion later, a very erect Thorin sits across from Bilbo, looking rather eager.

“So can we try some of that stuff?”

Bilbo takes one look at Thorin’s face then another at his crotch.

Summary - Single middle-aged hobbits in your area! And don’t some of your local dwarves know about it.

A/N - Might do a part two to this one, let me know in the comments who you’d like Bilbo to end up with! I also don’t mind having to write more than one ending ;)

By hobbit standards, Bilbo was much too thin and honestly a little too tall. His lack of interest in marriage also didn’t help his cause. However to dwarves? Bilbo is stunning and exotic with auburn curls, bright green eyes and endearing freckles.

Fili, Kili, and Ori were certainly out of the running, far too young. Gloin and Bombur were both married and obviously had no interest. Oin and Bifur cited that they were too old to be doing with courting and both were married to their craft anyhow. Balin had said a similar thing but everyone could see how he and Dori tend to go for ‘walks’ most evenings and come back looking vaguely dishevelled. This leaves Thorin, Dwalin, Bofur and Nori.

The four of them had discussed the topic in the garden the first night at Beorn’s whilst the others slept. Thorin had declared his intent to woo their local burglar while lazily smoking his pipe and smoothly suggesting that the others back off as he was their king. Dwalin told him in no uncertain terms that he was to fuck off and if it was so important to him, to shove that bloody crown where the sun doesn’t shine. Bofur added that between the three of them, they’ve been attempting to woo Bilbo since Bree; just because it’s taken the twat under the mountain months to realise that Bilbo is Middle Earth’s most eligible bachelor doesn’t mean the rest of the company are oblivious. Treason and attempted murder are added to the list of the company’s crimes.

The following morning at breakfast, a sleep-mussed Bilbo sits at the table rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

“Mornin’ Bilbo.”

Bofur says cheerily, sliding a plate of generously buttered bread smothered in honey across the table.

“Sleep well?”

Bilbo nods and pulls the plate closer, humming in agreement.

“Very well, thank you Bofur.”

“Anything for my favourite hobbit.”

Bofur gives Bilbo a grin and a wink, smirking at his other competitors as Bilbo blushes to the tips of his ears. The mug in Thorin’s hand creaks dangerously, Nori settles for a glare and Dwalin chews his own bread and honey with undue aggression.

After breakfast, Dwalin hauls Bilbo off for training. Apparently, today they’re focusing on hand-to-hand combat. Dwalin demonstrates a particular throw which involves a very firm hand on Bilbo’s arse. Bilbo stammers, concerningly red but doesn’t pull away from Dwalin’s grip. Obviously, Bilbo can’t actually throw Dwalin, a combination of muscle-dense dwarf and lack of strength on Bilbo’s part but he tries his absolute best; getting right up close to Dwalin. After about the sixth time Dwalin grabs a handful of Bilbo’s behind, and smirks at the others watching, the mouthpiece of Bofur’s pipe breaks off between his teeth and Nori is spinning a knife between his fingers in a vaguely threatening fashion. Thorin stormed off a while ago to go and sulk under the tree.

Nori manages to snag the seat next to Bilbo during lunch, asking Bilbo about his life in the Shire and simply listening to him talk. Bilbo seems over the moon about being able to gush about his gardening, books and the general mundane.

“So what about hobbit courtship rituals?”

Nori asks mock casually. Bilbo pauses mid-chew and thinks for a moment.

“How do hobbits court? Well, it usually begins with a very thoughtful bouquet, flowers hold a lot of meaning to hobbits and you don’t want to send the wrong message.”

“And what flowers might those be?”

Nori scoots a little closer, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“Oh well, pink camellias are always good, they mean longing. White carnations too, they mean sweet or pure love. Red tulips are an absolute staple as they represent a declaration of love. Baby’s breath, blue hyacinths, daisies and daffodils are safe bets too. I’ve always loved honeysuckle; my mother used to grow it by the front door. It smelled so wonderful and it shall forever remind me of her. My father included it in his bouquet.”

Nori nods along with his words. A certain four dwarves in the room are making mental notes even though not a single one of them has any idea what most of those flowers are, let alone identifying them.

“And these certain flowers are important? You can’t just pick any then?”

Bilbo looks mildly scandalised.

“Goodness yes. If you offered someone a bouquet made up of geraniums or orange lilies you’d be quite likely to receive a tight slap!”

All four simultaneously scratch off the idea of just picking a few flowers from Beorn’s garden off the list.

Summary - One last night before they face Smaug and the world as they know it burns before their eyes.

CW - Vague mention of sex

A/N - My Khudzul translations are from The Dwarven Scholar. I see a lot of people using Welsh as the hobbit’s language so that’s what I’ve done here as well.

Halwûn meaning sweet one and Cariad is Welsh for love or sweetheart.

I hope you enjoy!

The rooms in Laketown were small and dingy but a far greater improvement on the majority of their resting places as of yet. The bed creaks awkwardly and there are strange stains on the mattress which Bilbo and Thorin have added to tonight. Bilbo wriggles out of Thorin’s far too warm embrace, made in Mahal’s forge indeed, and on shaky legs makes his way to the window to open it. The lake shimmers under the moonlight, lazily swaying in the cool night air. Erebor is visible from their room and gods, how beautiful it is.

“Halwûn?”

But how could Erebor ever hope to compare to the most heavenly beauty Middle-earth has ever seen?

“Yes, Cariad?”

Bilbo turns to sleepy eyes, blinking awake, and Thorin propping himself up on an elbow. He studies Bilbo for a moment before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, joining Bilbo at the window. He loops an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, pulling him to his chest.

“It’s magnificent.”

Bilbo murmurs, resting his head against Thorin’s shoulder.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Thorin replies but his eyes are gazing at Bilbo, not the mountain. Bilbo doesn’t say anything for a moment, knowing where Thorin’s eyes are and instead focuses on the steady beat of his beloved’s heart and desperately tries not to think of how it may not beat again. Even so, unbidden tears spring to his eyes. Thorin knows instantly and instead, wordlessly, takes those soft cheeks between work and war-roughened hands and carefully smoothes the tears away. Nothing needs to be said, the understanding hangs heavily in the air between them. Thorin pulls Bilbo’s face to the crook of his neck and Bilbo clutches Thorin painfully tight as if he is afraid that if he lets go that all he truly loves in this world shall disappear; and perhaps he is right.

For a while they stand like that, a calloused hand stroking through soft curls; tears soaking skin and hair alike. The embrace loosens and while Bilbo is reluctant to let go, Thorin is stepping back.

“Marry me. Please.”

The words a barely more than a whisper, pleading. Bilbo’s head and heart scream at him ‘Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!’ But instead what he says is:

“What?”

Thorin drops to his knees, Bilbo’s hands encased in his larger ones.

“I lay my sword, heart and soul at your feet Bilbo Baggins.”

Thorin’s words are quiet, sincere.

“In case we don’t see the overmorrow’s dawn, I want to marry you. Here and now. I know it is not what you deserve, you deserve the grandest wedding Arda has ever seen but…”

Thorin inhales shakily, a tear escaping down his cheek, eyes full of hope as he begs Bilbo.

“I cannot imagine life without you. If you told me even if only on a whim, to abdicate the throne, to abandon the quest, I would without question. I cannot face the thought of entering Mahal’s Halls without accomplishing what I now see is what I truly want in life. Please…please marry me.”

“Yes.”

Bilbo surprises the both of them, dropping to his own knees before Thorin. Their lips crash together in a mess of teeth, tears and sweet relief.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Thorin scrambles to his feet, pulling Bilbo up with him, a gleeful almost madness in his eyes. He pulls the bead from his braid at his left temple and takes Bilbo’s hands in his own, cupping the bead together.

“Bilbo Baggins. With this bead, I thee wed. I swear upon Mahal and the stars He has forged to honour, love, protect and treasure you for the rest of our days. I shall shield you from the mightiest of blows. I shall love you come what may. Should I ever break this vow, may the gods themselves strike me down for all to see.”

Bilbo swallows, throat tight and suddenly not trusting his words not to come out as sobs.

“Thorin Oakenshield. I uh…I don’t have a bead.”

Thorin chuckles wetly.

“No matter. We shall forge wedding beads together once we have reclaimed the mountain.”

They both know that is a promise he may not be able to keep.

“Thorin Oakenshield. With this bead that we have not yet made, I thee wed. I swear upon Yavanna and the earth She has nurtured that I will care, cherish, support and adore you for the rest of our days. I shall be your home and your shield. I shall light the way in the darkness for you. I shall comfort you on your lowest days. This I swear to you in Yavanna’s grace. Should I ever break this vow may my body never rot beneath the soil so all may know my shame.”

Thorin brings their foreheads together with a quiet thunk, Bilbo wincing at the apparent rock that Dwarven skulls are made of.

“Sorry, sorry.”

Thorin soothes and presses an apologetic kiss to the quickly reddening skin.

“My husband. Oh…oh my husband.” Thorin breathes and kisses Bilbo so tenderly and yet so desperately.

“I am yours. And you, mine.”

Bilbo gasps out. They both hold there, hands still cupped around the bead, panting.

“We shall have to file paperwork, to make it official,” Bilbo says softly. Thorin shakes his head and pulls a section of hair from Bilbo’s temple forward and begins braiding it.

“If you so desire but to me? We are married in the only way that matters. Our witnesses are the sky and the stars. I care not what the company think nor anyone who tries to tell me otherwise. I love you, and Mahal as my witness I swear to do so for as long as we both shall live.”

CW - 18+ for sex

Summary - Poor Balin has been struggling essentially being King while Thorin is off being a besotted fool.

A/N - Just to say thank you for all the birthday wishes!

Like any good dwarrow, Balin enjoyed a good mug of ale or perhaps a lovely, rich glass of wine. When he was younger, he drank his fair share of spirits and was no stranger to waking with no recollection of the night and the familiar feeling of his skull splitting open; but those days were far behind him now. However, in this moment, Balin was nigh on desperate to get hold of that ‘moonshine’ that Bilbo had mentioned and forget every day since the royal wedding.

Oh don’t mistake him, it had been a beautiful affair. Thorin had been dressed in robes of resplendent Durin blue, Erebor’s ornate crown atop his head. Bilbo had picked out a more traditional Shire wedding outfit, a crisp white button-up with a blue waistcoat and trousers. The argument Dori and Bilbo had had over having an outer robe had been audible three halls over; needless to say, Bilbo had won, which admittedly was an impressive feat in itself. That was precisely the reason why Fili just nodded sagely when Bilbo absolutely refused to wear a crown of “such ridiculous weight and regality” as Thorin’s. In the end, one of Frís’s circlets had been adapted to fit Bilbo’s head and be a little more ornate. After all, Bilbo was to become the Royal Consort of Erebor.

The ceremony itself was stunning and Balin wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had shed a tear or two during the handwritten vows the two had for each other. The love and adoration in their eyes had been unmistakable and evident to all those present. Gandalf had given Bilbo away and Balin could’ve sworn he’d watched Gandalf’s eyes become suspiciously wet as he took his place in the crowd. When the newly married couple had kissed, the roar of the congregation was loud enough to rival Smaug’s and had shaken the mountain. It was certainly a day to go down in the history books.

In hindsight, Balin had written down in his journal that it was the day that the King officially became a useless besotted fool. Balin had understood and even encouraged Thorin to take time off post-wedding to enjoy his honeymoon with his beloved hobbit, reassuring Thorin that he would handle all the necessary matters and paperwork himself. When that honeymoon went on for about three months, Balin became a little less understanding. Upon his return to his regal duties, Thorin had only accomplished half of the morning’s work let alone the unsettling amount of backlog he had to work through before announcing he was spending the rest of the day with his husband and gaily wandering off to see him.

Bilbo was no help either, unfamiliar with dwarven politics and was more concerned with staring into Thorin’s eyes than with the expenses account for the royal family. Balin wanted to drop his head into his hands and cry or drink himself into oblivion. Dís on the other hand had apparently expected this and stepped up to assist Balin in everything that needed Thorin’s signature, she’d become scarily good at forging it. In the evenings Balin would tread wearily back to his apartments and collapse into his armchair by the fire. He didn’t know before this that his eyelashes could ache but there we are. Dori would give him a sympathetic look, lovingly massage his sore muscles and place a hot meal in front of him with a pint of ale. But tonight, Balin looks at Dori and says

“Do you remember Bilbo mentioning that moonshine from the Shire?”

Dori looks over from where he’s standing over the sink in the kitchen, washing up pots and pans. He frowns, a hand on his hip as he thinks for a moment.

“Yes, vaguely. I want to say Gamgee Moonshine whatever that is.”

“That. I want that.” Balin lets his head fall forward onto the table with a quiet thunk. Dori dries his hands off and sits next to Balin, soothingly stroking his hair.

“Oh Halwûn.” Dori presses a soft kiss to Balin’s temple.

“Shall I have a word with him?” Balin can already envision Thorin strung up from the rafters, screaming bloody murder while Dori berates him and decides that wouldn’t look very good politically so he just shakes his head.

The day after though, Balin wishes he’d taken Dori up on his offer, although there is still time. He’d left Thorin and Bilbo in the main office doing paperwork while he had a meeting with the Head of the Mining Guild. He’d been gone barely an hour and here he stands, hand still on the doorknob, mouth open. He wishes he could pour something into his eyes to stop himself from seeing but he can’t seem to tear his gaze from the traumatic sight in front of him. Clothes are scattered about the room, rather than where they should be: on Thorin’s and Bilbo’s bodies. Thorin’s and Bilbo’s naked bodies. They’re naked. Not just naked but fucking. Thorin has one hand fisted in Bilbo’s hair and the other in a vice-like grip around Bilbo’s hip. Bilbo’s head is flung back, eyes closed and his lips gently parted. His back is arched and Thorin is murmuring something into Bilbo’s ear. They evidently haven’t noticed Balin stood in the doorway yet as the King is still balls deep in his Royal Consort, thrusting shallowly.

Balin throws up in his mouth a little and the gagging noise does alert them both to his presence. Clearly neither of them have the brain cells needed in this moment to think ‘oh should we cover up?’ as they just stare at him, a mixture of horror and mortification. There’s a solid few seconds of the most awkward eye contact ever sustained in the history of Erebor before Balin clears his throat, straightens his shoulders.

“I’m going to leave and come back in an hour. We shall never speak of this again.” Balin is proud of the fact that his voice only shakes a little as he speaks although he won’t talk about his knees. Bilbo and Thorin nod in agreement and Balin slowly backs out of the office and shuts the door behind him whereupon he bolts to Dori’s office in the merchants' guild and cries in his arms for that hour.

Today is my birthday and in true hobbit fashion, I have a gift you you. I’ve been working on a longer fic in the background and I’m going to start posting it on AO3. Bagginshield, Baby Frodo and some good ol’ pining with a healthy dose of stubborn pride and misunderstandings. It’ll be going up as “The Unexpected Return Home (Amongst Other Things)”

Summary - Where do Hobbit babies come from? No one can decide. Also Frodo successfully obtains Papa #2

A/N - Sorry this is so long but I didn’t really want to break it into 3 parts. I feel like this isn’t my best work but I really wanted to finish this little story (it also took ages to write). Please enjoy a bagginshield smooch.

It takes them only about 5 months to make the trip from The Shire to Erebor this time, probably because Bilbo only has to keep track of himself and a 9-year-old who alternates between over-excited to exhausted and bored. It also helps that they aren’t locked up in Mirkwood’s dungeons for a few weeks because someone isn’t telling the king there to do something rather unsavoury. Still, it’s lovely to catch up with Lord Elrond who is enchanted by Frodo and his incessant curiosity about the world as well as Beorn who similarly takes a shine to him. They do unfortunately take a brief sojourn in the halls of King Thranduil but as guests this time with Thranduil himself side-eyeing them constantly.

As the leaves shift from soothing greens to vibrant oranges, they find themselves approaching the grand gates of Erebor, in far less disrepair than Bilbo last saw them. The trek up the hill is a little much for poor Frodo and he’s sat on Bilbo’s hip with his head tucked under Bilbo’s chin. Bilbo privately thanks Yavanna for all the adventuring they’d had to do on the way here or his poor muscles wouldn’t be up to it.

“Frodo, we’re here.” He murmurs to a half-asleep little boy and promptly flings his head back to avoid the near broken noise as Frodo shoots up like he’s been struck by lightning; he’s immediately wiggling to be put down.

“We’re here! We’re here!” Frodo crows delightedly.

“Mister Boggins!” Comes from atop the battlements, Kili leaning over so far that Bilbo worried he would topple over the wall. Fili is right behind him, half exasperated with his brother and holding onto the back of his tunic, the other half thrilled to see him. Bilbo chuckles and waves up to them then takes Frodo’s hand, marvelling as they trudge between the magnificent arch of the gates. Within minutes Fili is down to meet them, lifting Bilbo off his feet with the force of his embrace and Bilbo swears he can hear his ribs creak.

“Oof! Hello Fili, where’s your brother?” Bilbo pats Fili’s shoulders to be put down, all of Frodo’s earlier excitement and bravery gone as he hides behind Bilbo, small hands fisted in the fabric of his coat.

“Gone to tell the rest of them. There’ll be a feast tonight in honour of your return.” Fili gives Bilbo a strong enough pat on the shoulder that his knees nearly buckle.

“It’s good to see you, Bilbo.” Fili loops his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and starts leading him into the mountain, already talking about the repairs and what’s happened in the years Bilbo has been gone.

“Ah Fili, before we go further, I must introduce you to someone.” Bilbo interrupts, stopping him. He gently pulls a shy Frodo from behind him who’s still gripping the edge of Bilbo’s coat like a lifeline.

“This is my son, Frodo Baggins.”

A million and one thoughts shoot through Fili’s head, it would be light speed but unfortunately, while he’s smart, Fili is not the sharpest tool in the shed so it’s more at donkey speed. There’s a good couple of seconds in which Fili just stands there staring at Frodo with his mouth agape. Blue eyes, black hair, oh yeah this is Thorin’s kid. How did that happen? Fili doesn’t know, maybe some strange hobbit magic.

“Fili?” Bilbo asked, mildly concerned.

“Hmm? Oh yes, hello Frodo, I’m Fili, Crown Prince of Erebor.” Is he still Crown Prince? If Thorin has a direct descendant then little Frodo here might be next in line. His musings are broken by said next potential ruler of Erebor clearing his throat and saying in a shaky, quiet voice.

“F-Frodo Baggins, at your service.” Bilbo beams with pride and pats Frodo’s shoulder.

“Good lad.”

Bilbo tries to initiate conversation between himself and Fili on the way up into the mountain but Fili seems to be stuck in his own head. Privately Bilbo thinks this is very strange but it wouldn’t be polite to mention it. Luckily, he’s not as polite as he once was.

“Is everything alright? You’d normally be chatting away to me at speeds where I might suspect you’re trying to talk my ear off. You’re very quiet.”

“Hmm? Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Fili brushes off the concern and that is the end of that.

Fili briefly shows them the markets and they all peek into the throne room where Thorin is sitting in a heavy-looking ornate crown, the weight of responsibility looking heavy on his shoulders. Bilbo can hear a dwarf lord complaining about a dispute over something trivial. Frodo peers around Bilbo’s leg.

“Who’s that Papa?”

“That sweetheart, is King Thorin of Erebor.” Bilbo ruffles Frodo’s curls as Frodo gasps in excitement.

“Mister Thorin from your stories?” Bilbo chuckles at that.

“Yes, that’s Mister Thorin.” Frodo narrows his eyes slightly, Papa 2 is in sight.

Dinner that night is the biggest feast little Frodo has ever seen, even bigger than the Yule Festival Feast in The Great Smials. Papa piles his plate and his own high with lots of different foods. Frodo isn’t quite sure about the rabbit but he really likes the roasted boar. Mister Thorin isn’t there yet but there are plenty of other dwarves to coo over him. In particular, Dori has already taken Frodo’s measurements to make him a little tunic. Frodo stifles a yawn but it’s too late because Papa has already seen.

“I think it’s bedtime for little pebbles.” Bilbo stands and scoops Frodo from his chair.

“No! It’s not bedtime! I’m not tired!” Frodo cries, tears gathering in his eyes as he prepares to gear up for a tantrum. Bilbo frowns, Frodo hasn’t gotten upset like this since Lotho said some very unkind things about Bilbo and Frodo’s parents. He puts Frodo back in his chair and kneels in front of him, soothingly rubbing Frodo’s shoulders.

“What on earth’s the matter Frodo? Why don’t you want to go to bed?”

Frodo sniffles, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“I want to meet Mister Thorin.” Bilbo’s expression softens and he presses a gentle kiss to Frodo’s forehead.

“You may meet him in the morning. Don’t you want to be more awake to meet him and spend more time with him?” Frodo nods and wipes at his eyes.

“Okay, Papa. Can I still have a bedtime story?” Bilbo picks him up and settles him on his hip.

“Of course pebble. Do you wanna say goodnight?”

At that moment, the doors swing open and an exhausted-looking Thorin walks in, dressed in a comfortable tunic and trousers rather than his royal regalia. Frodo gasps and pats Bilbo’s chest excitedly, whispering loudly.

“Papa! It’s Mister Thorin!”

“So it is pebble, want to say hi?” All of a sudden Frodo feels very nervous, what if prospective Papa doesn’t like him? He shakes his head and buries his face in Bilbo’s neck. Bilbo just smiles, fond yet exasperated.

“Hello Thorin, good to see you again. I’ll be back in a bit, just got to put this one to bed.” Thorin just nods, looks dumbstruck, something unreadable passes through his eyes and he just goes to sit at the table, half collapsing into his chair.

Bilbo carries Frodo out and the doors close behind him. As soon as the door clicks the room practically explodes.

“Uncle! You didn’t tell us we had a cousin!”

“Yeah, how could you keep that from us? Is he going to be king next then?” Fili and Kili interrogate, looking a mixture of ecstatic and betrayed.

“Nay lad, hobbits cannae do that. Bilbo obviously got married and had a child.” Dwalin crows across the table.

“But Bilbo said all the ladies in the Shire were just after his small or smial or whatever.” Bofur wisely points out.

“Yeah, they might have strange hobbit magic. Right Ori?” Kili turns to Ori, who for his part shrinks back in his chair.

“I-I think I did read something once about cabbage patch hobbit babies?” Ori stammers, eyes darting around the table.

“See, I told you!” Kili yells victoriously.

“Absurd,” Balin argues. “Bilbo must’ve gotten married, the boy is full hobbit not half dwarf. Honestly cabbage patch hobbits, never heard anything more ridiculous.”

“Aye, but Bilbo would’ve invited us if he’d gotten married wouldn’t he?” Gloin points out. Balin just gives him a flat look.

“He also would’ve brought his wife.” Nori adds, fiddling with his knives.

“Enough!” Thorin thunders and knocks back the goblet of wine in front of him.

“Either way, it appears Master Baggins has moved on with his life. Without us.” The ‘without me’ is unspoken but heard by everyone. His voice is hoarse and his eyes (not very) mysteriously red.

Breakfast is a strangely tense affair, Bilbo picks at his eggs while Frodo doesn’t seem to notice as he shovels down 3 pieces of toast. After Bilbo had returned from putting Frodo to bed last night, Thorin had already gone to bed and the rest engaged him in suspiciously surface-level conversation until Bilbo called it a night as well. Fili and Kili are in deep conversation, whispering in Khudzul and looking between Bilbo, Frodo and Thorin. Balin looks exhausted and mildly pissed off while Thorin looks like Thranduil pissed on his breakfast.

“Morning all.” Bilbo looks up and has to do a double-take as another version of Thorin walks in but something is different. Bilbo gets to his feet to shake the newcomers' hand.

“Good Morning, Bilbo Baggins at your service.”

The new dwarrowdam eyes his hand before pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Thank you for looking after my boys, all of them.” She pulls back and holds his shoulders, scanning him up and down.

“Princess Dís, Daughter of Thráin at yours.”

Frodo stands on his chair to get a better look at the new lady. Dís notices him immediately, bending slightly to be on eye level.

“And who are you darling?” Frodo thinks about ducking and hiding under the table but Papa gives him an encouraging look and he puffs out his chest, chin up and sticks his hand out straight (hopefully she ignores the slight tremble to it).

“Frodo Baggins, at your service.”

Dís raises an elegant eyebrow, eyes flicking between Bilbo and Frodo.

“Frodo is my adoptive son,” Bilbo explains, putting his arm around Frodo proudly.

“Adoptive?!” Kili blurts and part of Fili’s breakfast spits across the table, barely missing Nori who immediately throws a forkful of eggs back at him in retribution which rather hits Bifur. Within seconds, there is an all-out food war. Bilbo yoinks Frodo under the table to shield him, Dís ducking down with them.

“How old are you Frodo?” She asked kindly as sauce splatters down the chair behind them.

“I’m 9!” Frodo exclaims excitedly.

“About 5 or 6 in human years,” Bilbo adds, casually pulling Frodo closer as the sound of a fork being stabbed into the table comes just to the right of Frodo’s head.

“I’ve got a mummy and daddy but Papa says they’re with Yavanna now,” Frodo explains solemnly. Dís gives him a tender smile.

“Yes they are sweetheart, I’m sure they think of you every day.”

“You think so?” Frodo asks hopefully, eyes sparkling and a little moist.

“I know it.” Dís squeezes the tiny little hand.

From under the table, they can see legs shuffling around to defensive stances Bilbo recognises from his training with Dwalin; except one. Thorin remains still in his chair, evidently not joining in but not stopping it either. Frodo frowns and navigates his way through booted feet which are still slightly unsettling for him, too heavy and restrictive, no respectable hobbit wears shoes. He pops up between Thorin’s knees.

“Hello, Mister Thorin,” Frodo whispers, tugging on his tunic for good measure. Thorin glances down, looking a little confused. Something flickers in his eyes which Frodo doesn’t recognise but he gathers his courage and soldiers on.

“Papa told me about you in my bedtime stories and he always smiles when he thinks about you and…and…” Frodo blushes and looks away, twisting his shirt in his hands.

“And?” Thorin asks softly before subtly looking around and sliding under the table with Frodo. He might be rather upset that Bilbo doesn’t love him anymore but that is not the fault of this child.

“You can tell me.”

“I need a second Papa.” Frodo blurts out, eyes wide. But he’s started now and there’s no stopping him.

“All the other faunts have a mummy and a daddy but it doesn’t really matter to me because I’ve got a Papa. But I think Papa really likes you and I would quite like 2 Papas. Also, Lotho Sackville-Baggins said his dad could beat up Papa and if I’ve got 2 Papas then his dad definitely can’t win! Please can you kiss Papa and all the yucky stuff so I can have 2 Papas? But I need a new name for you because Mister Thorin is really long and I can’t call you Papa because you’d both be called Papa and that won’t work.” Frodo appears to have developed a speech impediment called needing to breathe.

Thorin sits there, mouth open in shock before he starts laughing. Not the controlled laughter befitting a king but outright guffaws. Bilbo who had heard the entire thing from a few feet away is crimson and once he’s gathered his wits, he scrambles to get over to them.

“Frodo Baggins! I taught you better than that! Where on Yavanna’s green earth are your manners?” He scolds, and Frodo’s eyes immediately fill with tears as he visibly crumples in on himself. Thorin is moving before he thinks about it, scooping Frodo into his arms, cradling the small child to his chest and stroking his hair.

“I’d be honoured to be your Papa but I think I’ve got to ask your Papa first though.”

Bilbo blinks dumbfounded, if he could get any redder, he would have.

“Wha-…”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says in an earnest way, he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. “Please may I kiss you?”

Frodo looks at Bilbo, absolutely delighted. Bilbo looks between them, unsure for a moment but his heart takes over from his head.

“You may.” The kiss is soft, tender but chaste after all Frodo is right there. Bilbo’s heart feels like it’s going to explode right out of his chest, fireworks going off in his head and his ears ringing. Thorin’s lips are soft and warm against his own and something feels like it just clicks into place; similar to placing the last piece of a puzzle down, where it was always meant to be. When they pull back, Bilbo always knew Thorin’s eyes were beautiful but by the gods, the heavens themselves could not compare to how wonderful they are up close.

“We will discuss a formal courtship later, provided that is what you desire?” Thorin whispers as he pulls back, hot breath moving Bilbo’s curls. Bilbo just nods dumbly, stunned, sheer euphoria coursing through his veins.

Kili pops his head beneath the table.

“So he’s not your son then? You didn’t birth him with hobbit magic?”

Bilbo just gives him a funny look and shakes his head.

“Don’t think I have the facilities for that.”

Summary - Dermatologists love them! Watch how 12 dwarves get the worst sunburn of their life!

A/N - Someone did a post about this and it heavily inspired this, but I can’t find it. If someone finds the post about dwarves getting sunburn, please let me know so I can credit them! Also I got a really bad sunburn on holiday and I wanted someone else to feel my pain.

Edit: I FOUND IT! I FOUND THE POST! The blog is @mind-of-many-things! Thank you for putting that head cannon up, I really hope you enjoy this!

Before Hobbits settled in the Shire, they had been nomadic people, the Wandering Days, they called them. Even after the Shire became their home, many of them spent a great deal of time outside, and as such, they have adapted. Many hobbits freckle and then start to tan, but most wear sun hats or carry parasols on particularly sunny days.

Dwarves on the other hand are underground creatures, it can often take a few days for their eyes to adjust to the higher light levels. Most dwarves unless they are travelling tradesmen or the like don’t have a need to be outside for extended periods and so they aren’t. Thorin is one of those dwarves, travelling from villages to cities to find work as a blacksmith and therefore is aware of what a sunburn is, how to avoid getting one and how to soothe the burn if he does get one. Unfortunately, most of the other dwarves are not and Thorin for whatever reason, neglects to inform them.

This becomes an issue when about 2 months into the quest, it is an absolutely scorching day and unlike the vast majority of the journey so far, there is very little cover. Bilbo for his part ties a handkerchief over his head and despite the heat, covers as much of his skin as possible. He also pulls a small jar from his bag and slathers the solidified oils over any exposed skin. Gandalf, the smug old coot, doesn’t seem bothered by the heat in his massive robes and the shade from his bloody massive hat keeps the rest of him hidden from the sun. Thorin pulls out his own jar of oils and applies it to his face and neck. The others? Well, let’s just say if Middle Earth had dermatologists, they would be having a mental breakdown at the sight.

Fili and Kili ride entirely shirtless and possibly in less had Balin not given them a hard stare. Bofur actually took off his floppy hat and tucked it into his bag. Most of them strip down to undershirts and pull their hair up into ponytails. Dwalin’s bald head twinkles invitingly in the sun, Bilbo eyes them suspiciously and mildly concerned but assumes dwarves don’t get sunburn. How very wrong he was.

By the time they stop to make camp, all of the dwarves sans Thorin are scratching at their arms, shoulders and necks. Their faces look pink but in the glow of the fire, that can easily be dismissed. It can’t however by the following morning. Bilbo wakes up before most, Thorin took last watch so they nod in acknowledgement at each other and get on with their own business. Bilbo comes back from the bushes after relieving himself, takes one look at the dawn sky and pulls the jar back out of his bag.

“You’ve got dots, Burglar.” Thorin comments.

“I-…excuse me?”

“Dots,” Thorin repeats, pointing at Bilbo’s face. Bilbo touches his cheeks, confused before looking at his hands and arms.

“Dots? I don’t- oh you mean freckles?”

“Freckles? What are freckles?” Thorin says trying to look disinterested.

“They’re just little marks that show up when I spend time in the sun. My mother used to call them sun kisses. I’ll start tanning soon I suppose.” Bilbo explains.

“Tanning? Like animal hides?” Thorin asks, feeling a little horrified.

“No, no, no. Like when the skin darkens under the sun. Do…do dwarves not tan or freckle?”

“No, dwarves live within and under mountains. We usually have very little reason to travel outside so we don’t.”

“Oh.” Bilbo goes quiet, registering the new information before looking at Thorin with concern.

“So the others? Will they get sunburn?” Thorin looks at him before looking rather sheepish, a strange expression on a normally stoic dwarf.

“Yes…”

“Did…did you not tell them how to protect themselves?”

“…no.”

“Oh…shit.”

Oh shit indeed as Fili sits up a moment later, right on cue, with a face redder than the roses in Bilbo’s garden. He rubs his face as per usual and immediately throws his hands back as if burned, quite literally actually, and groaning in pain. The dawn chorus sounds different today as the birds are drowned out by pained dwarven noises and cursing.

The rest of the day is rather miserable, full of complaints and many incredulous questions.

“Why am I red?” Bofur moans, his head and face so burnt he can’t bear to put on his hat.

“You’re sunburnt,” Bilbo says sympathetically, patting Bofur’s hand and hurriedly apologising as Bofur curses and snatches his hand back.

“Sunburnt? You mean the sun can burn us?” Glóin asks incredulously.

“Yes, if you spend too long in it,” Bilbo replies.

“Doesn’t really happen in the Shire anymore, apparently aloe vera is wonderful for helping to soothe it.” Everyone’s ears perk up at that.

“Aloe vera you say?” Oin says with a pensive look on his face.

“Never heard of it. What type of herb is that?” Bilbo laughs a little and shakes his head.

“No, it’s a type of plant or more specifically a succulent. You can cut away the outer leaves and there’s a sort of goopy gel inside. Quite bitter though, terrible for eating but wonderful for burns.”

“And where can we get some of this aloe vera?” Ori pipes up excitedly, making notes in his journal. Bilbo looks at Gandalf who is suddenly mysteriously busy packing his pipe with Old Toby. Bilbo just sighs and looks at them sympathetically.

“No idea. Not a dry enough climate for it to grow here.” A collective groan goes up and they continue on their way.

Thorin quite wisely decides to make camp near a river that night, the cool water a soothing balm to lobster-like skin. Drying off on the banks, Dwalin, who has a rather impressively large blister forming on top of his head, side-eyes Thorin.

“Why aren’t you burned?”

12 pairs of eyes swivel to Thorin as he takes a gulp of his stew and straightens slightly in an attempt to look regal and perhaps a tad more intimidating.

“I prepared adequately. Some of the men in the villages are prone to sunburn and offered me advice. They directed me to a mixture of oils to protect my skin.”

Dwalin’s voice is dangerously low.

“So you knew this would happen?”

Thorin swallows, he might be king but he knows very confidently that his closest friend for many a decade has no issue in damaging the king or the king’s jewels for that matter.

“It was something that I had considered might happen but-“

“And you didn’t think to warn us?” Dwalin’s eyes narrow into slits. Thorin squares his shoulders back and says in a haughty voice.

“I cannot be blamed for your poor research and planning.” With an enraged roar, Dwalin lunges across the fire at Thorin who gives the most undignified squeak and starts sprinting for the trees. There’s general kerfuffle from the trees followed by a smack and a howl of pain as hand connects with sunburn blister. There is then the sound of repeated muffled thumps and a different sound which if one were being impolite they would say was just Thorin screaming like a child. There’s a remarkable lack of interest from everyone else, even Bilbo is used to this sort of behaviour from the company at this point.

CW - Madness and active murder

Summary - This time, Gandalf isn’t there to save him

A/N - Sorry this is a bit of a shorter one, I just liked where it finished 😅

The world feels hazy at the edges, glittering with gold, beautiful gold. See how the light bounces from one coin to another, this must be heaven as I have never seen this much wondrous light. And all of it is mine, mine, mine. They shall not touch it, they will not have it, not a single piece, not a coin or a gem. They are theives, traitors, liars!! They have hidden the Arkenstone from me, that which is my right as king! I am King! Do you hear me?! I am King!! Such beauty have mortal eyes never seen. All of my treasure, my treasure in one place for me to keep safe, to covet. A single piece is missing…no, no two pieces. My Arkenstone, my divine right and my Jewel. Hair like spun gold, hammered by Mahal himself to rival the sun. Eyes like the brightest sapphires, deeper than any ocean in middle Earth. Perfection. And mine. Mine. Mine. Mineminemineminemineminemineminemine.

Bilbo’s footsteps echo on stone, reverberating in the treasury.

“Thorin?” He calls, a bowl of stew in one hand and water skin in the other.

“Thorin?” He repeats when no response comes. Against his better judgement and Balin’s advice, he carefully makes his way down the stairs. Coins do not make for good grip and they slide beneath his feet, the soft metallic clinking reminiscent of a waterfall. The stew threatens to slop over the side of the bowl and burn his wrist as he wobbles on the uneven surface. A hand like iron clamps around his wrist making him jump.

“Thorin.” Bilbo says, trying to sound relieved but his heart beats faster than a rabbit’s in a trap; he feels remarkably much like the little bunny Beorn used to call him by.

“You haven’t eaten in days so I’ve brought you something to eat and you must be dehydrated so I’ve also got-“

“Bilbo.” Thorin breathes reverently. The gold gleams in the blue eyes in a sickening way. Not just the reflection of the metal beneath their feet but a manic obsession. Beneath that sheen of madness, there is nothing, a disconnect from the dwarf he knew. He knows in that moment that his Thorin is gone. There is pure, unadulterated worship in his eyes, not that of a holy man but that of a tyrant possessed by a demon; a great, crimson, scaly demon.

On those battlements, that look akin to adoration shifts to unhinged wrath, hatred that Bilbo hopes to never see again on the face of a living being. Those eyes which had once looked at him with love. Not the infatuation and twisted devotion in that loathsome room full of worthless pieces of treasure but that soft look of adoration and kindness. He can almost picture it as the hand tightens around his neck. His feet scrabble against the stone for purchase before dangling helplessly in the horrifyingly open air. He can hear voices that sound oddly muffled, shouting and pleading.

CW - Mention of blood and injury

Summary - Bilbo’s man isn’t doing so good after BOFTA so Bilbo takes charge and realises he’s in for a hell of a lot more than he imagined.

The smell of blood permeates the air, orc blood, dwarf blood, goblin blood, elf blood and that top note is a touch of hobbit blood. Luckily the weather is cold, the scent of blood in humid weather is far worse or so Bilbo assumes, he’s never had to deal with it.

Thorin’s hand is cool and unmoving in his own, his face pale and smeared with a variety of things which Bilbo does not want to think about thank you very much. Fili and Kili are lying in beds in the royal tent too, Oin flitting between the three of them. Bilbo pats Thorin’s hand and presses a quiet kiss to his forehead.

“Don’t you dare die before I get back, I shall be very cross otherwise.” He murmurs before standing.

Oin, bless his heart, looks thoroughly exhausted and Bilbo cannot stand the sight of it anymore. Neither of them are a fool, the line of Durin may be but that is already established, both of them know Oin can’t keep up a sufficient level of care for all three of them and none of the healers that Dain brought have enough experience or have enough time to spare dealing with the many others who are wounded.

“I’m going to get him Oin.”

“He’ll have a fit.”

“Well, I’d prefer that to him dying.”

“You’re going to have to be the one to tell him.”

“Of course.”

“Bloody tree shaggers.”

“Those tree shaggers are going to save my beloved and his nephews. Also please don’t call King Thranduil that to his face.”

Oin grumbles and turns back to Fili’s leg, preferring to do it all himself but knowing it’s not an option. Bilbo flies out of the royal tent, scaring the bejeebus out of Dwalin who’s standing guard outside.

“Mahal’s hairy balls! Scared the shit outta me. Where ya off to?”

Bilbo doesn’t even break stride, heading straight for the elven camp.

“To see a tree shagger about a king.”

Time is of the essence in Bilbo’s opinion so he’s not going to stand on ceremony and simply barges his way into Thranduil’s tent. The elf in question simply raises an eyebrow and looks up from where he’s looking over paperwork.

“I need you to attend to Thorin. He’s dying.”

The other eyebrow quirks up.

“And why should I-“

Bilbo cuts him off, hands on his hips.

“No, don’t you start. Elves and wizards always seem to have a flair for the over-dramatic and speaking in riddles. Thorin is dying and I will not stand idly by and watch him die before getting to see the kingdom he worked so hard to reclaim. Let’s skip all the back and forth with the arguing and me convincing you to do it and skip to you getting your arse in that tent and helping.”

Thranduil opens his mouth, closes it again and then opens it but Bilbo is ready.

“If he’s not dead, you can have your gems of ‘Leggy-gay-lands’ or whatever. If he does die, there shall be no one alive to give them to you. You want to head-to-head with Dain? Be my guest.”

Thranduil simply shuts his mouth again and gets to his feet.

“Lead the way Halfling.” Bilbo doesn’t even have time to comment on the ‘Halfling’ bit, more surprised that his plan worked. Together they walk briskly or jog in Bilbo’s case back to the tent.

“It’s Lasgalen.”

“Brilliant. Thorin’s dying.”

Dwalin growls when he sees Thranduil, pulling out his axes. Bilbo goes toe to toe with him, hands back on his hips.

“Don’t growl, you are not a dog. He’s going to help Thorin so Yavanna help me, out of the way!” Today apparently, is a day when Yavanna is on Bilbo’s side and miracles do happen as Dwalin, looking thoroughly chastised, just obediently moves to one side to let them through.

“Will wonders never cease?” Bilbo says under his breath.

Inside the tent, Thranduil inhales sharply at the sight and beelines straight for Thorin. Oin tries to initiate a stare down with the elf but the look that Bilbo gives him is enough. Medical jargon is thrown about left, right and centre so Bilbo wisely decides to go do something else. He wanders around the camps for a bit, deciding what to do and ultimately feeling a little useless without anything helpful to do. He can hear laughter and loud banter from a large tent nearby and identifies it as Dain’s army’s tent. He walks through the flaps and the tent quickly goes silent, many pairs of eyes turning to him. A voice calls out from somewhere in the throng.

“All hail the Royal Consort of Erebor!” A great cheer goes up from the dwarves, a startled Bilbo starts clapping too, turning round to see who they’re cheering for. Bofur is laughing his head off, wobbling up to him.

“That’s you, ya great clot head.”

“Me?” Bilbo’s voice is strangled.

“But I’m just a hobbit.”

“Aye, but you’re the hobbit. It helps that you’re shagging the king too.”

“Bofur!” Bilbo flushes from his cheeks to the tip of his ears. Bofur grins, not at all affected and raises his voice for the tent to hear.

“Three cheers for the Great Bilbo Baggins, Shagger of Thorin Oakenshield! Hip hip!”

CW - Mentions of death

Summary - Bilbo returns to the Shire to find more treasures than he left.

A/N - This was originally meant to be one fic but it’s gotten too big so please enjoy part 1. This is an apology for making people feel things in the last one. Have I absolutely fucked with the timeline and characters? Absolutely. Do I care? No. Also please tell me someone spots the Horrible Histories reference in there.

It has been a year since an exhausted Bilbo stumbled through his front door into the empty halls of Bag End. Who knew mithril could be so heavy? It’s been 10 months since Bilbo managed to get all of his furniture back with the help of a calm, negotiating Hamfast Gamgee and the fury of a very heavily pregnant Bell Gamgee with her cast iron skillet. It has been 9 months since Bilbo finally got around to planting that acorn in his garden with the utmost care. It has been 7 months since Bilbo finally mustered the courage to write a letter to Balin, detailing his journey home and settling back in again. It has been 6 months since Bilbo received a returning letter talking about how Thorin is settling into his role as King Under the Mountain and Dís returning to scold her brother for putting her sons in danger.

It does take about 2 weeks for Bilbo to get over his shock and then his anger as he thought both Thorin and his nephews were laid to rest within the halls of Erebor. It has been 6 ½ months since Bilbo wrote a rather disgruntled letter to Balin asking if Thorin, Fili and Kili are still alive and if so, why was he not informed. It has been 4 months since a rather sheepish letter from Balin arrived, citing a misunderstanding. This letter includes a note from Thorin expressing his wish to see Bilbo again. Sorrow and longing bleed through the pages of how they did not even get to say goodbye. Bilbo replied about a week later, declaring his intent to return to Erebor when he is more settled and the time is right.

But most importantly, it has been 2 months since a distraught Fosco Baggins, the father of Drogo Baggins, appears on his doorstep holding a wailing bundle.

“Bilbo…I-I am so sorry to have to tell you this.” The normally composed elder hobbit seems to be collapsing at the seams. There’s already a sinking feeling in Bilbo’s stomach, seemingly acting on a pulley system with the bile rising in his throat.

“Primula and Drogo they…” the words seem to catch in Fosco’s throat. Bilbo presses a shaking hand to his heart, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Fosco swallows hard and soldiers on.

“They drowned in the Brandywine, 2 days ago after dinner. The Bounders found them.” A tiny flailing arm appears out of the bundle, distraught as if to sense what’s happening.

“They listed you as Godfather in…in…” Fosco cuts himself off, holding the baby Frodo tight. Bilbo for his part, straightens his shoulders and blinks back the tears.

“I shall take him in. Needless to say, you may visit whenever you like, don’t bother knocking.” The same words he said to his dwarves nearly a year ago roll around his head and out of his mouth without thinking. Fosco nods and reluctantly passes Frodo over, the grief in his eyes overwhelming. Bilbo cradles Frodo in his arms, the weight of the infant as unfamiliar as the weight of the world that seems to settle on his shoulders.

Bilbo had watched his parents babysit relatives’ children before, helped out when he got older but there were certain things he had never done; this became evident the first time he changed Frodo’s nappy. Frodo wiggled around on the makeshift dressing table, also known as the spare room chest of drawers with a coiled-up blanket on top to prevent him from rolling off. Bilbo took the soiled cloth off and bent to retrieve another only to straighten and get a face full of urine. Once the shock had worn off he started laughing, uncontrollably guffawing until tears rolled down his cheeks and that laughter turned to sobs. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and just cries until the unhappy whines draw him from his grief. His smile is weak and quite soggy (from tears and pee but we aren’t going to mention that) but it is still a smile as he picks up a different cloth to wipe Frodo down.

“I’m sorry little pebble, let’s get you sorted out eh?”

Luckily for all involved, Hamfast and Bell come over that evening, arms laden with supplies, heads full of advice and welcoming arms full of support. From there it becomes easier, the two of them fall into a routine. Fosco and his wife Ruby come over every Sunday to have dinner and to spend time with their grandson. The residents of Hobbiton look at him differently, no longer ‘Mad Baggins’ and more like ‘Dad Baggins’. He receives invitations to parties, neighbours coming knocking with spare sweet treats and a kind word.

With the first fall of the autumn leaves comes Frodo’s first steps, right in the middle of the town square for all to see. Ruby is standing chatting to a neighbour, Frodo sits at her ankles playing with her skirts. Frodo makes a determined grunt and pulls himself up to his feet, he furrows his little eyebrows and takes an unsteady wobble towards Bilbo, his facial expression far more serious than you would expect for an 11-month-old. Ruby is the first to notice, delightedly squealing

“Bilbo, Bilbo! He’s walking!” Most hobbits turn to see, Bilbo drops the conversation he’s having with the baker as well as his basket, arms outstretched to Frodo.

“Come on little pebble, you can do it! Walk to Uncle Bilbo!” Bilbo smiles so wide his cheeks hurt as Frodo takes another step and then another and another then Bilbo is running towards him to catch him as Frodo pitches forward into the dirt. Before he can face plant the ground, Frodo is swept up into loving arms as Bilbo holds him up to the sky, laughing and grinning from ear to ear.

“You did it, my boy! You did it! You wonderful, wonderful boy!” The surrounding crowd cheers as Bilbo peppers kisses over Frodo’s head and face while little Frodo squeals with delight.

There is some awkwardness about 2 months later, not long after Frodo’s first birthday (and Bilbo’s 52nd but it’s not polite to mention that) when he calls Bilbo

“Papa!” Bilbo tries to get his son nephew to call him ‘Uncle Bilbo’ but Frodo isn’t having one single bit of it. Fosco, Ruby and Bilbo decide this battle isn’t worth fighting as long as Bilbo tells Frodo about Drogo and Primula when he’s old enough to understand. And so the years seem to fly by, just the two of them with their little close-knit family and their Sunday dinners; Bilbo forgets all about his promise to return to Erebor.

But not for long as one spring, a letter bearing Erebor’s seal arrives in Bag End’s letterbox. Frodo loves to collect the mail and as soon as he realises there’s something important in there, he’s flying back through the door, leaving it wide open in the process.

“Papa! Papa! There’s a new letter!”

Frodo skids into the kitchen, nearly knocking the pot of tea onto the floor.

“Walking feet in the house Frodo, we’ve talked about this.” Bilbo chides gently and puts his hand out for the letter.

“A new letter huh? Who do you think it’s from?” Frodo is almost vibrating with excitement.

“Is it from your dwarves?” Bilbo sighs, fondly exasperated. He’d just finished telling Frodo all about the quest as a bedtime story, obviously appropriately moderated for little ears.

“I doubt it Frodo, we haven’t written to each other in- oh.” It is in fact from his dwarves. The letter is a formal invitation for a ‘Mr Bilbo Baggins, 14th Member of the Company’ to attend the 10th anniversary of the Reclaiming of Erebor. Frodo is, of course, reading over his shoulder.

“Please can we go, Papa, pleeeeeeease?”

“I don’t know Pebble.” Bilbo frowns, skimming over the letter.

“You’re rather young for your first adventure halfway across the world. I was 50 when I went on my first proper adventure.” Frodo pulls out his secret weapon: The Big Blue Sparkling Eyes ™ that get him everything he wants.

“You could see that dwarf that you really liked? Mister Thorin?” Frodo says slyly, a knowing look in his eyes which has no right to be in the eyes of a 9-year-old. Bilbo immediately caves.

“Oh alright, but you must promise to be on your best behaviour.”

“I will Papa, I will!” Frodo immediately scoots off to start packing while Bilbo begins the long process of preparing himself, Frodo and Bag End for their journey; especially hiding those silver spoons.

Summary - Bilbo stands in the doorway of Bag End, one last time.

A/N: I’m really sorry, I feel like I need to preemptively apologise for this one. Please let me know if it made you feel anything, I did in fact cry writing this.

Today was a happy occasion for Bilbo Baggins, of course, it is not every day it is your 111th birthday! Frodo is down at the Party Tree with his best friend Samwise Gamgee, a kind young man with Frodo’s best interests at heart. Not entirely necessary of course as his dearest nephew is of age and is more than capable of taking care of himself but you can hardly blame a senile old hobbit for worrying.

Bilbo stands in the doorway of Bag End at the end of Bag Shot Row, knowing it is the last time he will walk these floorboards, warm his feet in front of the fireplace, make a scrumptious pot of tea in that kitchen, tend to his flowers in the garden. From here, while his eyesight is beginning to go, he can still see the acorn tree before the tears blur his vision. Oh Yavanna, how many years has it been? 60 whole years since he ran out that door, the ink still drying on the crinkled parchment of his contract as he flew past his stunned neighbours, past prying eyes and gossiping biddies to the most brilliant adventure of a lifetime.

Until it wasn’t. Thorin lies cold and unmoving in his trembling hands with Bilbo praying to every deity he could think of that this was all a bad dream. He notices drops of rain landing on Thorin’s cheeks, wiping the wetness away in a futile attempt, only to realise they are his tears. It is only when Dwalin places a hand on his shoulder can he tear his eyes from that pale face, raising himself on shaky, numb legs to walk back to camp. Alone.

The blows keep coming. What does Balin mean Dain shall be King Under the Mountain? Fili is Crown Prince, should he not be next in line? He would have been if his heart still beat in his chest. The grief is not earth-shattering like how he knows his dwarves are describing it. Instead, he feels as if he is walking through Hobbiton in the evening, each light in the windows turning off in preparation for bed, the quiet of the night creeping in around him until he stands back in the doorway of Bag End, all of his belongings, gone. Alone.

Once Thorin, Fili and Kili are laid to rest in the halls of their forebears, he leaves. They are barely within the stone when Bilbo packs his things and stands at the gates. He clears his throat, rocking on his feet slightly as he gives them all a watery smile.

“If any of you are ever passing Bag End, tea is at four. There’s plenty of it. You are welcome anytime.” Bilbo swallows, hard. Proper hobbit manners kick in once again and the treacherous tears remain at bay but his smile becomes a little more real at the memory.

“Don’t bother knocking.”

By the time Bilbo feels ready to look at the acorn again, he wonders if it shall ever grow, kept in the pocket of a Durin blue coat which is folded in a chest on top of a vest made of mithril. Sometimes he swears in the darker evenings that he can hear a baritone humming that same song he heard many moons ago; but every time he runs to look, the fire just crackles in the grate as if to say ‘You are seeing ghosts, Burglar.” But it does grow, a sweet little sprout into a strong sapling and from there into a magnificent oak tree; on some days he thinks he can hear Fili and Kili’s laughter whistling through the leaves on the wind.

But with the little acorn from Beorn’s house, all the way from half across the world, Bilbo too grows. The grief that used to make the world seem so grey evolves…well it doesn’t evolve but Bilbo learns to cope. By putting one foot in front of the other, Bilbo keeps going and the day that a young faunt by the name of Frodo arrives on his doorstep; suddenly that lonely walk doesn’t seem as lonely anymore. He finds the smiles aren’t as strained anymore, they reach his eyes again when little hands covered in dirt come running into the smial with an “Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bilbo! Look! A snail!”

There is but one thing. Bilbo spends hours hovering in his kitchen, checking, double-checking and checking again for a floppy hat, an ear trumpet, a set of axes. He always keeps his pantry stocked full in case of any surprise visitors of the dwarven variety. For years he makes an extra cup or two in the pot of tea and a fruit tart on the table. He craves that knock at the door like all those years ago like the need to breathe, to have Dwalin standing there in his green cloak, to have Balin commenting on the rain. It never comes. He tells himself at first they have forgotten him but he knows deep down it is the same reason he cannot bring himself to go back to Erebor again. Over and over again he says he has responsibilities and later, a duty of care to Frodo. ‘That didn’t stop you the first time’ a voice like Gandalf’s says. Neither side visits because they cannot face each other knowing their company is incomplete.

CW - Mentions of injury & death, swearing

Summary - Not only is Thorin is still injured from the battle but he’s missed elevensies, luncheon and now afternoon tea on top of having to represent Erebor in the peace negotiations; so his day isn’t wonderful anyway. Thranduil then decides to open his mouth, this is very bad.

When Thorin started courting Bilbo, it genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that he would hold a genuine title as the king’s boyfriend. So imagine his surprise when Lord Dain greets him jovially after the battle with “Bilbo Baggins! An honour to meet Erebor’s Royal Consort!” His booming brogue leaves Bilbo’s ears ringing slightly but not as much as the statement.

“Ah, Lord Dain I presume? An honour to finally meet you.”

Dain holds Bilbo’s face in his hands before tapping their foreheads together, which is more like a one-hit K.O. for the poor hobbit, who stumbles backwards while Balin rushes forward, chiding Dain and holding the slightly damaged Bilbo upright.

“He’s a hobbit my Lord, not a dwarf! We don’t need him concussed for the negotiations!”

Dain’s laughter fills the air as a solid hand drops onto Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo thinks it momentarily to be a second round of dwarven affection but Dain pats his shoulder with an amused “Sorry your highness, didn’t realise my own strength.”

In the next tent over, Fili and Kili are wounded but alive. Kili may never walk properly again but a dodgy knee is a small price to pay for living through the fight. Fili’s right eye is covered by a thick layer of bandages wrapped around his skull and so is his leg, broken in the fall. Both, however, miraculously still alive. Thorin remains unconscious. His skin hued grey, taking shallow breaths that Bilbo has spent hours counting at his bedside; each rise and fall of his beloved’s chest. Despite his present condition, Oin seems to relax with each passing day and is confident that the King under the Mountain will rule again. As Bilbo and Thorin have been courting, it has been assumed that Bilbo is the next highest authority within Erebor and as such will be the representative at the post-battle negotiations. Bilbo was not aware of this until now.

“Isn’t Fili the crown prince? He has training for this. Or-or you Balin, you’re his advisor. I’m just a simple hobbit.” Bilbo protests weakly but it’s a fruitless cause because Dain is already steering him out of the tent and towards the centre of the camps where the meeting is being held.

“Nonsense! I know my cousin, he wouldn’t court some soft-hearted fool!” Without further ado, Dain and Bilbo enter the tent to a wall of noise.

It’s packed in there, elves, dwarves, men, Gandalf; a variety of generals, advisors and of course leaders. Lord Bard of Dale as he’s now become is sitting having a close, quiet discussion with King Thranduil while Gandalf puffs on his pipe in the corner. Dain and Bilbo take their respective seats at the table, Balin slipping in to sit beside Bilbo and giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Gandalf spots them and gets what he might call mischievous but what Bilbo would call ‘This is why the Shire have labelled you a disturber of the peace’ glint in his eyes.

“I call this meeting to order!” Gandalf calls, getting to his feet, the tent quietening instantly.

“The purpose of today is to draw up treaties that protect and strengthen relationships between your kingdoms. Each kingdom has its leader to represent the people as a whole.” Thranduil interrupts here which Bilbo notes becomes a running theme.

“What about the halfling? He is not king, nor does he hold sufficient status here. Unless the Shire is involved in some way, I see no reason for his presence.” Indignation and insult bubble beneath Bilbo’s skin.

You see, to Big Folk and other races, ‘Halfling’ is just a descriptor for hobbits, merely another name for them. To hobbits, it’s a rather rude way to refer to them as they are half of nothing thank you very much and it’s the quickest way to never receive another invite to afternoon tea. So with Thranduil starting like that, it doesn’t look promising.

“King Thorin is currently indisposed due to injuries sustained during the battle. Bilbo Baggins is being courted by Thorin and as such holds the unofficial title of Royal Consort until further notice.” Gandalf shoots Thranduil a withering look while another blonde elf who looks suspiciously like Thranduil seems to melt with embarrassment behind him.

This is a precedent for the meeting to come, hours and hours of talking in circles, thinly veiled insults from all sides of the table and quite frankly a little too much rudeness for Bilbo’s liking. Travelling for months with 13 dwarves and a wizard does wonderful things for your tolerance and patience but Bilbo is finding his temper stretching thin in the face of this hoity-toity elven bitch. It must be mid-afternoon by now which means Bilbo has missed elevensies, luncheon and now afternoon tea, he’s fully aware he didn’t get 7 meals a day on the journey but he feels like being petty and regardless of the details, he’s hungry. All of this he can deal with until Thranduil opens his mouth again.

“King Thorin has still not given me what I am owed. I commissioned the White Gems of Lasgalen for my late wife and yet they remain in Erebor. Are the dwarves selfish and greedy enough to keep a grieving husband’s last memory of his wife from him?”

Bilbo takes a steady breath in.

“No my lord, you have my word that the Gems shall be returned to you in due time however I believe we have more pressing matters. Erebor is in ruin at present, the dragon did much damage to a lot of the livable space and we therefore have higher priorities such as sourcing clean water, providing shelter for our people. Not to mention that the people of Laketown have nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

“What worth does your word have to me? Thranduil raises a manicured eyebrow and lazily waves a hand in Bilbo’s direction.

“By whose decree are you Erebor’s Royal Consort? Holding hands with a dying dwarf doesn’t make you king?”

There’s immediate outrage from the other dwarves in the room, getting out of seats and calling insults at him, Bilbo vaguely recognises the Khudzul words for ‘tree shagger’ somewhere in there.

“The intricacies of Dwarven politics are not up for debate at this time, it is not appropriate nor relevant to this meeting. What concerns me King Thranduil is your focus on your wants rather than your people’s needs, our needs and theirs.” Bilbo gestures to the surrounding dwarves and men. Thranduil sits straighter in his chair, the mask of disinterest gone.

“Do not speak to me of greed halfling.” Thranduil spits, the blonde elf from earlier tries to intervene but Thranduil puts up a hand to silence him.

“Those dwarves-“ he uses the word dwarves like one would use a slur, perhaps it is to him “- holed up in their great rock and shut themselves off to the rest of the world. They took my last gift to my wife from me and all I ask is to have it back. I care not whether Oakenshield lives or dies, perhaps then you will know the loss I have endured.”

The stunned silence rings throughout the tent as if all persons present cannot believe what was said. Bilbo for his part has gone eerily pale. Balin would describe it to a very amused, slightly scandalised and a little turned on Thorin later, calling it the calm before the storm except the storm was actually a hurricane.

“You have the nerve to call dwarves, greedy? I ask you oh high and mighty king if you care to get off your massive elk and your head out of your own arse, what happened when the Great Wyrm came? Did you help the survivors flee the dragon’s fire? Did you offer medical attention to those burned or injured? Did you offer shelter or support to those dwarves who were now without a home?”

Bilbo gets to his feet, a dark red flush spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

“No. You let hundreds die because you can’t get over your dead bloody wife! She’s been dead for how many years if not centuries at this point and you have a living son! You were arguably complicit with Smaug in the desecration of their home over some shiny glass. How cruel and cold you must be, King of Mirkwood to watch children die and just turn away.”

Bilbo takes a great, deep gulping breath before carrying on, now in the swing of things.

“Thorin and I are not married, no. But I can say with a great amount of certainty that in the 300 years he may live, he will be a greater king than you could accomplish in your immortal lifespan! I am honoured to stand here in his stead, to represent the Kingdom of Erebor which is something to be proud of. Unlike Mirkwood- apologies, the Greenwood, which has become cursed with rot and disease. That is what you shall be remembered for, you will be written in our history books are the king who couldn’t give less of a fuck! About our people or your own!”

Gandalf’s eyebrows are in his hairline, Bard’s jaw is practically on the table and Dain looks like he’s going to burst something from how hard he’s trying not to laugh. Thranduil has the most undignified facial expression that Bilbo has ever seen on an elf; mouth open like a fish, face flushed and eyes bugging out of his head. Bilbo clears his throat, straightens his coat and glances around the tent before focusing on Thranduil once more.

“I believe tempers are running short, I think a lunch break may be in order.”

The entire room seems to stand to attention, eager to flee the surprisingly feisty hobbit’s ire.

“Oh, and your majesty?” Bilbo’s tone is casual but Thranduil turned like the grim reaper himself had called him.

“Halfling is a very serious insult in the Shire, we are not half of anything. If anything, I’m twice the man you could ever hope to be. Call me a Halfling again and I’ll return those Gems to you, shoving them so far up your arse that you’ll be picking bits of them out of your teeth for a week.”

Thranduil just nods stiffly and sweeps out of the tent, his elegant glide seems less like a swan and more like a goose right now. The remaining eyes swivel back to the hobbit who’s brushing the dust off his coat.

“He was walking awfully strangely, I wonder if he’s soiled his small clothes?”

Dain guffaws, tears streaming down his face, clutching the edge of the table for support.

“Aye, I think I would’ve too if you’d been talking to me like that. Mahal, dinnae know you pulled that from.” Dain is practically wheezing, thumping a fist against the table. Bilbo just smiles, rather entertained.

“Oh please, he’s not even half as uptight as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. As Bofur once said, she’s so uptight that you could shove a lump of coal up her arse and it’d be a diamond within a week.”

CW - Blood and Injury (Minor)

Summary - After Bilbo falls ill after their daring escape from Mirkwood, he’s told that he and Thorin have been courting for the last month! He would’ve appreciated being told.

A/N - I just want to say thank you for all the love and support I’ve received on my last post. I’m genuinely kicking my little feet and giggling. I honestly thought my writing was awful but to see some of the tags that people are reposting with and the sweetest of comments makes me feel like Bilbo getting to kiss Thorin for the first time. Thank you so so much everyone!

Surprisingly Bilbo’s braids hold steady through most of Mirkwood but the impromptu river ride in the rapids down to Laketown does leave Bilbo’s curls completely sodden and stuck to his face and neck. He drags himself out of the river, his whole body feels sluggish and uncoordinated. Behind him, the dwarves pull and push their way out of their respective barrels. Fili is gagging, bent over with his hands on his knees, moaning about how he never wants to look at an apple ever again. Poor Bifur is being helped by his cousins because his axe had gotten stuck in the side of his barrel after a particularly rough turn.

Bilbo glances around, definitely not looking for Thorin and attributes the blurriness at the edges of his vision to exhaustion and water clinging to his eyelashes. Thorin is helping Kili out of his barrel, blood flowing freely down his leg, the arrowhead still lodged in his knee. Thorin’s brow is creased with concern although he’s trying not to show it, to be the strong uncle Kili needs right now. Kili clings to him with a white knuckled grip, soft noises of pain escaping him, suddenly seeming like a small child, scared and in pain in the arms of his uncle. Bilbo takes one step towards them and nearly lands headfirst in the river.

“Blasted hobbit!” Dwalin curses loudly enough while ringing out his shirt for all to hear. Bilbo whips round and glares at Dwalin.

“And what was your plan then? None of you helped at all! You sat on your arses in that dungeon and practically got a lovely holiday out of that.” Bilbo spits. He takes a step towards Dwalin, wobbling slightly. Despite coming out of an ice-cold river, it’s awfully warm, in fact, he’s sweating.

“You had regular food and beds while you waited for me to do all the leg work and yet you have the nerve- the absolute nerve to stand there and criticise me! Not one of you, not one of you has thanked me! For anything I’ve done for the last couple of weeks! So don’t you dare stand there and curse my name when you were content to sit idle!” Bilbo’s chest is heaving when he’s finished and Dwalin’s mouth is agape. He’s trembling slightly with rage…no, no this isn’t rage, these are tremors. All of a sudden, Bilbo doesn’t feel very well. He makes a strange sort of noise before his knees buckle and he drops like a sack of potatoes face-first into the water. He deliriously notes that he can’t breathe, probably because he’s lying face down in the river. The few seconds feel like an eternity before strong hands are pulling him from the river and sweet, sweet oxygen fills his lungs in a great gasp.

Thorin’s face swims into view, his mouth is moving and there’s sound coming out but it’s beyond Bilbo whatever he’s saying. Bilbo gives him a gentle smile and reaches up to pat Thorin’s cheek. Thorin’s eyes look very blue from this angle, a piercing blue and watery like the sea. Oh he’s crying, why is he crying? Bilbo frowns, he likes Thorin a lot, something in his chest hurts at the sight and he doesn’t want Thorin to cry, why is he sad? Thorin’s hand feels lovely and cool against Bilbo’s far too warm cheek and he closes his eyes, savouring the feeling. He can almost pretend the tenderness in the gesture is love.

Bilbo’s mouth tastes like shit. It’s also uncomfortably dry, as if he’d ordered a tankard of sand instead of ale. There’s a warm weight against his hand, slightly damp too. Bilbo manages to crack his eyes open with what feels like a monumental amount of effort. Thorin, bless his heart, is asleep with his head resting on Bilbo’s hand. He looks like he’s been to a Took birthday party to put it lightly, his hair in disarray, dark circles that almost look like bruises, dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Thorin?” This is what Bilbo tries to say but instead what comes out is a lung-wrenching coughing fit. The dwarf in question’s head snaps up and is pushing a glass of water into Bilbo’s hand with one hand and leaning over to support Bilbo’s head with the other, his fingers splaying across his skull, trembling slightly with relief.

“Oin!” Thorin roars, his voice rough with sleep and emotion as he helps Bilbo to drink the water without choking on it. The room becomes a flurry of activity as the rest of the company comes flooding in. Oin is checking his temperature whilst Fili and Kili sit on the other side of the bed trying to get a close as they can to him, chattering at a million miles an hour.

“Thought we’d lost our new Irak'Adad,” Fili says with a relieved smile. Bilbo wants to ask what it means but he was told at the beginning of the quest not to ask the meanings of Khudzul words as it was sacred to dwarrow culture, instead he settles for a gentle smile.

“How are you Kili? How’s the knee?” Kili grins back at him.

“Be right as rain sooner than you know it.”

Oin pulls a stethoscope from his bag.

“Need ye to breathe in laddie, need to check yer breathin’.”

Bilbo inhales as deeply as he can before choking slightly as his breath catches and he winds himself with the resultant coughing fit. Thorin rubs soothing circles on his back and hands the empty glass to Fili to refill. Oin nods his head, looks satisfied.

“Much better, a few more days of bed rest and yer’ll be back on yer feet.”

“W-what? No, you can’t leave me behind. I signed a contract.” Bilbo says, absolutely horrified.

“We’re not leaving you here.” Thorin reassures him, lightly running his hand across Bilbo’s shoulders, his eyes full of sincerity.

“We have another week before Durin’s day, we will wait.” Bilbo nods and slumps back against the pillows behind him.

Bombur sets down a tray consisting of a bowl of light broth, a soft bread roll that has been buttered and some apple because of which Fili has to quickly excuse himself looking rather green around the gills. Bilbo could’ve kissed Bombur in that moment, he would sell all the gold in Erebor if it meant he could have something to eat. The soup is gone in the blink of an eye and he’s sat there devouring the bread roll like a sickly, feral hedgehog. Bilbo would’ve thought any chance of him and Thorin being together sat quite squarely with their chances of actually defeating the dragon after watching his nearly pornographic performance with his food; but strangely enough, Thorin is looking at him like he’s hung the moon and stars in the sky. Satiated, he nibbles at the apple slices and runs a hand through his hair which has fallen into his face. The sheer panic hits him like a wave when the little bead he’s become so used to doesn’t catch on his fingers.

“Oh Yavanna! The bead! I’ve lost the bead! Oh gods Thorin, I’m so sorry.” Bilbo scrambles to get out of bed to look for it even though he has no idea where it is. Thorin’s chuckle reverberates through his chest as he gently guides his hobbit back into bed.

“Peace Halwûn, I have it. I removed your braids during the time you were ill.” A bashful blush colours Thorin’s cheeks and ears.

“May I be permitted to rebraid them in again?”

“Oh yes, yes of course.” Bilbo says with no small amount of relief, scooting forward to allow Thorin to sit behind him. At some point, probably while he was downing his broth, everyone else had left the room, leaving the two of them alone together. Thorin settles behind him and starts combing Bilbo’s hair, humming a sweet little tune. It would’ve been very romantic if Bilbo could hold a tune but alas his musical skills start and end at drunken caterwauling.

“It is only because you are ill that I have managed to secure us time alone together. It would never be allowed otherwise.” Thorin murmurs into his ear, breath tickling the skin. Bilbo shivers slightly, he could blame it on still being ill and not the indecent thoughts running rampant through his mind.

“Oh? Are we not allowed to spend time together without a chaperone now?” He teases a little breathlessly. Thorin gives him an amused but fond look, clambering off the bed and settling in front of him to do the little braid at his temple.

“Well not really Amrâlimê, it would be seen as improper but considering the circumstances on the quest, we have not courted in a proper fashion to begin with.”

Bilbo nods along, listening to that lovely, smooth and rich baritone-…did he just say courting?

“Sorry, did you just say courted?” Bilbo’s voice a little high-pitched and strangled.

Thorin looks a little puzzled at that.

“Yes. In Beorn’s house I offered to braid your hair, you accepted and I gave you one of my beads.”

Bilbo feels like the bottom has fallen out of his world.

“What?”

Thorin looks heartbroken, his voice hoarse as he says barely above a whisper.

“I thought you were happy. You even said I could wash your hair. Do you wish to break off the courtship?” Bilbo is still sitting there, mouth open.

“For over a month? We have been courting for over a month? How? I-…you never said.”

“Well, I assumed you knew.”

“You assumed? I told you hair held no significant meaning to hobbits. How would I assume that?” Bilbo folds his arms, giving Thorin The Disapproving look ™, while Thorin looks a conflicting mix of sheepish and defensive.

“Well I always served you food before myself-

“Only for about a week before you all got captured.”

“Well, I use terms of endearment for you all the time!”

“In Khudzul! I don’t speak Khudzul and before you ask why I didn’t ask what you were saying, Balin told me that Khudzul was a sacred part of dwarrow culture which isn’t shared with outsiders!”

Thorin deflates slightly at that.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” Bilbo throws his hands in the air.

“Because I had no bloody clue that you were courting me for the last month! None at all! You could have said…at any point!”

The silence hangs in the air between them, Bilbo is panting slightly before coughing again and Thorin is pressing the refilled glass of water into his hands. He drinks deeply while Thorin fiddles with the ring on his hand. Thorin straightens himself, visibly building his walls up again.

“You wish to break off the courtship then?” His voice is cool and detached, preparing himself for the hurt.

“When did I say that?” Bilbo puts the glass of water down a little firmer than necessary.

“This is very new to me and don’t get me wrong, I am very cross that you didn’t have the common sense to think that hobbits and dwarves court differently and I would have no way of knowing but…”

He reaches out a tender hand and cups Thorin’s face, bringing those downcast blue eyes to meet his own. He smiles gently, full of affection and warmth.

“I accept your suit.”

The smile that Thorin gives him in return could rival the brightest dawn. Thorin leans forward to press their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut.

“Thorin?”

“Yes, Lukhdel?”

Summary: Bilbo has decided it’s high time he cuts his hair, it’s far past a respectable length at this point. Unfortunately, the rest of the company have ✨thoughts✨ about that.

One thing about hobbit hair is that it grows inconveniently fast. Apart from the hair on their feet, hair in general is just seen as a nuisance as it’s just better to keep it cut short or tied back unless it’s a special occasion. Foot hair on the other hand must always be groomed carefully, rather uncouth not to.

By the time the company have reached Beorn’s rather battered and bruised, some more so than others, Bilbo’s hair was somewhere around mid-back. A rather beautiful cascade of riotous chestnut curls, or it would’ve been had it not been tangled, dirty and he was sure he heard chirping somewhere in that mess. Their gracious host had an unfortunate habit of just plucking Bilbo off the ground into his arms which while Bilbo did not appreciate, he did however appreciate the large spread of milk, cheeses, honey, bread and other assorted platters. Once their bellies were full, they filled their hearts with laughter and music. Beorn excused himself to verify their story, saying he’d be back by the time they woke and Gandalf had dozed off in the corner under his hat.

Bilbo was readying himself for bed, his body felt ready for bed about three weeks ago but his hobbit sensibilities demanded that he sort himself out. There was a small mirror in the bathroom Beorn had shown them to and Bilbo winced at the sigh of his hair; matted, one side caked in fluids he had no business thinking about and not to mention how un-respectable it was. He was well aware that the quest did not have room nor the facilities for all his particular habits nor the need to retain his reputation and manners but all the same, it was nice to have some comfort in the familiarity. Bilbo twirls a curl around his finger and sighs. Had he known what the 80’s were, he might’ve been pleased but as it was, he didn’t and wasn’t happy at all. The little wooden comb he has brought within him from the Shire almost immediately snapped in the mess of hair, not to mention how much it hurt. The prospect of using his other comb, his mother’s that she brought back from her time in Rivendell was out of the question.

“Should cut the bloody stuff off.” He huffs quietly, trying the untangle some of his with his fingers to no avail. Plan in place, Bilbo comes back out the the larger room and starts rifling through what’s left of the contents of his pack.

“What you looking for Bilbo?” Calls Bofur from where’s he sat across the room, pipe in hand.

“Scissors.” Replies a frustrated looking Bilbo. “Fiddlesticks, must’ve not brought any with me.”

“Here you are.” Dori fishes a pair of sewing scissors from a little case in his pack.

“Thank you Dori.” Bilbo walks over to take them from him. “I suppose it might take a while as they’re quite little but I’ll sharpen them and give them back to you.”

“Ye can borrow my wet stone.” Dwalin supplies from his spot next to Gloin. “What’re ye using them for anyway?”

“Oh, thank you. Well I thought I’d cut my hair.” Bilbo says inspecting the scissors. The room stills, silent and tense. Bilbo looks up at the abrupt, eerie quiet, startled when Dori lunges and pulls the scissors for him hand, clutching them to his chest with horrified expression. Kili and Ori have tears in their eyes and everyone else isn’t far behind.

“Cut your hair?” Asks Balin hoarsely. “Why lad?” Bilbo’s brow creases with confusion.

“Well it’s simply too long and getting in the way. It’s in a terrible state and I just need to cut most of it off.”

Horrified gasps ripple across the room. A very solemn Thorin crosses to Bilbo and drops to a knee in front of him.

“Master Baggins.” Thorin begins, his voice shaking a little. “I sincerely apologise for any grievous offence my behaviour or any member of my company have caused you. Please, tell us how we have wronged you so that we may fix it. I beg of you do not cut your hair.”

Thorin pulls a small blade from his boot and brings it to the braid on his right temple.

“I take sole responsibility and offer you my braid and the bead that denotes me as king until we have offered sufficient reparations and you have forgiven me.”

Before Thorin can flick his wrist to remove the braid, Bilbo is moving, catching Thorin’s hand in a tight grip.

“Stop, stop!” Bilbo’s eyes are wide with panic. “Don’t cut your hair. No one has offended me. I simply want to cut my hair, it is too long and it bothers me.”

Thorin’s hand falters.

“But why would you cut it? Why not braid it?”

“I never learnt to braid hair, it just seems easier.” But Thorin looks absolutely heartbroken, eyes glassy with tears. There is such an aura of sadness around him, around all of them that Bilbo feels he would be cruel to cut it, even if hair holds no significance to him personally.

“What do you suggest then?” Bilbo carefully guides the dagger away from Thorin’s braids.

“Braid it, obviously.” Dwalin says like Bilbo is the thickest creature in Middle Earth. Bilbo rolls his eyes and gives Dwalin a hard stare, just like his grandmother used to when he was a being rude as a faunt.

“I already said I don’t know how.” The silence hangs in the air for a few seconds before Bilbo huffs.

“Any other suggestions?” The dwarves look among each other, exchanging glances and meaningful looks.

“Right, well, hair doesn’t mean anything to hobbits, other than the hair on your feet, you can do what you like with it. So if there’s no further objection, I would like those scissors back Dori.”

“I will braid it!” Thorin blurts out in a panic. All eyes turn to him, a mixture of surprise, delight and some disappointment? Bilbo just nods slowly.

“Alright then…do you want to wash it too?” A second round of gasping, Bilbo’s honestly getting fed up of it now. Thorin is bright red and stammering, clearly taken aback.

“I-I’m flattered by I think I better leave that to you for now.”

Coin purses are being thrown across the room, Khudzul flying about, Bofur and Nori look strangely upset. Bilbo simply rolls his eyes and plonks himself down next to the fire.

“You’ll have to use your comb Thorin, mine’s broken.” Thorin’s eyes look like they’re going to bug out of his head and did Gloin just coo at them? This is getting stranger by the minute.

“Here? In front of everyone?” Thorin stammers, Bilbo briefly wonders if Thorin’s having an attack of some kind, dwarves should not be that shade of red.

“Yes? Should we not?” A shy smile that not once in a million years did Bilbo think he would ever see, creeps across Thorin’s cheeks.

“Not at all. Here is perfect.” Honestly, at this point Bilbo is a little creeped out but Thorin is rummaging through his pack, producing a comb and a small vial. He positions himself so Bilbo is sat on the ground in between his knees. The touch to his hair is almost reverent, the comb barely pulling as Thorin works methodically through the knots. At the particularly matted section, Thorin unstoppers the little vial and pours some fragrant oil into his hands, it smells of pine and bergamot. Dear Yavanna his hands are absolutely divine! Thorin works the oil into Bilbo’s hair and scalp, working it in small circles with his hands from his temples to his pressure points by his ears. Lost in the bliss, Bilbo makes a soft noise of pleasure and lets his head hang heavier in Thorin’s hands.

Unbeknownst to Bilbo, Thorin grins rather triumphantly and with no small about of smugness at Bofur and Nori, Nori makes a rather rude gesture in Iglishmêk which Dori swats at him for. All too soon in Bilbo’s opinion, Thorin’s voice is gently coaxing him back to reality.

“Hmm?” Bilbo says, blinking slowly, a soft sleepy smile on his face.

“I said you need to wash your hair before I can braid it.” Thorin returns the smile and Bilbo thinks briefly how much younger it makes him look, how sweetly the skin around his eyes crinkles.

“Oh yes. Back in a jiffy.” Bilbo has never washed his hair faster in his life, he does take a moment to scold himself for behaving like a faunt with their first crush.

“He is doing you a favour, nothing more.” Bilbo says under his breath, lathering the honey scented soap into his hair.

Smelling of far nicer and feeling much more refreshed, Bilbo retakes his position back between Thorin’s knees. There’s tension in the room but Thorin waves it away when Bilbo enquires with a “Nothing important, just minor disagreements.” And sets about braiding Bilbo’s damp curls into a tight but comfortable braid, leaving a small section at the front. He ties it off with a strap of leather before clearing his throat.

“Bur- Bilbo. I had no time to prepare a suitable bead for this occasion, when we reach Erebor I shall craft one for you out of gold and sapphires to indicate your status better. In its place, temporarily, will you accept one of my own beads?” Bilbo twists to look at Thorin, his hands fiddling with a bead, the braid at his left temple unraveled.

“That would be lovely, thank you Thorin.” Bilbo gives him a gentle smile, a little confused but he’s got the spirit.

The look that Thorin gives him as he carefully weaves the braid into his curls, makes his stomach flip. There’s a vulnerability and softness in his eyes which a whispered part of Bilbo longs for it to be romantic. Thorin clips the bead in place and secures the braid, the air between the two of them seems to crackle with an unspoken emotion.

CW - Mentions of miscarriage and blood.

Summary: Periods are not discussed in polite conversation in the Shire and when Oin doesn’t have any idea what she’s on about Bilba assumes that it’s the same in dwarven culture. She is wrong. There are no periods.

A/N - I know this is a lowkey overdone prompt but I just wanted to give it a go and put my own spin on it. On a real note, respect the uterus owners in your life, periods do in fact suck ass.

Bilba and the Company has been travelling for a few weeks at this point, past Bree and onto the open road. Despite the less than ideal start, forgetting her handkerchief and being called a ‘barmaid’ by their prestigious leader (for which she’d promptly thrown him out of her smial for before Gandalf soothed hurt feelings and persuaded her to let him back in), Bilba was beginning to feel more included among the Company.

Oin and Bombur seemed impressed by her knowledge of foraging for healing or cooking herbs respectively. Gloin had already spent many hours, possibly too many, telling Bilba stories of his wife and dear son Gimli once he realised she was willing to listen; not that she had a choice mind you. Bilba had been delighted to discover Ori’s love of reading and knitting as well as his oldest brother Dori’s love of tea and wine. Balin and Ori had spent quite a few slow afternoons passing the time with Bilba discussing hobbit culture and stories, occasionally sharing the odd tidbit about Dwarven legends. Of course Bofur, Nori, Fili and Kili had made concerted efforts to get to know Bilba from the start, teasing her, generally chatting her ear off and on the rare occasion trying to rope her into mischief.

It was only Dwalin and Thorin she hadn’t quite managed to crack yet. The latter she avoided as much as possible, trying to put as much space as was polite between herself and his royal grumpiness. The kindest thing he’d said to her so far on the road had been a wordless grunt when she’d passed him his bowl of stew one evening. Bilba could tell both he and Dwalin thought of her as some weak, defenseless liability and she did begrudgingly admit that they weren’t entirely wrong but hey, she’s been trying to learn how to defend herself with the two small daggers that Fili had lent her. Both of them eyed her with skepticism and largely ignored her, which was perfectly fine with Bilba and didn’t irritate or upset her at all, definitely not.

Bilba eased herself off Myrtle with a quiet groan, massaging her bum and lower back. The weeks of riding unforgiving on her poor rear but she had discovered to her secret delight that her muscles were firm beneath her thinning layer of respectable hobbit curves. She removed Myrtles saddle and her own packs, storing them as Fili had shown her and began brushing Myrtle’s coat with a brush she’d picked up in Bree. She’d just finished when an uncomfortable pang in her lower belly made her tense, and the realisation that she hadn’t had her monthly courses for a fair few weeks set in. With a quiet curse under her breath that would’ve winded her father, she rifled through her pack for her supplies but her hands came up empty.

Looking around for Oin, she spotted him organising his healing supplies and made her way over.

“Excuse me, Oin?” She asked quietly, making sure no one else was listening. It was rather improper to discuss these things in public.

“Aye lass, how can I help?” Oin paused in his task to look at her and find his ear trumpet.

“I wondered if you might have any supplies for-“ Bilba paused and looked around again, “- for my monthlies?”

“Fer your what?” Oin looked rather confused.

“Monthlies.” Bilba repeated in a low tone.

“Monthlies?” Oin asked loudly, his eyebrows furrowing.

Bilba hurriedly shushed him, looking a little scandalised. Slightly taken aback and more than a little befuddled, Oin lowers his voice and asks again.

“What are ‘monthlies’ lass?”

“You know, monthly cycles? ‘A woman’s time’?” Bilba looks at him, a little frustrated and confused by his confusion. Oin just looks at her and shakes his head. “Never heard of them.”

Bilba sighs, “Nevermind. Thanks anyway.” She turns away and goes back to her pack to rifle through her possessions for anything that could be used as rags. With a resigned sigh she tears up the underskirt of one of the dresses she had brought with her and worn in the earliest days of their venture before she realised trousers were a far more practical choice. Bilba notices a few members of the Company giving her a mixture of curious and amused looks from the corner of her eye but she ignores them, face aflame. She briefly wondered if cycles were very personal and private to Dwarven women or perhaps it was something simply not discussed in public.

Bilba does not sleep well, evidenced by her tossing and turning in discomfort through the night and the resultant birds nest that is her hair the following morning but also by her practically biting Nori’s head off first thing.

“Morning lass! Mahal, what happened to yer hair?” Bofur greets her jovially, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“Did ye have a family of birds move in overnight?” He teases, tugging gentle on a curl. The dark, nigh on murderous look on her face does nothing to dissuade him as he calls Nori over. “Nori, come look at this! Almost as good as yer hair!”

Nori saunters over and immediately starts laughing, drawing the attention of the rest of the Company.

“Blimey, I think your comb will break trying to drag it through that.” Nori reaches out to touch the knotted mess only to have Bilba smack his hand away with a little more force than necessary. Nori and Bofur’s laughter stops, a little taken aback by the unusual behaviour from their normally friendly hobbit.

“Bilba?” Bofur asks, a little concerned. “Ye alright?” Bilba lifts her head, her eyes slightly bloodshot, glaring at them.

“Why don’t you bugger off.” Bilba snaps. “I’ve had an awful night and I’d appreciate some space. The lot of you are stifling so bother some other poor soul.” With that, Bilba stalks off towards the copse of trees to relieve herself. The rest of the camp stands in a stunned silence. “What was that about?” Bofur asks a similarly shocked Nori.

“No idea.” Nori replies, feeling a little hurt.

The camp begins packs up quietly, Bilba returns without speaking and packs up her bag a little more aggressively than usual. Fili leaves Bilba’s breakfast almost like a peace offering within arms reach. Bilba looks up at him and Fili freezes, looking remarkably like a rabbit seeing a fox.

“Thank you but I’m not hungry.” Bilba says stiffly. Most of the dwarves jaws collectively drop.

“Not hungry?” Kili pipes up. “Are you unwell?” Bilba glares at him and Kili promptly shrinks back behind his brother.

The rest of the morning is spent at a careful distance from Bilba and her new found temper. Even Thorin eyes her with a different wariness, like she might explode at any moment. Bilba herself is fighting an internal war with both her guilt for snapping at them and her irritation at the way the dwarf closest to her is breathing. It certainly doesn’t help that her uterus feels like it’s trying to claw her way out of her body and it feels like Myrtle is trying to deliberately walk over every single bump on the track. Her face is getting paler by the hour, her frame tense with a white knuckle grip on the reins and her other arm a band of iron protectively covering her stomach. Eventually Dori’s mother hen nature can’t take it anymore and he slows his pony to join her at the back.

“Bilba, is everything alright?” He asks gently. “You look very pale dear, are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?” Bilba’s stomach rolls at the mention of food so she doesn’t trust herself to open her mouth and just simply shakes her head. Dori frowns further, “Are you feeling unwell? Should I fetch Oin?” Again, Bilba shakes her head and gets out through gritted teeth. “I am well, thank you Dori.” Dori reaches out a hand but thinks better of it and just nods. “Well, let me know if you need anything.” And speeds up to ride alongside Balin.

When they stop briefly for lunch, Bilba doesn’t even look at the offered food, instead opting to sit at the edge of the group looking at the landscape. Regardless Bombur wraps one of the rolls, some cheese and jerky in some cloth and tucks it into Bilba’s bag. “Just in case.” He says with a kind smile. To which Bilba just bursts into tears, burying her face in her hands. Bombur immediately panicked, steps back with his hands up. Dori whirls round from where he’s been fussing over his brothers, takes one look at the crying hobbit and hisses “What did you do?” Bombur with wide eyes confesses “Nothing I think. Just packed some lunch into her pack for later.” Bilba lifts her head from her hands and wipes her eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get weepy. That was very kind of you Bombur, thank you.” Slightly disturbed, Kili turns to Fili and quietly whispers “I think she’s been cursed.” Fili swats him gently but privately wonders the same thing.

That evening, Thorin calls camp down by a nearby stream. Citing the need to refill water supplies as well as give themselves and their clothes a good scrub down. Bilba hesitates getting off of Myrtle, the tell tale tightness in her pelvic floor telling her it would be a really *really* bad idea for her to move at all. But she knows she can’t stay up there forever, besides the cramping is getting worse and a nice dip in the river sounds lovely. She reasons she can also wash the blood out if her trousers do get stained. She steels her nerves and swings one leg over, immediately feeling the gush of blood. Now feeling quite embarrassed, Bilba hurriedly got off Myrtle, rushed through her care and practically sprinted down to the river to wash her clothing. Bilba found a quiet spot upstream where she could strip down and bathe without anyone seeing. She breathed a sigh of relief realising the staining to her trousers was fairly minimal but her small clothes were a complete loss. After washing her clothes and leaving them to dry on a nearby rock in the sun, Bilba did the awkward little ‘fuck me, it’s cold dance’ in the stream until her body acclimatised to the water and she could get on with washing her hair and bathing. Her peace was interrupted by rowdy shouting from her dwarves downstream who were probably wrestling in the water again.

Dinner is a more pleasant and relaxed affair than breakfast, full of laughter and the banter flowing freely. Noticing Bilba’s easy laughter and bright smiles, the Company do their best to keep the energy up and Bilba happy. It had seemed strange without their happy hobbit chattering away to fill the long, tiring hours of riding and the lightness of her presence had been sorely missed. Those on the night watch head to bed and Bilba elects to join them, still pale enough to cause some concern but nevertheless they all wish her goodnight and Dori gives her a knowing look.

Tonight doesn’t go any easier for Bilba either. The second day is always the worse and without pain relief to take off the edge, the cramps begin to worsen. Gloin who takes the 2nd slot begins to notice Bilba’s unconscious discomfort. His brow creases with worry watching her turn and toss in her bedroll, whimpering in her sleep. It’s soon evident he’s not the only one to notice as her distress begins to wake other members of the company.

“Whazzat?” A half-asleep Nori shoots up in bed and is quickly shooshed by Ori “It’s Bilba.” Oin is already grabbing his bag and making his way over while Bifur, seeing the sweat on her forehead pulls back her blanket. His noise of horror properly wakes up the camp at the sight of her underclothes and trousers soaked with fresh blood, seeping into her bedroll. Oin’s eyes go wide as he starts barking instructions. “Mahal’s balls! Start boiling some water. Someone find some clean cloths. Elevate her head!” Everyone scrambles to obey.

A very disorientated Bilba wakes a strangely watery eyed Thorin clutching her hand like he thinks she’s going to float away.

“Thorin?” She asks blearily. “What’s happening?” He opens his mouth to respond when a hand which she takes a moment to realise is Dori’s gently shushes her and strokes her hair from her face.

“It’s alright. Everything is going to be okay.”

Bilba blinks once, then twice. She tries to sit up, the movement causing her cramps to twinge in her back, her face contorting into a grimace. Immediately hands are on her shoulders, guiding her back to lie on the ground. The sound of scissors cutting through cloth registers, there’s a beat where Bilba realises the noise is someone cutting through her trousers.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Bilba scrambles to her feet, her trousers and small clothes now half hanging off her due to the large cut from the waist band to the middle of her thigh.

“What in Yavanna’s name do you think you’re doing?!”

Thorin put his hands out defensively, like he’s trying to placate a skittish pony, he speaks in a low soothing tone. “It’s all okay Bilba, let us help you.”

“Help me what?” Bilba practically shrieks, trying to hold her trousers together. She spots the patch of blood on her bed roll, groaning internally as she knows that’s going to be a bugger to wash out.

“There’s no shame in losing a babe Bilba, we are all here to support you.” Thorin slowly approaches her, cautiously reaching for her.

That makes Bilba pause, confusion written over her face.

“What?”

“Bilba, everything will be alright. I know the loss may take some time to sink in and it may not have fully hit you yet.”

Behind Thorin, Bofur is sobbing into his hat, Bifur rubbing his back consoling him, his own eyes looking teary. Kili is staring into the middle distance, looking lost in thought, pain clear in his expression; even Dwalin looks upset.

Bilba wants to crawl into a little hole and hide, she takes a deep breath.

“I’m not pregnant. This is just my monthly course.” A bright red blush to rival her prize winning tomatoes spreads from her cheeks up to her ears.

The entire camp goes silent, staring. “Your what now?”

This couldn’t get more embarrassing.

“My monthly.” At 13 blank facial expressions, she carries on.

“You know, a monthly cycle? A woman’s time?” No luck there either apparently.

“I don’t know, do dwarven women call it something different?”

“Call what different? I still don’t understand.” Thorin is looking at her like she’d just told him that she was going to skip to Erebor and invite Smaug to afternoon tea. Bilba just sighs.

“When women bleed for a few days once a month from her uterus if she doesn’t get pregnant? Do dwarven ladies not have this?” This was apparently the wrong thing to say as Oin asks rather horrified “You’ve got internal bleeding?” Dori proceeds to strong arm her back into lying on the ground to be inspected.

“What?! No, no, not like that! This is perfectly normal!” Bilba shouts, trying to prevent Oin from pulling off her trousers. She was wrong, it could get more embarrassing.

“Internal bleeding is normal for female hobbits?!” Thorin looks like he might be sick. “Oh Mahal.”

Bilba scrambles away, out of the ‘helpful’ hands of Oin.

“Enough! I am fine.” None of the dwarves are making eye contact with her, where are they- oh my gods her trousers are around her knees. Bilba looks skyward and wonders why Yavanna has forsaken her.

About half an hour later Bilba, now clean and in a fresh pair of trousers, is sat on a log around the fire, stitching the large cut back together in the aforementioned trousers from earlier. Her dwarven companions sit in various stages of shock, horror and disgust, having just had the twenty minute crash course in hobbit biology. The fire crackles in the otherwise quiet night, a sharp contrast to earlier. Ori breaks the silence.

“Every month? You…you do this every month?”

“Yep. For about 40 years give or take.” Bilba responds, not even looking up from her sewing.